by Nancy Revell
When the call went out that dinner was to be served, Jack presumed that he would be next to his daughter, but when he sat down at the bottom end of the table he found himself next to two of the town’s bigwigs. Jack had looked around for Helen, only to see her pulling up a chair halfway down the table.
So much for spending time with my daughter, Jack thought to himself.
Jack watched as Helen lit up another cigarette. It concerned him that she seemed to be smoking an awful lot lately, and even though she was smiling as she conversed with the woman next to her, she seemed to have a sadness about her.
‘This year …’ Miriam’s voice broke the chatter. She was standing at the top of the table, gently tapping the side of her wine glass with a silver knife. ‘This year,’ she repeated, and her guests fell quiet, ‘I have decided there has been far too much misery and warmongering and that we need to have a very special Christmas celebration in defiance of that horrible little man, Hitler.’
There was a resounding murmur of agreement.
Miriam then took a deep breath and looked down the table at Jack.
‘But what makes this year so very special is that I thought I had lost the man I love. My husband. Jack Crawford.’
There was a deliberate pause.
‘A husband I not only nearly lost the once when his ship was bombed at sea and we didn’t know if he had survived.’
Jack was now feeling very uncomfortable. Miriam knew he could only really abide these parties if he kept a low profile.
‘But,’ Miriam continued, her voice becoming thick and emotional, ‘a husband I nearly lost a second time when we had no idea whether or not he would come out of his coma.’ Miriam again looked down the table at Jack. ‘So, I’d like to raise a toast to my husband. The one I thought I had lost, twice, but who thank the Lord, I now have back. For keeps.’
There was a loud consensus of ‘Hear hear’s and lots of clinking of glasses. Jack felt himself bristle. He had been getting more and more of his memory back of late, which he knew could only be down to the amount of time he was spending with Gloria, as well as with Arthur. It was as though his memory was being teased out bit by bit – like a tight knot that’s hard to unravel at first, but once loosened a little, it gets easier and easier, until, before you know it, the knot has gone.
Jack understood enough now to know that Miriam did not mean a word of what she had just said. That she had never really loved him, she had only wanted him. As though he were her property. Her possession. But it was the way she’d said the words ‘For keeps’ that had made him bristle and gave him an odd feeling of being trapped.
After dessert had been served and consumed, more toasts followed, mostly along the lines of ‘Victory shall be ours!’
Jack raised his glass, but couldn’t help wishing that he was working at the yard to bring the country closer to ‘victory’, rather than simply toasting the idea of it.
As Helen pulled out another cigarette from her packet of Pall Malls, the guest next to her said something and she forced a smile on her face and asked her to repeat the question. Luckily, she didn’t have to answer it as her mother had stood up and was chinking the side of her glass with a knife, demanding attention.
Looking at her mother and listening to her little speech, Helen had to silently congratulate her on her performance. The woman knew how to put on a show, that was for sure. And she seemed to do it so seamlessly. Helen, on the other hand, was struggling. She had struggled not to show her true feelings towards her father and had known she would say something if she had taken up his offer of a Christmas walk. She would have preferred to have been at work, had she not known Gloria and the rest of the women welders would be there. Mind you, even if they hadn’t been there today, her mother wouldn’t have allowed it. She couldn’t be seen to have her daughter working in the shipyard, of all places, on Christmas Day. What would people think?
And so she was having to endure this fiasco. This extravaganza of a show her mother was putting on.
She knew her mother had something up her sleeve, although she had not deigned to tell Helen what it was. Whatever Miriam had planned, it involved making everyone think that she and her husband had a wonderful, happy marriage. That they were the perfect family.
Her mother also seemed to be going out of her way to shower her daughter with lots of attention and gifts, including a new no-expense-spared dress from the young seamstress at Maison Nouvelle. Helen had argued with herself that this was her mother trying to make her feel better, knowing how much she’d been hurt by her father’s secrets and lies. His betrayal.
So, why didn’t she feel comforted by her mother’s kindness?
Her mother wouldn’t be putting on a show for her too, would she?
Her love for her daughter was real, wasn’t it?
Honestly, Helen thought as she blew out a steady stream of smoke and listened to her mother’s speech, I don’t think I can tell black from white at the moment.
‘Bon appétit!’ Lily declared, wine glass held high as she sat at the head of the kitchen table, on which lay a veritable banquet. George, Kate, Vivian and Maisie all followed suit, raised their glasses and chorused, ‘Bon appétit!’
Much to Lily’s delight, Maisie added in the most guttural accent she could muster, ‘Joyeux Noël!’
Lily would have normally kept the bordello open on what could be a very profitable day, but she’d decided that this year they all needed a break – even if it was just for the day – so she’d given all the girls a generous Christmas bonus and switched the little red light off after the last client had left on Christmas Eve.
Feeling particularly grateful that Peter hadn’t blown the whistle on them last month and that they weren’t all now eating some form of indeterminable prison gruel courtesy of His Majesty, Lily had paid through the nose to get the best that was on offer on the black market.
Earlier on, over breakfast, Lily had declared that today was all about being totally ‘décadent’, which meant that by the time they all sat down for a rather late Christmas dinner at six o’clock they had all drunk too much. All of them apart from Kate, of course, who hadn’t touched a drop since stepping over the threshold of the bordello – the day when her old life had ended and her new one had begun.
Kate had no qualms about being the only sober person in the house as it gave her the chance to keep popping back up to her little attic room to work on her latest creation, although she was only able to snatch the odd half-hour here and there throughout the day as Lily was determined she be a part of the Christmas frivolity.
Most of the day had passed in the usual incessant chatter about everything and everyone, as well as a number of Mae West renditions by Vivian, with George accompanying her on the piano.
Maisie had persuaded George to let her borrow his little red MG to pay a quick visit to Pearl at the Tatham. No one had had any idea that Maisie could drive, and George hadn’t been convinced she was telling the truth until he had watched nervously from the front door as she drove down the street changing gear faultlessly.
‘Quite the lady driver!’ he said to Lily, not bothering to hide his very obvious relief.
Pearl was over the moon when Maisie turned up, looking stunning in a very classy beaded ivory dress that had a dropped waist and made her look like an original Charleston girl – a look enhanced by her sleek ebony cigarette-holder. On seeing Maisie enter the pub, Bill told Pearl to take a break, not that Pearl was waiting on permission. On spotting her daughter, she bellowed across the bar ‘Maisie!’ and told anyone who would listen that this was her daughter.
As usual, Maisie’s arrival caused a ripple of interest. It wasn’t just her exquisite beauty, however, that turned heads; the dark colour of her skin also caused a few eyebrows to be raised. This was the east end, after all, and the only ‘coloured people’ they’d ever seen in these parts were the sailor boys from far-flung places on the other side of the world. Pearl clocked the looks and the whispered words but did
n’t give a toss. She was just chuffed to pieces that Maisie had come to see her and even more so when Maisie pulled out of her large shoulder bag a bottle of whisky and a packet of Woodbines.
Maisie knew this was probably not the most sensible Christmas present to buy someone who had nearly drunk herself into an early grave that night she’d gone walkabouts, but she also knew her mother was never going to be teetotal.
‘Eee, thanks, pet,’ Pearl said as she inspected her bottle and saw that it was a single malt. She then opened up the packet of cigarettes, pulled two out, gave one to Maisie and shoved the other in her mouth.
‘These are on the house!’ Bill’s booming voice could be heard behind them. They both automatically turned to see Pearl’s boss towering over them with two large brandy glasses.
‘Ah, thanks, Bill, that’s very kind of you.’ Maisie flashed a smile up at Bill as she took the drinks from him. Bill wasn’t Maisie’s biggest fan as he’d been there when she had revealed herself to Pearl at Bel’s wedding reception, but everyone appeared to have made their peace. Besides, Pearl seemed happy enough and that was all that mattered to Bill, who was a bit soft on the woman, not that he would ever admit it to anyone – least of all Pearl.
‘Hope you’re gonna share that later on?’ Bill joked, eyeing up the expensive bottle of Scotch.
‘Ha! You’ll be lucky to get a sniff!’ Pearl shot back, before picking up the bottle and handing it to Bill. ‘Shove it behind the bar, will ya?’
After Bill left, Pearl took her brandy from Maisie.
‘Well, merry Christmas, pet.’ Pearl raised her glass.
‘Merry Christmas, “Ma”!’ Maisie said, gently chinking Pearl’s glass.
They were both unusually quiet, aware that this was actually quite a special moment.
Pearl could never have imagined that she would be sitting there with the daughter she’d thought she would never see again – and on a Christmas Day of all days.
Maisie had also never envisaged a time that she would ever be with the mother she had never known, and whom she had both wanted and hated in equal measure.
‘Our first Christmas,’ Maisie said, her words spoken quietly and without her usual air of confidence.
‘Aye,’ Pearl said, ‘our first.’ She looked at her beautiful daughter and still couldn’t quite believe she was her own and, moreover, that she was with her now.
‘But not our last,’ she added, taking a long drag on her cigarette.
Ten minutes later, when the pub started to heave and Bill was clearly in need of an extra pair of hands, Pearl returned to the other side of the bar. Maisie nipped across the road and paid a very quick visit to her sister and her little niece, whom Maisie had grown quite close to, even though she was not overly fond of children.
Bel was pleased to see Maisie, who had politely declined Agnes’s invitation to Christmas dinner. She knew her sister would stay just long enough to wish everyone a happy Christmas and to give Lucille her present – a beautiful, blonde-haired doll that far surpassed all the toys Santa had brought her.
‘I’ll pop round before the New Year,’ Maisie said as Bel saw her to the door and they gave one another a hug.
Bel watched her half-sister walk across to the bright red sports car, which had attracted a growing number of local children during its time parked up outside the pub. Bel laughed as Maisie tried to fend off dozens of questions from the youngsters as she climbed into the driver’s seat and gracefully drove off back to her other life, and her other family, at Lily’s.
Later on, as the day was drawing to an end, after they had enjoyed their coq au vin Christmas dinner and George had insisted they listen to the King’s Christmas speech, Maisie, Vivian and Kate retired to the back reception room and started thumbing through the latest edition of Woman’s Weekly and some old copies of Vogue, leaving Lily and George to enjoy a quiet drink together in the kitchen.
‘I wonder how Rosie’s getting on with the Rainers and Charlotte?’ wondered George as he puffed on a cigar.
‘Mm,’ Lily said, swirling her Rémy round in an oversized brandy glass, ‘I don’t think there’ll be any problems with Hillary and Thomas. But I think Rosie might struggle a bit with Charlotte. She’s getting to that age. No longer a child, but not yet a woman.’
‘I don’t know about that, but judging by the letters Rosie showed us, I think she wants to come home,’ George said.
‘Mm,’ Lily repeated. ‘Home’s where the heart is and all that.’
‘Could be that,’ George agreed, ‘or it could be she’s not happy where she is. Boarding schools are funny old places. I should know.’
They sat in thought for a moment before Lily spoke again. ‘If you’re right, mon cher, and little Charlotte is not happy in Harrogate, then I don’t see why Rosie doesn’t just bring her home. She’ll even be able to afford that posh school down the road, which is where she was hankering to put her in the first place.’
‘Yes, my dear, but that was before we went to war.’
‘I know, George, but I think she’s being overprotective. It’s not as if she’s a “bairn”. She’s old enough, and must be clever enough with the education she’s had, to get herself to a shelter if there’s an air raid.’
George nodded his agreement. A part of him wondered, though, if Rosie’s reticence about having Charlotte back home was more to do with a worry about her sister finding out about the bordello – and Rosie’s long-standing connection with it.
‘And,’ Lily said, ‘Rosie’s got Detective Sergeant Perfect to give her a bit of guidance.’ As always when Peter was mentioned, Lily’s voice became truculent.
‘You’re still not warming to him then?’ George asked. He still couldn’t quite work out why Lily was so against the man. From what he could gather, he seemed a decent chap, and was certainly making their Rosie happier than they had ever seen her.
‘Well, for starters he’s twice her age,’ Lily said, ‘and let’s face it, the lives they lead couldn’t be more different. Chalk and bleedin’ cheese. He’s on one side of the law and she’s on the other. Opposites may attract, for a while at least, but once the shine’s worn off …’
George let the sentence go unfinished. He knew Lily would get to the real reason she wasn’t happy about Rosie’s love affair.
‘I don’t trust the man,’ Lily declared. ‘I’ve never trusted a copper in my life and I’m not going to start now. My old bones just feel like there’s heartbreak on the horizon.’
George sighed resignedly.
‘Well,’ he said, getting up and walking round to where his fiancée sat, then gently massaging her neck from behind, ‘why don’t we get those old bones upstairs and start talking about this wedding we’ve got planned?’
Lily immediately felt herself soften as George worked his magic on her tense muscles.
‘She’ll always have us,’ said George, ‘even if it all goes pear-shaped.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Boxing Day 1941
‘Were you out late last night, Georgina?’ Mr Pickering asked his daughter as she joined him for breakfast.
Mr Pickering knew that his only daughter – and, indeed, his only offspring left living at home – had spent a good part of Christmas Day working. Not that he minded. The Pickering household had not celebrated Christmas for many years now, not since Mrs Pickering had been taken from them.
‘And my powers of deduction tell me that you weren’t attending some carol service or late-night Mass,’ Mr Pickering added, looking over his half-moon spectacles as his daughter grabbed a slice of bread off the table and went and knelt by the open fire so she could make herself some toast, something she had always enjoyed doing as a child.
Georgina laughed into the dancing orange and red flames of the coal fire, enjoying the heat on her face and body. ‘I think you’d be more worried about me if I had been sloping around in some church, eating the flesh of Jesus and drinking his blood, or worse still, massacring one of his hymns with my ver
y badly tuned pipes.’
‘Ha!’ the old man blustered, ignoring his daughter’s habit of using quite distasteful imagery – something she was particularly wont to do whenever religion was the topic of conversation. ‘They’re only “badly tuned” because they’ve been left to go to rack and ruin. I remember when you were a little girl, if you weren’t arguing with your brothers or running about the house, you’d be singing.’
Mr Pickering suddenly felt a pang of nostalgia. A hankering for the days of old, when the house was full of life – when his Hilda would sing along with her daughter, or chase their boys from room to room, making them scream with excitement.
‘Well, that was then and this is now,’ Georgina retorted a little too sharply.
Knowing he had caused his daughter pain by mentioning the past, Mr Pickering quickly changed tack.
‘So, come on, tell me your findings, Miss Holmes, or should I say Mademoiselle Poirot?’ Mr Pickering cajoled, steering their chatter back on to safe ground with their familiar banter.
‘Just don’t call me Miss Marple! I’m not an old spinster yet!’ Georgina interrupted in mock outrage as she pushed herself up from the fireplace and made her way across to the big dark wooden table with her piece of toast in hand. She sat down in the high-backed, leather-upholstered chair opposite her father and helped herself to the smallest knob of butter and a scraping of marmalade. Mr Pickering wanted to tell his daughter to have more, but stopped himself. Georgina hated being fussed about. And he had to stop treating her like a child. She had turned twenty-one this year and had a wise head on her shoulders despite her relative youth.
Mr Pickering poured himself another cup of tea and a fresh cup for his daughter, pushing it towards her along with the milk jug. Georgina looked at her dad and smiled her thanks as she added a splash of milk.
‘Actually, the past few days have been very insightful,’ Georgina began, thinking about the research she had been doing, which had taken her to places she’d not normally have gone to. First off, she’d visited the town’s Jewish quarters and found everyone very friendly and, more importantly, very talkative. As a result, it hadn’t taken her long to find out what she needed to know.