Victory for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  She sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. ‘I’ve wanted to tell you for so long now. There just hasn’t been the right time. And you’ve been so busy with the bookkeeping and everything that I haven’t wanted to disturb you.’

  Kate’s words unwittingly struck a chord of guilt in Rosie as it suddenly occurred to her that her need to run away from her problems had actually also caused her to alienate those closest to her.

  ‘Well, don’t ever worry about “disturbing” me, as you put it. There’s more important things to life than ledgers and work.’

  They both laughed at the irony, for it was their work that kept them both going.

  It was their raison d’être.

  Two hours later when the all-clear siren sounded out, everyone in the cellar woke with a start, gathered up their belongings and made their way single file up the stone steps and back into the hallway, from where they all trooped into the kitchen and plonked themselves around the table.

  George went to use the house telephone, which was on the desk in Rosie’s office. It was only ever used in an emergency, or on occasions like this. The switchboard operator put him through to the person he had asked for and they spoke for a very short while before George hung up.

  Walking into the kitchen, he was met by five anxious faces.

  ‘Four bombs. One landed in Mayswood Road, Fulwell. One on Fulwell fire station. One on the Fulwell Club and Institute. One on Ferry’s dairy farm. Two dead.’ George knew that none of the women round the table had friends or relatives in any of these places and he could see the looks of relief on their faces. He didn’t tell them that it was a married couple who had been killed in a home-made shelter, nor that their son, who had delayed going to the shelter, had been saved.

  ‘Right, I’m going to try and get a few hours’ kip,’ Maisie said, standing up now that she knew the east end had escaped intact.

  ‘Me too.’ Vivian followed suit.

  Kate turned to Rosie and gave her a hug. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered in her friend’s ear. ‘Thanks so much for everything.’

  Rosie gave Kate a hug back. ‘You’ve nothing to thank me for.’

  Watching Kate hurry back upstairs to her room, Rosie looked at Lily. ‘I’ll be getting off then.’

  ‘I’ll see you out.’ Lily bustled out of the kitchen and down the hallway. She put her hand on the latch but didn’t open the door. ‘Those bleedin’ nuns, they make my blood boil. As if there isn’t enough evil in the world without them trailing around in their bleeding black habits pretending to be holier than thou. It’s them that’s doing “Satan’s work”! I could throttle them with my own bare hands, I could.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ Rosie said. She wouldn’t put it past Lily. ‘It would only make Kate feel even worse than she already does, especially if they got the boys in blue on you.’

  ‘You sound just like George!’ Lily’s mouth tightened and she finally opened the door to let Rosie go.

  ‘At least now I know why she’s been so jumpy every time someone enters the shop,’ Rosie said.

  ‘And has those bags under her eyes,’ Lily added.

  ‘I think we need to keep an eye on her, though,’ Rosie said quietly as she left the house. ‘And make sure she doesn’t go back on the drink.’

  Lily nodded.

  As Rosie made her way down the steps, Lily called out: ‘And you take care of yourself in that shipyard. Accidents happen when you’re tired!’

  ‘Yes, Mother!’ Rosie shouted back over her shoulder, as she reached the front gate.

  She didn’t see the smile that appeared on Lily’s face as she watched her go on her way.

  As Rosie walked home it was starting to get light. Despite the lack of sleep, she felt awake and her mind was turning over what Kate had told her. Wait till I tell Peter. As soon as the thought passed through her head, reality slapped her across the face. Perhaps she was more tired than she thought.

  As she sauntered down Tunstall Vale, she could hear the birds’ early-morning songs and she wondered what Peter was doing at this precise moment. She knew France was an hour ahead of England, which could mean he might be getting up now and having breakfast. Reaching the little gate that heralded the start of Brookside Gardens, Rosie thought about the evening that Kate had drunk herself into oblivion and forgotten to give her Peter’s letter. Despite not getting his letter that night, something had still compelled her to go and see him, and she had walked to this very spot and argued with herself whether or not to knock on his door. It was only her hard-headedness that had stopped her.

  Closing the gate quietly behind her and walking quickly to her front door in case Mrs Jenkins was still up, Rosie’s mind wandered to her last few days with Peter. She thought about their wedding day and the young couple who had been married after them, and the look of delight on the bride’s face when she’d given her the bouquet of pansies.

  Rosie wondered what had happened to them both. Had they managed to have time together before they were parted? Were they both still alive and well? Or had the ATS bride joined the country’s growing list of young widows?

  Was Rosie destined to join the swelling ranks of war widows?

  Shutting the door behind her, Rosie pushed away a feeling that kept on coming back to her, no matter how many times she tried to bat it away.

  A feeling that Peter did not expect to see her again.

  Chapter Forty-One

  General Post Office (GPO), Norfolk Street, Sunderland

  One week later

  Thursday 7 May

  ‘It’s been five months now – almost to the day!’

  Gloria had the telephone receiver jammed against her ear, needing to feel as close as possible to the man who was both her lover and her friend. She didn’t need to strain, though, to hear the total frustration and utter exasperation in Jack’s voice.

  ‘Five bloody months ’n I’ve not set eyes on you, or Hope, or Helen. The three most important people in my life! And one of those most important people won’t even write to me, never mind talk to me!’

  Gloria knew that the hurt cut deep with Helen. Very deep.

  ‘The girl’s not even met her little sister! Never held her. Never even said a bleedin’ hello to the little mite!’

  Gloria heard Jack sigh heavily. ‘I know, Jack. I know.’ There wasn’t anything else she could say. Their situation felt hopeless.

  ‘I’m of a mind to just jump on a train ’n come ’n see the three o’ you. Sod the consequences!’

  Gloria felt a shot of panic. This was not just about them. The lives and wellbeing of her friends – and their families – were at risk.

  ‘Jack, you can’t!’ Gloria’s voice was louder than she’d anticipated. She looked at the person in the next booth, fearful that she might have overheard. As far as they knew Miriam had no idea they spoke to each other on the phone, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how careful you are, someone would be bound to see you. To recognise you.’ Gloria dropped her voice. ‘We’re even taking a risk chatting over the phone. She’d go mad if she found out.’

  ‘There must be a way round this,’ Jack argued the case. ‘From what you’ve said, Hannah’s future is more stable now that her aunty’s got a new job … and if Dorothy and Angie get their own place, they’d be out of the firing line … And she can’t exactly shame Rosie for courting an older man when she’s married the bloke!’

  ‘But that still leaves Martha,’ Gloria said. ‘God forbid the truth about her mam comes out. And it wouldn’t just be Martha that suffered, but her poor parents.’ Gloria took a deep breath. ‘And God forbid Tommy thinks Polly’s dilly-dallying off with some other bloke …’

  ‘She’s still not heard anything from the lad?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Gloria said simply.

  ‘Bet you Arthur’s worried sick.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Polly says he doesn’t show it, but that’s Arthur—�
��

  ‘—tough as an old boot,’ Jack finished off. ‘Hard on the outside, but soft as clarts on the inside. Bet ya the old man’s in bits.’

  There was silence down the phone, but Gloria could sense Jack’s disquiet.

  ‘I hate to be defeatist,’ Gloria said, ‘but there is no way round this. Even if we somehow overcame the Martha problem and could put a stop to Miriam making up lies about Tommy, Hannah would still be devastated if she was forced out of her job in the drawing office. And there would still be Dorothy’s mam – and her little ’uns – to think about. Can you imagine what would happen if she got found out? And Angie’s mam. What would happen to her if her husband found out she’s been having it away behind his back?’ Gloria bristled as she thought of the violence she had been subjected to in her own married life. ‘We couldn’t have that on our conscience.’

  ‘God!’ Jack erupted. ‘I could murder Miriam! As if we’ve not got enough to worry about with this goddamn war, without that bloody woman making life harder still!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Gloria agreed, resignedly. ‘It’s madness. The whole world is in turmoil and all she can think about is herself.’

  ‘And then there’s Helen. I’ve no idea what’s happening in her life. I’ve lost count of the number of letters I’ve written to her, but nothing! Not even one reply – not even a letter telling me to go to hell ’n stop bothering her!’

  Gloria didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say. He would hate to see the person Helen was becoming in his absence. She certainly couldn’t tell him the truth that Helen seemed to be turning into a replica of her mam, that she had been a nightmare at work – especially this past week or so, snapping at anyone and everyone. God forbid one of her staff make even the smallest of mistakes as they’d instantly find themselves on the harsh end of her tongue. Even her secretary, Marie-Anne, had started seeking refuge in the canteen at lunchtime, forcing herself to overcome her shyness just to get away from her sniping, bad-tempered boss.

  ‘You not seen or heard anything from her, then?’ Jack asked. The despondency he felt was clear.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Gloria lied. She still felt guilty, had done ever since she had seen Helen that evening in town. But what else could she do? She couldn’t exactly tell him that she’d seen Helen and that his daughter had told Gloria she wished he was dead. That really would break Jack’s heart. Well and truly. Sometimes it was kinder to lie. Gloria sighed to herself. She seemed destined in this life to be the keeper of secrets.

  ‘You heard anything from yer boys?’ Jack asked. His tone had softened. He knew how much Gloria worried about Bobby and Gordon, and how she kept those worries to herself.

  ‘No, but I’m not expecting to. I’ve only just replied to their last letter.’ Gloria heard voices in the background.

  ‘Aye, all right!’ Jack shouted back and Gloria knew their time was up. Jack always spoke to Gloria from the phone at the yard because that was where he now spent every waking moment.

  ‘Sorry, Glor. I’m gonna have to go. Sounds like there’s a problem. Give Hope a cuddle from me.’

  ‘I will,’ Gloria said.

  ‘And, Glor.’ Jack paused. ‘I love you. Don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  After Gloria hung up and made her way to Tatham Street to pick up Hope, she couldn’t help but think that Jack might be a lot better off without her. If she hadn’t come back into his life he would still be here, working at Thompson’s, and Helen would still love him and not want him dead – and the secrets of her friends would all be safe.

  When she reached 34 Tatham Street, the door to the Elliot household was open.

  ‘Only me!’ Gloria called out. As she walked down the hallway, Bel appeared with Hope in her arms.

  ‘Look who it is!’ Bel was looking at Hope and waving at Gloria at the same time.

  Seeing her daughter’s happy, innocent face, as she leant towards her, arms outstretched, Gloria knew that she had been wrong. If she had not come back into Jack’s life, then she would never have had Hope.

  This little girl – their daughter – put everything into perspective, made everything worthwhile, worth enduring, and worth fighting for.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  One month later

  Monday 8 June

  Stepping through the front door and into the wide, terracotta-tiled hallway, Helen dumped her gas mask and handbag down on the mahogany console. As she did so she caught her reflection in the overhanging mirror. She looked awful. Her hair was a mess and seemed to have a will of its own these days. Her victory rolls had been well and truly defeated by the unrelenting winds that never seemed to give up, no matter what the season. And she had dark bags under her eyes, brought on, no doubt, by her inability to get a good night’s sleep. She seemed to spend the whole night tossing and turning, and then when she did fall asleep, she’d have terrible nightmares and wake up covered in sweat.

  ‘Anyone home?’ Helen called out.

  Expecting the usual silence, she was surprised to see Mrs Westley bustling out of the breakfast room.

  ‘Ah, petal! Perfectly timed!’ Mrs Westley turned, beckoning with her hand for Helen to follow her back through to the kitchen. ‘I’ve just made yer favourite! Come on, or it’ll get cold, flower!’ Mrs Westley’s voice cajoled. She had purposely stayed late. She hadn’t seen much of Helen lately, but the past few times she’d not looked particularly well, and she certainly didn’t seem at all happy.

  Turning away from the mirror, Helen walked through the breakfast room and into the kitchen, where she was immediately immersed in the smell of Mrs Westley’s home cooking and the gentle warmth of the Aga.

  ‘Come and sit down, hinny,’ Mrs Westley told her, putting a plate of steaming shepherd’s pie down on the kitchen table. Helen did as she was told and when she started eating, realised just how hungry she was.

  ‘You keeping safe at work?’ Mrs Westley was of the mind that women shouldn’t work in a shipyard, even if it was in an office.

  Helen nodded whilst blowing on a forkful of hot mince and mashed potato.

  ‘Well, don’t you be overdoing it now. You’re looking a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying, pet.’ Mrs Westley had known Helen since she was a baby and couldn’t help but cluck over her like a mother hen, just as she did with her own children, even though they too were all grown up.

  ‘I’ve been listening to the Radio Doctor every morning on the wireless,’ Mrs Westley shuffled into the breakfast room to set the table for the morning, ‘and he’s all for looking after yourself.’

  Helen had heard the cook mention the new programme, which was part of the Ministry of Food’s popular Kitchen Front show, but so far she had only really heard Mrs Westley talk about the doctor’s ‘lovely, soft voice’, rather than any of the pearls of wisdom he had thus far bestowed upon his audience.

  ‘Mm,’ Helen muttered through another mouthful of pie.

  There was a comfortable silence between the two as the cook continued to put away pots and pans and wipe down surfaces, and Helen continued to enjoy her supper.

  Their amicable quietness, however, was broken by the unexpected arrival of Miriam.

  ‘Cooeee!’ Her shrill voice sounded through the house, followed by the clip-clop of her heels stomping their way down the hallway, becoming more subdued as they hit the Windsor rug that covered the wooden floor in the breakfast room.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Crawford!’ Mrs Westley wiped her hands on her pinny when Miriam appeared at the doorway. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Would you like a bit of supper?’

  Miriam shook her head vehemently, her eyes glued to Helen and the shepherd’s pie she was eating.

  ‘Honestly, Helen! You’re just like your father! That was always his favourite.’ Miriam swung her attention back to the cook, throwing her a look of pure admonishment. She didn’t need to say what she was thinking.

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Westley said, reading her employer’s thoughts, ‘like I was just telling Miss Crawfo
rd here, we’ve got to keep our strength up.’

  Miriam glowered at her daughter, who was putting another forkful of food into her mouth.

  ‘Don’t stop on my account, Helen. God, you’ll be the size of a bus if Mrs Westley has her way.’

  Helen stopped eating and put down her knife and fork.

  ‘Well, Mother, to what do we owe this pleasure? I thought you’d be at the Grand?’ She got up and scraped the rest of the shepherd’s pie into the bin, adding, ‘I don’t know why you don’t just move in there.’

  ‘I’ll be getting myself off, then, if I’m not needed?’ Mrs Westley had already removed her apron and was putting on her coat.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Miriam said, waving her hand at the cook as though shooing her away. ‘And don’t forget. From now on, no more pies of any description – or stews.’ She crinkled her nose. ‘They really do stink the place out. I thought I was walking into some working man’s canteen just now.’

  Picking up her handbag and gas mask and hurrying out the back door, Mrs Westley made a silent wish for the immediate return of Mr Crawford.

  Something told her, however, that her wish was not going to be granted any time soon.

  ‘Come and join me in the front room for a quick G and T before I have to dash back out. I only popped back to check up on you as I’ve not seen you for so long. Passing ships in the night, we are!’ This was, of course, an outright lie. The sole reason for Miriam coming back home was to see if there was any post. The last few letters from Jack had been stuffed half in, half out of the little postbox, and could have easily been pulled out by Helen. And that was the last thing she needed. Then the cat would be well and truly out of the bag.

  ‘Well, you needn’t have bothered, Mother, I’m absolutely fine.’ Helen followed Miriam through to the living room.

  ‘Well …’ Miriam had reached the drinks cabinet ‘… if you don’t mind me saying, darling, you certainly don’t look “fine”.’ She poured out two large gin and tonics and handed one to Helen.