by Nancy Revell
On that day in November last year, Bel and Maisie had exchanged more than a few harsh words, but they’d reached a truce of sorts. They had spent an entire day and night searching for Pearl and had got to know each other, warts and all. Now they both accepted that they were to be a part of each other’s lives, whether they liked it or not. And lately, it felt as though they were liking it more often than not.
‘Joe out with the Home Guard?’ Maisie asked.
Bel nodded as she glanced down at her daughter, who looked as though she might finally be drifting off to sleep. ‘He said he’d be popping back to check on Lucille, and to grab something to eat, but then he’d be straight back out. They’re doing the night watch over at Bartram’s.’
Maisie knew Bartram’s was one of the shipyards famous for launching straight into the North Sea, but she didn’t realise that this evening’s duty bore particular significance for Joe, as Bartram’s was where he and Teddy had done their apprenticeship together, working as riveters from the age of fourteen.
‘His leg bearing up?’ Maisie’s question was genuine. She had known quite a few young men who had come back from war with shrapnel injuries, and was aware that they could cause a lot of pain even after the wound had healed.
‘It seems all right,’ Bel said. ‘It gives him a bit of gyp if he’s been on his feet for a long time, but you know Joe, he never complains.’
Maisie nodded, although she didn’t really know Joe. Whenever she saw him it was usually just a quick hello or goodbye, but he seemed a decent enough bloke. Bel and Joe had got together after Joe had been medically discharged from the army. He and his twin, Teddy, had both been Desert Rats, but only Joe had made it home. Teddy had caught a landmine, leaving Bel a widow with a young daughter.
‘Talk of the devil,’ Bel said. ‘This sounds like him now.’
They both listened to the front door close, and the sound of Joe’s walking stick on the tiled hallway before he quietly opened the bedroom door.
‘Ahh,’ he said, seeing both Maisie and Bel by Lucille’s cot. ‘Two Florence Nightingales to tend to one poorly little patient.’
Bel always felt herself flush when she saw Joe. He looked so handsome in his khaki uniform. Dorothy and Angie were right: her husband did look the spitting image of Errol Flynn.
Hearing Joe’s voice, Lucille’s eyes flickered open and she immediately stretched out her arms. ‘Doey! Daddy!’
Joe hobbled across the room that used to be Bel’s. He could never come into this room without recalling the time he and Bel had shared their first kiss. It had been the start of their love affair, although one that initially Bel had fought against ferociously.
Bending down to give Bel a quick kiss, Joe then leant his stick against the cot and scooped Lucille out of her bed. As soon as he lifted her up, she wrapped her legs and arms around him like a little koala bear.
‘Go on, you two,’ Joe commanded. ‘Get yourselves a cuppa while I read this one a story.’
Bel handed Joe the shabby hardback picture book of ‘The Lambton Worm’ – Lucille’s favourite bedtime story. Lucille let out a jubilant cry followed by a rattling cough. Bel sighed inwardly. She had tried to get her daughter to enjoy something that wasn’t about fighting and killing, but to no avail. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, since all Lucille had known for her three years on this earth were air raids, bombed buildings and a world at war.
Maisie touched her niece’s hot cheek. ‘Get better, LuLu. Aunty Maisie loves you loads,’ she told her.
‘’Aisiee …’ Lucille gave her aunty a forlorn look, but her attention was soon focused on the one person she adored more than anyone – Joe.
‘God, she really is a proper daddy’s girl, isn’t she?’ Maisie said as she and Bel stepped out into the hallway and headed into the kitchen.
Bel nodded.
‘You all right with her calling Joe “Daddy”?’ Maisie asked. She had noticed that when she and Lucille were on their own the little girl would always call Joe ‘Daddy’, but when she was with Bel, sensing her mummy’s disapproval she would oscillate between calling her stepfather ‘Doey’ and ‘Daddy’.
‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’ Bel leant over the kitchen table and felt the brown ceramic teapot with both her hands to see how warm it was. ‘I don’t want her to forget who her real dad is, but in her eyes, Joe is her dad. He’s real, and he’s here and he loves her. And she adores him. Always has. And how do you explain to a toddler that her real daddy’s dead and that the man she sees as her da is actually her uncle? Of course, it doesn’t help that he looks identical to Teddy.’ Bel gave a sad laugh. She had fought her feelings for Joe and part of her had hated him when he first came back because he was a constant reminder of the husband she’d had taken from her.
‘Cuppa?’ Bel retrieved two cups and saucers from the side cabinet.
‘Please,’ Maisie said, sitting herself down at the kitchen table, glad that there was just her and Bel, and the two dogs, of course, who were both flat out in front of the hot range. It always amazed her how so many people could live under the one roof and that they would all invariably congregate in this small kitchen-cum-living room. When everyone was at home – Agnes, Arthur, Joe, Bel, Lucille, Polly and Pearl – there was barely room to breathe.
‘Talking about fathers,’ Bel said, trying to sound casual as she poured them each a cup of tea, ‘you found out any more about your real da?’ They both knew that Maisie’s dad had been a stoker whose ship had docked in South Shields, just up the coast, and that young lads like him, often from Africa and India, were used as cheap labour on the ships. Other than that, though, they did not know much.
Maisie looked at Bel. They might still be getting to know each other, but there were times, like now, when Maisie could read her sister like a book, and she knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
‘Well, I hate to admit it, but I’ve hit a bit of a dead end. Ma seems convinced that when he went back to the West Indies, he had no intention of returning. I think if I really want to meet him, I’m going to have to travel across to the other side of the world, which, at the moment, is clearly an impossibility. But even if this war does end sometime soon, and I do spend weeks on a ship travelling there, it’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack … And then there’s no guarantee he’s even still alive.’ Maisie took a sip of her tea and relished it; her sister did know how to make a good brew. ‘No, I think travelling all the way up north to find the woman who gave birth to me will have to do me. At least I found one of my parents … I often wonder, though, if Ma had known she was pregnant before her sailor boy went back home, whether or not they would have stayed together?’
Bel looked at her stunning half-sister, and at her caramel-coloured skin. She had met a man from Africa once, but never anyone from the West Indies. She hadn’t really known where that was until Polly had shown her on the map Arthur had given her.
‘Would have been hard in those days, I reckon,’ Bel said. ‘Bad enough now a coloured man being with a white woman, but back then …’
‘I know, especially up here. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad in London, but I don’t think I’ve even seen another coloured person since I’ve been here.’ Maisie suddenly started to chuckle.
‘What’s tickled your fancy?’ Bel asked, getting up to put the kettle back on the hob.
‘Ah, that mad mother of ours. Did she tell you that when she first met my dad, she had no idea he was coloured?’
Bel turned back from the stove and shook her head.
‘Apparently he’d just come off the ship and hadn’t had a chance to wash and was covered from head to toe in coal dust. All the stokers came off looking like they had been scrubbed with black shoe polish. But she said she took one look into his hazel eyes and that was it, she wouldn’t have cared whether he was all the colours of the rainbow, she fell for him hook, line and sinker.’
Bel felt a shot of envy that Maisie had been treated to such a wonder
ful story about her da, and yet her ma had never uttered a word about her father.
‘You know, I still want to find out about my da.’ Bel came right out and said it.
Maisie looked at her sister. ‘Honestly, Bel, you’ve got it all here. A lovely husband, an adorable daughter.’ She would have liked to add that Bel also had enviable looks, with her perfect pale skin and naturally blonde hair – not a dark complexion that needed the aid of expensive cosmetics to look lighter, or tightly coiled hair that required hours to oil and straighten. ‘And the best mother-in-law anyone could want. One who more than makes up for you having a “ma” whose mothering skills are lacking, to say the least.’
Maisie had learnt that the idyllic life she had imagined Pearl and Bel enjoying had been just that – a fantasy. She should have known that such perfect families simply didn’t exist, but her bitterness at being given up as a baby had clouded her thinking. It hadn’t taken her long, however, after meeting her mother and sister to realise that her imaginings could not have been further from the truth, and that if it hadn’t been for Agnes, Bel would most likely have ended up in the workhouse.
‘You’ve got this lovely life here,’ Maisie argued. ‘So why are you bothered about who your father is? Besides, Ma says he’s dead. Died when you were a baby.’
Bel let out a hollow laugh, causing both Tramp and Pup to raise their heads slightly.
‘God, pull the other one, it’s got bells on.’
‘You really don’t believe her then?’ Maisie’s question was genuine.
Bel shook her head. ‘I never believed Ma when I was a little girl and I certainly don’t now. For someone who’s told a load of lies her whole life long, Ma’s never really mastered the art of being good at it. I’ve always been able to tell when she’s trying to pull a fast one or telling porkies. And I always knew she was telling a great big whopper whenever I asked her why I didn’t have a da like all the other children … Dead my backside!’
‘Who’s dead?’ It was Pearl’s distinctive gravelly voice announcing her arrival in the kitchen.
Both Maisie and Bel turned in surprise to see their mother’s scrawny frame blocking the doorway; as usual, she was heavily made-up, and dressed in a short skirt more suited to a twenty-year-old than a forty-two-year-old.
‘Honestly, Ma, you can’t half be quiet and stealth-like when you want,’ Maisie said before taking another sip of her tea, drinking it down quickly as she knew Pearl’s arrival meant it was time for her to go.
‘Ha!’ Pearl let out a boisterous laugh, which suggested she might have had a few whilst working the afternoon shift at the Tatham. ‘That’s me – what’s the saying? Hidden depths. Anyway, what poor sod’s dead?’
‘My da, apparently,’ Bel said, watching her mother’s face drop, as she knew it would.
‘Gosh, is that the time?’ Maisie looked up at an imaginary clock and stood. She knew exactly when to get out of the line of fire. This was a conversation for her mother and her sister alone. ‘I’d better get going.’ Maisie gave Bel a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll check in on LuLu tomorrow, if that’s all right? See if I can get her some sweeties to help that bad cough.’
‘Oh, she’ll love you even more than she does already if you do!’ Bel said.
‘I’ll just grab my coat and say my goodbyes. Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out,’ Maisie added.
‘What about yer auld ma!’ Pearl said, arms akimbo. ‘Doesn’t she get a hug ’n a kiss goodbye?’
Maisie looked at her mother. They were about the same height and build, quite small and petite, but where Maisie would be described as slender, Pearl might, at best, be classed as skinny.
‘Ma, we are not huggers. You are not a hugger,’ she said, opening her handbag and pulling out a packet of Winstons. ‘Here you are – instead of a hug.’
Pearl’s face lit up, happy to swap love for a packet of fags. ‘Eee, thanks, pet.’ She took the cigarettes off her daughter and immediately opened them, took out two and gave one to Maisie.
‘I’ll save it for the walk home,’ Maisie said, grabbing her coat and hurrying out of the kitchen, just as the kettle started to scream.
‘Fancy a cuppa, Ma?’ Bel asked, taking the kettle off the hob and topping up the pot of tea on the kitchen table.
Pearl looked nervous. Her daughter had mentioned the dreaded ‘D’ word. Something she had mentioned more than once these past few weeks. Bel didn’t normally offer her tea, and she had clearly been talking to Maisie about her da. Pearl was no clairvoyant, but she knew exactly what Bel was going to say next.
‘I’d love a cuppa, pet,’ Pearl said, trying to sound convincing, ‘but I’ve gorra get back to the pub. Bill needs us to open up so I cannot be late.’
There was a moment’s silence before Bel looked at her mother and said, ‘Ma, you’re going to have to tell me, you know.’
Pearl was now reaching for her handbag, which she had dumped on the table, and scrabbled around for her lighter.
‘Tell you what, pet?’ she asked, stalling for time.
‘About my da!’ Bel replied, exasperated.
Pearl gave up her search for a moment and took a deep breath. She knew she couldn’t keep running away from this for ever.
‘And don’t,’ Bel said, ‘even try and give me that old baloney about him being dead, because you and me know that’s an outright lie. I didn’t believe you as a child and I don’t believe you now.’
Pearl looked at Bel but was struggling to think of a response.
‘You know, Ma,’ Bel said, more gently this time, which Pearl found even more disconcerting, ‘I need to know. It’s not fair that you’ve told Maisie everything about her da and yet, for some reason, it’s like you’ve been sworn to secrecy about mine.’
Mother and daughter looked at each other.
Finally, Pearl broke their stand-off.
‘Yer right … He isn’t dead … or rather, he wasn’t dead then. I’m not sure about now, though …’ Pearl let her voice trail off.
Bel waited. Her eyes glued to her mother.
Just then the front door went and the sound of Polly’s hobnailed boots could be heard hurrying down the corridor.
‘You wouldn’t guess what happened at work—’ She stopped in her tracks as she reached the doorway to the kitchen. She hadn’t anticipated Pearl being there. Polly was never keen to be around Bel’s mother for any length of time, and she certainly didn’t want to tell her about Rosie’s newly-wed status.
‘Oh, is that a cuppa begging?’ Polly asked, not waiting for an answer and quickly pouring herself some tea.
‘Well, dinnit keep us waiting, Pol,’ Pearl said. ‘What happened at work? We’re all ears.’
‘Ah, it’s nothing important. I’ll tell you all later when I get myself out of these scruffy overalls and cleaned up.’ Just one glance at Bel and Pearl and the serious looks on their faces told Polly to leave them to it. Slopping some milk into her cup, she braced herself for her trip to the washhouse in the backyard, which she knew would be near glacial.
Bel turned to her mother, eager to continue their conversation, only to find Pearl looking at her watch.
‘Bugger! Is that the time?’ She looked at Bel, who was about to say something.
‘Look, pet, yer right. It’s not fair I’ve talked to Maisie about her da and not to you, but this isn’t the right time. And I’ve got to get back to the Tatham. There’s only me and Bill on tonight so I need to get there early and help set up. We’ll chat about this another time.’
Bel kept her eyes on her mother. ‘Promise?’
‘Aye, pet, I promise,’ Pearl said, picking up her bag and gas mask and hurrying out of the kitchen. Stepping out the front door and crossing the road to the Tatham, she’d never thought she would be so glad to go to work. Telling Maisie about her da had been a walk in the park. Enjoyable, even. Maisie’s father had been such a gentle soul. And even though they had been so young, really just children, they had loved each other.
It had only been fate and the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean that had parted them.
Isabelle’s father, however, was a very different ball game. And as much as Pearl wished he were dead, she knew for a fact he was very much alive and kicking – men like him had the knack of living to a ripe old age.
Chapter Six
When Pearl climbed into bed that night it was well past last orders. She had insisted on helping Bill clear up and had persuaded him to have a nightcap, not that he needed much persuading. It was clear to just about everyone, apart from Pearl, that he was sweet on her. Her delaying tactics had paid off, though, and everyone was in bed by the time she crept through the front door and up to her room.
Lying in her bed, inspecting the cracked plaster on the ceiling, Pearl realised it didn’t matter how many nightcaps she had, tonight sleep was not going to come easily. She also had an awful feeling that what was keeping her awake would continue to do so for many more nights. Pearl might have avoided answering her daughter’s probing queries about her da this evening, but she had promised they would chat about it later. Something she had never done before.
When Bel had been a child, for a good while she had pestered Pearl relentlessly about who her father was. Her playground friends had started chattering about mams and dads and who hadn’t got any, or was missing one, and the whys and wherefores. Pearl had always batted away Bel’s questions with the same trotted-out response: Isabelle, yer da’s dead. There’s no more to say. When the pestering had worn her down, she’d made up a vague story that her da had died of some illness. Pearl was of a mind that she was not going to glorify his fictional death in any way. She certainly wasn’t going to pretend that he was some kind of war hero, or that his death had been anything even remotely commendable. Not like some women she knew whose lovers had, in reality, simply buggered off when they’d realised they’d got their bit of stuff in the family way. No, Isabelle’s da did not deserve a praiseworthy death. She would never grant him that, and there was a perverse part of her that enjoyed imagining he had died a lingering and painful death.