by Nancy Revell
‘Just got here,’ Charlotte lied.
‘That was very kind of you,’ Dr Parker said to Helen.
Martha’s parents, Mr and Mrs Perkins, had been over to thank Helen for the hamper she had sent to the house at Christmas.
‘It was the least I could do,’ Helen said, dismissively. ‘Their daughter did put her life on the line to save me and, of course, Gloria and Hope.’
‘Well, it obviously meant a lot to them.’ Dr Parker watched as Martha and her parents said their goodbyes to everyone. They were going to see in the New Year at home.
Dr Parker looked around. He was glad they had done the rounds and chatted to those they had to and those they wanted to. Midnight was approaching and, remarkably, they’d found themselves a table in a relatively quiet corner.
‘So, Sherlock, do you still think Bel’s a Havelock?’ Dr Parker said. Helen had been on about who Bel reminded her of for months, and now she knew; the annoying, hard-to-get-to itch had been scratched. He worried, though, that if Helen kept scratching, as it appeared she was wont to do, it might well lead to an open wound.
‘Definitely. Even more so after seeing them together at the funeral.’ Helen took a sip of her drink.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ Dr Parker asked.
‘I’m going to find out if we’re related,’ Helen said. ‘And I have a plan.’ She tapped her nose playfully.
Dr Parker furrowed his brow. ‘Mmm?’
‘I’ll tell you more when I have put my plan into action,’ Helen teased. ‘But enough about me. I want to hear all about life at the Ryhope. What’s been happening since I saw you last?’
‘Actually, there is some exciting news to impart,’ Dr Parker said.
Helen’s eyes widened in expectation.
‘I just heard, before I left, that we’re going to get a psychologist.’
‘Really?’ Helen was curious. ‘That’s very progressive. I thought all that “chatting-about-it-will-make-it-all-right” nonsense was deemed to be a bit of a trifle – especially at the moment, when you’ve got men barely out of short pants needing their limbs or their lives saving. Or both. Surely the hospital needs more brilliant surgeons like yourself – not “head doctors” who think they can talk you better?’
Dr Parker let out a loud guffaw. ‘And that’s what I love about you, my dear Helen,’ he said, looking into her eyes. God, he could lose himself in them.
‘And what’s that, John?’
‘Your bluntness. Your brutal honesty.’ He smiled. ‘And, of course, the fact that you think I’m a “brilliant” surgeon.’
‘Well you are,’ Helen said. ‘It’s not a compliment. Rather a statement of fact.’ She took another sip of her vodka and lemon. ‘So, tell me more about this psychologist? Why are you getting one?’
‘Well, Dr Eris will mainly be based at the Borough Asylum, but it sounds like there’ll be a bit of a crossover.’
‘Really?’ Helen said. The notorious mental hospital that backed onto the Ryhope had always intrigued her. As, she was sure, it did most people.
‘Dr Parker!’
They looked round. Both catching sight of Bill at the same time. He was holding the handset of the pub phone close to his chest. Seeing he had caught their attention, he pointed to the receiver.
‘It’s the Ryhope!’ he shouted out.
‘Oh no.’ Helen pulled a face. ‘And there was me thinking I had you all to myself for the rest of the year.’
Dr Parker went off to take the call.
He was back a few minutes later.
‘Bloody Clarkson,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t turned up for his shift, so they need cover.’
‘And they couldn’t get anyone else?’ Helen said.
‘Sounds like they couldn’t get hold of anyone else. It being New Year’s Eve and all.’
‘No surprise there,’ Helen said. ‘And clearly not everyone was as honest as you were about telling them exactly where they’d be.’
Dr Parker put his jacket back on.
‘Come on.’ Helen put down her drink. ‘I’ll see you out. Who’s picking you up?’
‘They’re sending a car from the Infirmary. Should only be a few minutes.’
Dr Parker led the way through the crush.
Finally, they made it out onto the street.
‘Gosh, that’s nice. Fresh air,’ Helen said.
They both looked around, aware that they were totally on their own. Tatham Street was deserted.
‘Well, I guess I’d better wish you a Happy New Year – in advance,’ Helen said, suddenly feeling awkward.
And nervous.
She stepped forward.
Looking into John’s eyes, she felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him. Not an entirely new feeling, especially of late.
But she stopped and reprimanded herself. Reminded herself of the evening of the Tatham Street air raid. She’d had the same urge then – had closed her eyes, waiting to feel the touch of his lips on her own, only to receive a chaste kiss on the cheek.
‘Happy New Year,’ she said. She leant up to him, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Yes, yes, a very happy one,’ Dr Parker said. He bent his head down and kissed Helen back gently on the cheek. When all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss her all the way into the New Year.
The blare of a horn made them both jump.
‘Looks like my lift’s arrived,’ Dr Parker said.
As the clock struck twelve, the whole pub erupted.
At the same time, the shipyard klaxons sounded out across the town, as though they themselves were calling out their own celebratory ‘Happy New Year!’
Helen saw Bel and Joe kiss each other tenderly. They looked very much in love.
She looked around her to see people hugging and kissing. Some chastely, like she and John had just done – others more passionately, like she had wanted to do.
Earlier on today she had felt she didn’t belong anywhere – that she was a misfit.
Thinking of John, and wishing he was here with her now, it suddenly struck her, like the chimes on the clock signalling the start of a new year, that she did actually feel as though there was somewhere she belonged – where she felt at home.
And that was with John.
Chapter Eleven
‘Perhaps we should pop in and wish Lily and George a Happy New Year?’ Charlotte suggested tentatively.
‘I think perhaps not.’ Rosie took a sidelong look at her sister. The light from the full moon enabled her to just about see her sister’s expression.
‘Why?’ Charlotte said. ‘I’m not at all tired.’
‘Well, you mightn’t be, but I jolly well am,’ Rosie said. Her words were followed by a slightly exasperated laugh. ‘Besides, I told you, Lily and George are having a party.’
It wasn’t an outright lie. Lily was having a party. A very profitable one. Something to draw the punters in on New Year’s Eve. Not that they needed much persuading. This was always the busiest night of the year and was why Lily and George had left so promptly after the church service.
‘If they’re having a big party, then that’s exactly why we should pop in to see them,’ Charlotte argued.
‘No, that’s exactly why we shouldn’t. It’s a grown-up party. Not for children.’
‘But I’m not a child.’
‘I’m afraid you are, Charlie. The last time I checked, a person is a child until their eighteenth birthday. You were very lucky that Bill allowed you in the pub this evening.’
‘It’s legal as long as I’m accompanied by an adult,’ Charlotte informed.
‘Only if the licensee says so.’ God, she could be hard work.
They walked on.
‘Anyway, you saw Lily and George today at the church. It’s not as if you haven’t seen them.’
‘I know, but I’ve been back for two and a half months now,’ Charlotte moaned, ‘and I’ve still not been round to theirs for tea. And Lily did invite me. Remember? The firs
t time I met her at the Maison Nouvelle.’
‘Well, Lily does work a lot, you know,’ Rosie said. ‘She might seem like a gadabout, but underneath that rather colourful exterior lies a serious, hard-working businesswoman. She works pretty much round the clock. She’s not got the time for having people round for tea.’
They walked on. The occasional burst of laughter and flash of light could be seen as revellers bade farewell to those with whom they’d welcomed in the New Year before now heading back to their own homes.
Charlotte looked up at the big Victorian houses they were passing. They were like Lily’s – only she’d bet they weren’t half as amazing. Dorothy and Angie’s description of Lily’s hallway alone had sounded incredible. If she had a New Year’s resolution, then it was to see inside Lily’s fantastic house – and sooner rather than later.
Rosie and Charlotte walked for a while without chatting.
Charlotte was thinking about Lily’s. Her imagination running riot.
Rosie was thinking about the funeral. And their mam and dad. It was a topic she had avoided since Charlotte had been back. This was the perfect opportunity, especially after the day they’d had.
Walking down Tunstall Vale, Rosie took a deep breath.
‘So, how are you feeling – after the funeral?’
‘All right.’ Charlotte’s voice was defensive.
‘Charlie, you can talk to me, you know. About how you feel.’ Rosie paused. ‘About Mam and Dad.’
Charlotte still didn’t say anything, but Rosie persevered.
‘Arthur’s funeral made me think about Mam and Dad’s funeral, and I think it did you too.’ Rosie looked at Charlotte as she spoke.
Still, Charlotte didn’t say anything.
‘Can you remember much about it?’
‘Not really.’
Rosie thought about Charlie taking her hand today at the burial. She had done the same when they were at their parents’ open grave. God, had it really been six years ago? It felt like another lifetime.
They carried on walking in silence.
Finally, Charlotte said, ‘I remember the vicar saying the same words as the vicar today.’
Rosie smiled and put her arm around her sister, but she could feel her unease and let her go again.
‘I remember the bit about “A time to be born, and a time to die”,’ Charlotte said. ‘Back then, I didn’t understand how it could be Mam and Dad’s time to die. Still can’t.’
‘No,’ Rosie agreed. ‘Neither can I.’
Charlotte looked deep in thought before suddenly perking up. ‘I remember people had been going on about us not having any family.’ She looked at Rosie. ‘But just before the funeral a man turned up. He said he was our uncle. Can you remember?’
Rosie felt her skin prickle. Her heart started to thud loudly in her chest.
‘Yes, I can remember. He was Mam’s brother.’
‘Uncle …’ Charlotte dug deep in her memory. ‘Raymond. Uncle Raymond. That was his name, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
They reached the turning into Brookside Gardens.
‘I remember being puzzled,’ Charlotte continued, ‘because he was meant to be staying overnight, but when you woke me up in the morning, he’d gone.’
‘That’s right.’ Rosie hoped her voice sounded normal. ‘He got up early and left.’
Charlotte opened up the little five-bar gate that led to their home. They walked through and Rosie let it clatter shut, for once hoping that it would alert Mrs Jenkins so that she would come out and chat to them, putting an end to this conversation, which was making her feel ill.
But of course Mrs Jenkins didn’t make an appearance; nothing ever happened the way you wanted it to.
Why, oh why did Charlotte have to have such a bloody good memory?
Rosie opened the front door and went into the house.
‘So, what happened to him?’ Charlotte took off her coat and hung it up.
‘I don’t know, Charlie.’ One day perhaps she would tell her. ‘He left and never came back.’ If only. Rosie’s hand instinctively went to the scars on her face.
‘Hot chocolate?’
Charlotte’s face lit up. ‘Yes, please … I’ll do it!’
Rosie followed her sister into the small kitchen.
Raymond might have left his mark, but at least he’d never be back.
She thought once again about the words the vicar had spoken today – a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
Raymond’s death had certainly given her cause to dance.
Chapter Twelve
The Fishermen’s Cottages, Whitburn, Sunderland
1936
‘Charlie, wake up.’ Rosie gently shook her sister awake.
‘Rosie,’ Charlotte mumbled.
‘Come on, wake up, sleepyhead.’ Rosie forced a smile on her face. ‘We’re going on an adventure.’
Her little sister’s blue eyes looked confused.
‘An adventure,’ Rosie repeated. ‘But we need to be quick. We have to go now.’
Charlotte sat up and rubbed her eyes.
‘An adventure?’
Rosie widened her eyes and nodded.
‘Now, come on, wash your face and put on your best dress. The one you wore …’ Rosie let her voice trail off. She didn’t want to remind Charlotte of the funeral. It was too late, though; her sister’s eyes were already pooling with tears.
‘Come on.’ Rosie forced her voice to sound bright. ‘There’s no time for tears. Mam and Dad wouldn’t want you to cry.’ Rosie swallowed back her own sadness. ‘They’ll be up there now, sitting on their cloud in heaven. Dad’ll be trying to light his pipe, saying, “Come on, Charlie, gerra a move on. Do as yer big sister says!”’
Charlotte let out a short chuckle. Their dad always seemed to spend more time trying to light his pipe than he did smoking it.
‘You sounded just like him!’
Rosie smiled. She’d been a real daddy’s girl. Me and my shadow, he’d say.
Rosie got off the bed.
‘See you downstairs in five minutes. And no dilly-dallying.’
Twenty minutes later they were walking along the main road towards the bus stop. It was still early. The air was cold, and there was a wind blowing in across the North Sea. The suitcase wasn’t heavy, but it was banging against Rosie’s legs as they walked.
‘Where are we going?’ Charlotte asked. She wasn’t totally convinced that this was what could be classed as an adventure.
‘First off, we’re going into town,’ Rosie said.
‘Sunderland?’
Rosie nodded.
She looked behind her, hoping the bus would come soon. The sun was starting to come up. Her fear that Raymond would decide to return to the house now that daylight was breaking was growing by the second.
Forcing her voice to sound full of intrigue, Rosie said, ‘Then we’re going on a train.’
‘Really! I’ve never been on a train before!’ Charlotte moved the bag she was carrying to her other shoulder. She was trying to be careful because it contained their packed lunch.
‘Actually, you have been on a train once. When you were really little. Not just little little, like you are now.’ Rosie nudged her sister in a show of playfulness.
Charlotte looked at Rosie suspiciously. She was being unusually nice to her. She hadn’t even asked her to help make the sandwiches, which she normally would have done.
‘So, where are we going?’ she asked.
Rosie heard an engine. Her head swung round. For the briefest moment she felt paralysed with terror that it would be her uncle in a car, coming to get them.
When she saw it was the South Shields to Sunderland service, she gasped with relief.
‘I’ll tell you on the bus. Now, go on, stick your hand out!’
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday 13 January 1943
‘How’s Charlotte getting on at the High School?’ Helen asked.
Rosie was just leaving the office. They’d been discussing what needed to be done on a frigate that had been pulled into the dry dock. It had a hole in its flank that you could drive a tank through.
‘Oh, she’s doing well,’ Rosie said. ‘Getting top marks in all her classes. She actually seems to enjoy doing homework.’ She pulled a face. ‘I personally can’t think of anything worse than being hunched over a load of books indoors.’
Helen laughed. It was exactly what she spent her life doing here at the yard and, like Charlotte, she loved every moment. ‘I take it you were never that keen on school?’
Rosie looked at Helen. It was the first time she’d asked something personal. About her past.
‘I didn’t mind it,’ Rosie said. ‘But I wasn’t mad on it either.’ She wasn’t being entirely truthful. She had been intending to keep on with her studies, at least until she was sixteen, but that had been before her mam and dad’s accident.
‘Did you like it at the High School?’ Rosie said, batting the conversation back into Helen’s court.
‘I think it was more a case of enduring it there, rather than liking it.’ Helen sat down and pulled out a Pall Mall from the packet on her desk. ‘Is she fitting in all right? With her classmates?’ Helen lit her cigarette.
‘Good question,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m really not sure. I keep telling her she can bring any friends back for tea, but so far she seems happy to do her after-school clubs, then come home and bother me.’ And, Rosie felt like adding, beg me to let her come to Lily’s.
‘It might take her time to find her “set”,’ Helen said. ‘She’s not even been there a term yet, has she?’
Rosie nodded, although she couldn’t ever foresee a time when Charlie would be part of a ‘set’. At least she had one good friend – Marjorie. It was just a shame she lived in Newcastle.
Rosie made to leave.
‘And Polly’s keeping her chin up?’ Helen said. Work had been so full on these past few weeks, she’d only managed to pop round and see Gloria and Hope twice since the New Year, so she wasn’t up on all the gossip and goings-on.
‘Yes, Polly seems fine, fingers crossed. She’s had a few letters from Tommy. That’s keeping her spirits up.’