Secrets of the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  Chapter Fifteen

  That evening there was just Bel, Polly, and Arthur sitting round the kitchen table drinking tea, while Agnes pottered about getting the supper ready. Arthur had brought a big bundle of broad beans back from his friend Albert’s allotment and Agnes was cooking them up into a stew, made with some bacon bits, black pudding and dumplings. Joe was out with the Home Guard, Pearl was working in the Tatham, and little Lucille had been nagged into submission and was now finally fast sleep in her cot.

  ‘Poor Gloria,’ Bel said, fetching the cutlery and the plates and setting the table. They had all listened in disbelief as Polly had told them about the shocking events of the day: how Hannah had told Rosie that Jack was out of his coma, and how Gloria had rushed off to the hospital to see him, only to return to work a few hours later looking like she’d had the stuffing knocked out of her.

  ‘She looked heartbroken. When she told us what had happened, none of us knew what to do or say,’ Polly said.

  ‘That’s so awful,’ Bel repeated.

  ‘But there’s always a chance Jack’ll get his memory back, isn’t there?’ Arthur said, his face full of concern.

  ‘Mm,’ Polly said, but neither she nor Bel seemed convinced of a happy ending to this particular love story. ‘She’s been through so much. It makes you wonder how much more she can take,’ Bel spoke her thoughts aloud as she finished setting the table. ‘She’s as tough as old boots, but even old boots wear out eventually when they’ve been scuffed too many times.’

  ‘I know,’ Polly agreed, bending down to give Tramp and the puppy a stroke. The two dogs were positioned under the table in the hope that they might get some titbits once supper had been served.

  Bel sat down next to Arthur. ‘You knew Gloria and Jack in younger days,’ she asked, looking at the old man’s sad face, ‘… when they were a couple, didn’t you?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘Aye, I did.’

  ‘What were they like?’ Bel asked, curious to know more. Arthur puffed out air, and thought for a moment.

  ‘That was quite some time ago,’ he said, ‘must be well over twenty years ago, more …’ he paused, collecting his memories of that time.

  ‘I knew Jack much better than I knew Gloria because I worked so closely with Jack in the yard – but Gloria always struck me as a nice girl. They just seemed like a normal, happy courting couple. Flo always said she thought they made a good match.’

  ‘Which is why,’ Polly chipped in, ‘I can’t understand why Jack was lured away by Miriam.’

  ‘Well,’ Arthur said, ‘you know, Miriam is a very determined and a very complex woman.’

  Agnes came into the kitchen from the scullery and opened the heavy lead door of the range, letting out a waft of hot air and delicious smells. Lifting the pot out of the oven, she placed it carefully on a mat in the middle of the table.

  ‘In what way?’ Bel demanded, as she went to get a ladle so that she could start doling out the piping hot stew.

  ‘Well, she’s from a different world to us,’ Arthur said. ‘Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, always getting what she wanted. She could’ve had her pick of rich, eligible young men, but she had her mind set on Jack.’

  ‘Like mother, like daughter, then,’ Polly chipped in bitterly, thinking how Helen had spread a load of malicious lies to try and break her and Tommy up. And what’s more, had nearly succeeded.

  ‘Aye,’ Arthur said, ‘but believe you me, Helen’s not a patch on her ma – luckily for her she’s a pale imitation of Miriam.’

  Agnes was now sitting at the head of the table looking puzzled. ‘What did this Miriam do?’ she asked, curious.

  Bel and Polly looked at each other.

  ‘You tell her, Pol,’ Bel said.

  ‘Well, to put it in a nutshell, Ma, Miriam seduced Jack one night after he’d had a tiff with Gloria,’ Polly explained.

  Agnes looked shocked and tutted hard to show her disapproval.

  ‘But worst of all,’ Polly continued, ‘she made out that she was in the family way, so Jack had to marry her.’

  ‘And was she?’ Agnes asked. ‘In the family way?’

  ‘No,’ Polly said, ‘that’s the point, she’d made it all up, but by the time Jack walked her down the aisle it was too late.’

  ‘But worse still,’ Bel butted in, ‘she made out she’d had a miscarriage and said she had lost the baby.’

  ‘And what about poor Gloria?’ Agnes asked, aghast.

  ‘She met and married some beastly guy called Vinnie. She had two boys with him and has spent her life in misery – coupled with bouts of being used as a punchbag,’ Polly said.

  ‘Until she met Jack again.’ Bel brought Gloria’s story up to date.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Agnes said a little wearily. ‘People’s lives seem so complicated these days.’

  Arthur nodded. Both he and Agnes had only ever loved and married the one person. When they had been taken away from them, they had accepted their lot, and made the most of being on their own, bringing up their children – or in Arthur’s case, his grandson – the best way they could.

  ‘I really feel it for Gloria – and for little Hope,’ Bel said. She had become quite attached to the child since becoming her daytime carer.

  ‘By the sounds of it she’s going to grow up without ever knowing her dad. Or him ever knowing her.’

  Hearing a noise they all turned to see Pearl standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She had finished work earlier than normal and had been standing in the semi-darkness listening to their chatter. She had not meant to earwig in on the conversation, but hadn’t been able to stop herself.

  ‘Well, that won’t be the end of the world, will it, pet?’ Pearl said, stepping into the room and dumping her gas mask on the sideboard. ‘There’s plenty of bairns grow up just fine without a father about. Look at you, Bel – and you, Polly. You two didn’t fare too badly, did you?’

  Bel huffed her exasperation, while everyone else suddenly became extremely interested in their bowls of stew.

  ‘You know, Ma,’ Bel said, looking at her mother, now grappling around her bag for her packet of fags, ‘a little bit of compassion every now and again wouldn’t kill you.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  King’s Cross Station, London

  June 1913

  When Pearl walked under the huge stone arches that made up the main thoroughfare in and out of King’s Cross station, there was still no respite from the melee she had just left behind her. She continued to be pushed along in a choppy sea of people, all seemingly headed in different directions, some laughing, some shouting, and some crying as they said their farewells to loved ones.

  Looking down, Pearl saw an old bearded man seated against one of the station’s colossal pillars, begging. Further along, Pearl saw other beggars, women with their babies swaddled in rags, and young children running alongside those they perceived to be wealthy – flailing flat caps in their way, using their eyes and unwashed, innocent faces to plead for pennies.

  When Pearl was spat out on to the main stretch of pavement in front of the railway station, she was confronted with a barrier of hansom cabs, automobiles, and horse-drawn carriages, all either waiting to pick up their fares or in the process of unloading luggage. Behind them in the distance Pearl could see a few trams, the odd double-decker bus, and a number of horses and carts trundling up and down the wide dirt road.

  As she breathed in the air, she coughed a little. It felt dry and dusty. She stopped in her tracks but was forced forward by another wave of people being emitted from the station. She staggered to get her footing. Trying to escape the river of passengers, she stepped behind one of the pillars and, without the disturbance of pushing and shoving, started rummaging in her bag.

  A few moments later she pulled out what she had been searching for.

  A magazine.

  The magazine which had been handed to her as she’d walked past the workhouse along Church Walk in Hendon a few weeks previously, when
a plain but friendly-looking woman with a black bonnet tied round her head, and wearing a black cloak and long black skirt, had given it to her. Pearl had noticed an unusual red brooch, shaped like a shield, pinned to the woman’s chest. At the time Pearl had no idea why the woman with the long brown hair and pinched but kindly face had handed the magazine to her – even now she didn’t really know why – but Pearl had never been one to turn down any kind of gift, even if it was just a few sheets of paper stuck together, so she had taken it from the woman’s outstretched hand and muttered ‘thank you’, before hurrying off in case the woman wanted something in return. If nothing else, Pearl had argued to herself, it could always come in handy for starting the fire.

  In fact, that was what had nearly happened to the magazine, for that night Pearl had been about to start tearing it up into strips to scrunch up and shove between the little sticks of kindling she had collected for the evening fire when her attention had been caught by the picture on the front. There were four black and white photographs, the largest showing a group of nurses stood on the front steps of an imposing house; the other smaller images showed a nurse holding a baby, a baby swaddled up in a mass of blankets in a cot, and a slightly balding older man who was smiling for the camera. The magazine had the words ‘The Deliverer’ emblazoned on the front. She had no idea what – or who – The Deliverer was, but after scrutinising the photographs she had become intrigued and had started to read – or read as best she could – the words inside. Words which had offered her salvation. Or, at the very least, an answer to her problem.

  Now, as she stood in the shelter of the arches of London’s finest railway station, Pearl thumbed through the magazine until she came to the page she needed. Slinging her bag over her shoulder and holding the magazine open so it was easy to read, she stepped back out into the clamour of King’s Cross Road and scanned the immediate vicinity. When she spotted a young porter standing about, looking around for his next tip, she marched over to him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Pearl said with as much volume and confidence as she could muster. ‘How do I get here?’ She showed the magazine to the skinny lad with the bowler haircut. He squinted and mouthed the address Pearl was pointing to.

  ‘Hackney,’ he said aloud. ‘Here—’ he grabbed her skinny shoulder and pulled her round and pointed to a double-decker bus. ‘Get on the number three to Dalston. Then change to the number fourteen to Hackney.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was off, having spotted an elderly gentleman climbing out of a grand-looking chauffeur-driven black car.

  Pearl hurried to the number three bus. The conductor pulled her on to the platform and pointed to the spiral stairs leading to the top deck. Pearl thought she had never felt so pushed and pulled about in all her life.

  When she was settled on the front seat of the top deck, she took a deep intake of breath. Her heart was hammering, and she was still gripping the magazine as if her life depended on it.

  As the bus began its journey Pearl looked about her at the sights of London – the people, the traffic, the array of buildings that were higher than any she had ever seen before. She inhaled the fumes, and the overpowering smells of open gutters and horse manure, and thought, Well, the streets aren’t paved with gold, that’s for sure.

  Three quarters of an hour later Pearl’s snaking start-stop bus journey came to an end and she once again found herself on a busy street, trying to catch someone’s attention to ask for directions. Her first few attempts to ask the way were ignored by smartly dressed, harried-looking men and women who pretended not to see her. Eventually, a young man with slicked-back hair and a narrow face, smoking a rolled-up cigarette, stopped, and after giving her the once-over, told her what she needed to know.

  A quarter of an hour later Pearl was walking down Hackney’s Mare Street, her eyes searching for the house pictured on the front of the magazine. It didn’t take her long before she found the very posh-looking four-storey Georgian mansion, and it was only then that she was hit by a flurry of nerves and uncertainty. She watched for a few minutes from her spot on the grass verge as people – mainly women – came and went. Every now and again a couple of nurses, dressed in long, starched blue and white uniforms and stiff white caps, hurried in and out of the building.

  Well, you’ve made it, Pearl said to herself. You’re here. What you gonna do, stand here and gawk all day?

  But, despite her self-recriminations, Pearl remained rooted to the spot. Her bravado would not propel her up the steps and into the building she knew to be called Ivy House.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A voice came from behind her and as Pearl turned her head she saw an older woman standing to her side.

  Pearl suddenly found herself unusually speechless. In place of words, she delved once more into her bag and pulled out the now dog-eared copy of The Deliverer.

  ‘Ah,’ the softly spoken woman said. ‘You’ve come to the right place. Come in so we can have a chat.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tuesday 30 September 1941

  ‘Rosie, don’t forget, Maisie – our new girl – should be here within the next hour.’ Lily bustled about the large front room, plumping up tapestry cushions that didn’t need plumping up, and running her hand over polished surfaces to check for non-existent dust.

  ‘Lily,’ Rosie said, sitting down at her plush cherry wood desk in what was now the bordello’s official office where bills were paid and business was conducted, ‘I don’t think you’ll find even a speck of dirt anywhere in the house after the way you’ve had Milly at it all week.’ Milly was the bordello’s cloakroom girl, who now doubled up as a cleaner. The young girl had earned a good sum this week as she had spent just about every waking moment sweeping and scrubbing floors, shaking rugs out, and washing and mopping the whole house from top to bottom – and everything in it. Every single nook and cranny of the three-storey house was spotless.

  ‘And,’ Rosie added, suppressing a smile, ‘I don’t think I need reminding that Maisie is the “new girl”. I honestly feel like I know her already with the amount you’ve talked about her. It’ll be like greeting an old friend when she walks through those doors.’

  Rosie looked at Lily, who had gone all out this evening to look the personification of fashionable chic with her Coco Chanel little black dress and elegant slingbacks.

  ‘You’ll make yourself available?’ Lily looked worried. ‘No making excuses and hiding away with your face stuck in those wretched ledgers all night?’

  It was true that Rosie had become quite obsessed with the bookkeeping and accounts since she had finally drawn a line under her romance with Peter. Now, when she went to bed at night, she saw numbers and calculations, and only very occasionally did thoughts of Peter manage to barge their way through.

  ‘Those “wretched ledgers” as you put it, Lily, are what keep us in business.’ As she spoke Rosie opened up one of her drawers and took out the main red leather-bound accounts book.

  ‘Oh, leave it for tonight.’ Lily tottered over to the desk in her heels, waving the offending book away with hands that were heavy with gem-studded rings and thick gold bracelets; picking up the decanter of brandy she poured a splash into the two large cut crystal glasses placed next to it on the front of the desk.

  Rosie frowned. ‘I try and save that for clients,’ she reprimanded Lily, but realising she was not going to get any work done with Lily in the mood she was in, she gave up, put the ledger back in the drawer and took the Rémy Martin from Lily’s outstretched hand. She noticed Lily’s nails were freshly manicured and painted in a crimson gloss.

  ‘You would think we had royalty coming to visit,’ Rosie said, taking a sip of her drink.

  Lily ignored Rosie’s comment. Her mind was already galloping ahead to the arrival of the new addition to their workforce.

  ‘George has gone to pick her up from the station. He said it was because his beloved MG needs a run out, although heaven knows how he manages to get in it these days with his leg the way it is
– never mind drive the thing.

  ‘I’m not sure if he’s just an old man trying to impress a pretty young filly, or if he is as excited as I am about our new venture.’ Lily looked at Rosie for a reaction, and was pleased when she leant forward, her interest clearly tweaked.

  ‘Well, first of all I don’t think it’s some young filly George is trying to impress,’ Rosie said, with a playful smile on her face. Lily ignored the implication in Rosie’s tone of voice, but couldn’t stop a slight flush from appearing on her face.

  ‘And secondly,’ Rosie continued, sensing Lily’s disquiet, ‘this is the first I’ve heard of any “new venture”, so tell me more.’

  Lily’s face became animated as she perched herself on the edge of the burgundy rococo-style chair directly in front of Rosie’s desk.

  ‘I’ve wanted to chat to you all this week about our “vision” for the future. For the future of the business – providing Mr Hitler doesn’t end up running the country,’ Lily said, checking the sides and back of the elaborate hairdo that Vivian had artfully crafted into a number of victory rolls, which were now balancing very stylishly on the top of Lily’s head.

  ‘Your hair’s fine,’ Rosie said a little impatiently, ‘it’s been sprayed with so much lacquer I’d say it would probably survive a walk through a force ten gale.’

  Lily purposely ignored her comments and continued.

  ‘Maisie isn’t going to work with the other girls as such,’ Lily said, her attention now focused entirely on Rosie, ‘because George and I want her to be front of house for a …’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘… a new exclusive Gentlemen’s Club,’ she said, sitting up straight and looking rather pleased with herself.

  Rosie sat back. ‘This is the first time you’ve mentioned this.’

  Lily took a quick sip of brandy. ‘I didn’t want to say anything before I had really thrashed the idea out with George – or, of course, before we knew Maisie was definitely going to leave London and come here.’