Triumph of the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  ‘What’s all this about then?’ Lily did nothing to hide her cockney roots as she placed both hands on the end of the large kitchen table and leant forward.

  ‘Madame,’ Raymond sneered, adjusting the lapels on the dapper three-piece suit he’d pilfered during a recent air raid, ‘I’ve simply come to call in – how shall I put it? – an outstanding debt.’

  ‘The debt being?’ George asked.

  ‘My dear, sadly departed sister, Eloise,’ Raymond explained, a smile playing on his lips, ‘may well have been tragically killed – mown down by some heartless hit-and-run driver – but the substantial amount of money she owed me is, well, still owed. An amount, I have to add, that has grown with interest over the past few years.’

  His eyes fell on Rosie.

  ‘An amount that has now fallen on my sister’s daughter to pay.’

  ‘She’s no money to give you,’ Lily said. Her words were met with another sneer from Raymond, the parting of his thin lips revealing yellow, nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘I doubt that very much, Madame Lily,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’d say the opposite is true. I’d wager that Rosie has plenty of money to give me. What with her work here.’ He lifted his stick in the air. ‘On top of the wage she gets from Thompson’s, I’d say the girl’s doing pretty well for herself.’ Another smirk. ‘Her mam and dad would be proud.’

  Rosie eyed him with pure hatred.

  Raymond laughed.

  ‘Rosie, it’s very simple – if you don’t give me what I’m owed, I will make sure that every shipyard worker in the town knows exactly where yer gan every other evening. You’ll never be able to show that pretty face of yers in any of the shipyards from here to kingdom come. And I’ll also make sure that the headmistress of that posh school yer lovely little sister gans to knows exactly how yer managing to pay their fees … Oh, and I must say, Charlotte’s looking like yer double these days, isn’t she? My, isn’t she growing up fast?’

  Only then did Rosie find her tongue – and her fists – and physically go for him.

  ‘I’ll kill you with my own bare hands if you so much as look at my sister!’ Now it was her spittle that was gracing his cheeks.

  But Rosie’s loss of control only seemed to please him more and he left the bordello a happy, satisfied man. He knew he had Rosie cornered. Not only was he going to get his money and wreak his revenge on the dead, but he was also going to enjoy playing with his prey.

  Rosie knew her only option was to pay him. But still, she was determined to keep Charlotte safe – far away from the evil that had re-entered her life. And the only way of doing that was by continuing to pay her sister’s school fees, which meant working every waking minute of every day.

  For three months Rosie worked herself to the bone to make the weekly instalments to Raymond. The women welders started to voice their concerns about Rosie’s physical and mental state quietly amongst themselves. Not only were her overalls now hanging off her as she’d lost so much weight, but she looked grey and gaunt.

  Lily was also worried sick, frustrated that she too was powerless in the face of Raymond’s threats. The situation would only be resolved if his poisonous life was to be snuffed out, but much as it had gone through both Lily’s and Rosie’s heads, doing it was a whole other ball game. Neither had the stomach for cold-blooded murder, even if it would have been totally justifiable.

  The noose Raymond had put around Rosie’s neck was tightened further when he wrote a letter to Charlotte’s school requesting a visit, showing Rosie that he not only knew exactly where her sister was, but he was primed to see through his threat if need be.

  And then, as if her life couldn’t get any worse, Raymond broke into her bedsit and found her wage slips – evidence that she was holding back money she had earned doing overtime.

  And it had made him angry.

  Very angry.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Saturday 8 May

  ‘At the moment there are artificial legs available that have bending knee joints – a prosthetic knee socket – but the knee needs to be locked in place when the patient stands upright and then released with the press of a switch in order to bend it when sitting down.’

  Dr Parker took a quick sip of his pint. He was sitting with Helen at their table in the Railway Inn. ‘What’s being developed at the moment – and what I’m really keen to be a part of – is a limb that mimics real movement.’

  ‘And how would you be able to do that?’ Helen asked. She knew prosthetics was what John really wanted to specialise in when the war was over. It was her belief that, having been forced to amputate so many limbs, he was driven by a need to redress the balance.

  ‘That’s the interesting part.’ Dr Parker pushed back his hair; it had a tendency to flop forward, something Helen knew happened more frequently around the time he needed to go to the barbers. She’d have to remind him. ‘There’s been talk of a new “smart” knee that would only lock when the pressure from the heel of the artificial leg hits the ground. It would then bend when there was pressure on the toes, creating the feel of a natural walk.’

  ‘Gosh, that sounds very clever,’ Helen said. ‘Very pioneering.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time there was some kind of advancement,’ Dr Parker said, looking at Helen and silently reprimanding himself for feeling desire. Helen was a friend. That was all it was and ever would be. ‘Most of the artificial limbs we have in use at the moment are made of wood and leather. It’s prehistoric, really. They’re too heavy, and too hard to keep clean, especially as they absorb perspiration.’

  They were quiet for a moment.

  ‘And talking about amputees, how’s young Jacob?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s getting a little better,’ Dr Parker said.

  ‘Just a little?’ Helen took another sip of her vodka and lemon. She had not had much to eat during the day and she could feel it going to her head. They were sitting next to each other, their shoulders almost touching. Helen had been fighting the urge to lean into him all evening. It was as though the vodka was making her resolution to keep John at arm’s length falter.

  ‘Well, what is really good is that he’s agreed to a transfer to the asylum, providing he stays under the care of Dr Eris.’

  ‘That’s good. Sounds like this Dr Eris has quite a way with patients.’

  Dr Parker finished off his bitter and looked at the froth now languishing in the bottom of the glass. ‘One for the road?’

  ‘Why not?’ Helen said. She looked at the clock. They had another forty minutes before she had to catch her train.

  A few minutes later Dr Parker was back, a vodka and lemon in one hand and a beer in the other.

  ‘And Polly’s keeping all right?’ he asked, putting their drinks down.

  ‘Yes, she’s really well,’ Helen said. ‘I saw her yesterday after she’d been to see Dr Billingham and he seems more than happy with how the pregnancy’s going.’

  ‘She must be what? About four – four and a half months gone now?’ Dr Parker said. He looked at Helen, tried to read her face. She would be thinking of when she’d been at that stage of her own pregnancy.

  ‘About that,’ she said.

  ‘And Tommy’s all right?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Yes, he’s writing lots, which is keeping Polly’s anxieties at bay. Not that she would admit to having any,’ Helen said.

  ‘And how’s everyone else at work?

  ‘They’re the same as always.’ Helen smiled. ‘Harold’s spending his day shuffling paper, I’m doing his work for him, wishing he would shuffle off into an early retirement.’

  Dr Parker laughed.

  ‘And the women?’

  ‘They’re working flat out,’ Helen said. ‘Rosie’s not got a replacement for Polly yet, but she seems happy to carry on the way they are for the moment. I don’t think she wants Polly to feel like she’s being pushed out if they get another woman welder. Plus, it means Rosie’ll have to train the new girl up if we ge
t one.’

  They chatted on for a while longer.

  ‘Dear me!’ Dr Parker said during a lull in the conversation. ‘I can’t believe we’ve got through a whole evening without mentioning your Miss Marple.’

  ‘No, neither can I,’ Helen said. ‘That’s probably because there’s not been much happening. Georgina’s had to put the investigation on hold for a short while. Her father’s not been too well.’ Knowing that the next question off John’s lips would be about the old man’s medical ailment, she beat him to it. ‘Arthritis by the sounds of it.’

  She took a sip of her vodka.

  ‘But we’re due to meet up later on in the week for an update.’

  ‘I will be intrigued to hear what – if anything – she has unearthed,’ Dr Parker said.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Five days later

  Thursday 13 May

  Walking from the tram stop down Bridge Street, Helen found herself glancing around, as though she were some character in a spy movie. She just needed to be wearing a mac with the collar pulled up and she would have looked the part.

  Crossing the road, she glanced over at the Grand. Thankfully, it would be too early for her mother to be in there now, but still she hurried past, just in case.

  Heading towards High Street West, Helen kept a beady eye out for anyone she might know, or who might know her. It was imperative no one saw where she was going.

  When she reached the very innocuous-looking doorway at the corner where the two streets met, she had a quick look round to double-check she had not been spotted. Once through the main door, she started to breathe more freely, taking in the musty smell of the building’s interior, which had seen better days.

  She hurried along the hallway, still a little anxious that she might bump into someone she knew. Georgina had informed her that there was also a music teacher on the ground floor, as well as a solicitor who worked from home.

  Seeing the brass plaque that read Mr Pickering & Sons to the side of the door, Helen rang the bell. She’d just taken her finger off the ringer when the door opened.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Crawford.’

  Helen looked at the old man welcoming her in. This had to be Georgina’s father. He was exactly as her mother had described, grey-haired, dressed in a slightly shabby-looking three-piece suit and sporting a lopsided dicky bow. There was no evidence of a gravy stain, though.

  ‘Mr Pickering, lovely to meet you,’ Helen said, shaking his gnarled hand.

  ‘Come in, come in, my dear.’ He waved Helen through to the hallway before overtaking her and showing her into the main dining room.

  ‘Georgina thought it might be better to conduct your meeting in this room rather than the office as it’s so stuffy and hot today. This is by far the coolest room.’

  ‘Of course, that sounds like a sensible option.’ Helen stood and took in the large, high-ceilinged room that was not unlike her own dining room, only shabbier. But it was homely, and Helen could see that Georgina had already put a tea tray out on the long, oval-shaped table in anticipation of her arrival.

  Turning her attention back to Mr Pickering, she thought she recognised him.

  ‘You look familiar, Mr Pickering,’ Helen said, putting her handbag and gas mask on the table. ‘Do we know each other?’

  Mr Pickering smiled.

  ‘We don’t know each other, but we have met once before. Very briefly,’ he said.

  He had braced himself for Helen asking him such a question; had resolved not to say anything unless she did.

  ‘And where was that?’ she asked, unsure what it was that had jogged her memory. Was it the gold-rimmed spectacles? Or his voice, soft and well spoken, with a hint of a northern accent?

  ‘If my memory serves me right,’ Mr Pickering said, ‘it was one afternoon at the end of April last year. You were coming out of Mowbray Park.’

  Helen felt her heart hammer. It had been the day she had thought Theodore was going to propose to her, but instead he’d dumped her. She had been devastated, had practically staggered out of the park, and had needed to rest against a wall to regain her composure.

  ‘I remember,’ Helen said, staring at Mr Pickering, her mind transported back to that humiliating day. ‘You came and asked me if I was all right.’ She smiled at Mr Pickering. At the time she had felt like collapsing into the old man’s arms and sobbing her heart out.

  ‘I think you’d had a bit of a dizzy spell,’ Mr Pickering said.

  ‘And you kindly offered to take me for a cup of “sugary tea”.’ Helen paused. ‘Yes, it’s all coming back to me now. You said you were meeting your daughter in a café up Holmeside.’ She laughed. ‘I’m guessing that was Georgina, unless you have other daughters?’

  ‘No, one’s enough, thank you very much,’ he chuckled.

  ‘What a strange coincidence,’ Helen mused.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Mr Pickering pulled a chair out. ‘It’s good to see you looking much improved today.’ He had felt sorry for the young woman he had stopped to help that day.

  ‘Thank you,’ Helen said. ‘And you, too, look well. Georgina said you have been poorly.’

  Helen caught a flicker of confusion on the old man’s face before he perked up. ‘All good now. Old age gets us all in the end.’

  Just then the door opened and Georgina came bustling in, a file under her arm.

  ‘Oh, he’s much better now,’ she said, feeling herself blush and hoping it hadn’t shown.

  ‘Welcome to our home,’ she said, walking over to the table. ‘Are you happy here?’ She glanced round the room. ‘If you would feel more comfortable in the office, just say and I can take the tray in there.’

  ‘No, this is fine,’ Helen said. ‘Preferable. Anything cooler is preferable.’

  ‘And thank you for coming here,’ Georgina said. ‘I think it was wise. For the sake of confidentiality and privacy.’ Georgina had actually not wanted to risk bumping into Rosie and have to tell more lies.

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ Helen said. A part of her had been intrigued to come here. To see where her Miss Marple lived. She couldn’t wait to tell John.

  Mr Pickering headed towards the door. ‘Just shout if I can help in any way.’ He looked at Helen. ‘And lovely to meet you. Again.’

  Georgina took her seat opposite Helen and put the file on top of the mahogany table.

  ‘Again, apologies for the delay in seeing you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Family comes first. Especially ill ones,’ Helen said, as Georgina poured their tea and handed Helen her cup.

  ‘I’m guessing that you have managed to make some headway,’ Helen said, taking a sip of her tea.

  ‘I have,’ Georgina said, hoping her nerves weren’t showing. This was not going to be the easiest of conversations.

  She opened the file.

  ‘I have typed up everything I have found out and researched, which you are more than welcome to have, although some clients prefer not to have any kind of documentation.’

  Helen nodded but didn’t say either way what she wanted. All of a sudden, she felt tense. She heard the squawking of a seagull and glanced out of the window at the building opposite.

  ‘I have a feeling you have something definite to tell me,’ she said, looking back at Georgina.

  ‘I do – and I don’t.’ Georgina gave a nervous cough and took a sip of her tea.

  ‘That sounds a little cryptic,’ Helen said. She had picked up on Georgina’s unease and had started to feel a little anxious herself.

  ‘Well, to start with,’ Georgina said, opening her notebook, not that she really needed it, everything she had learnt was pretty much imprinted in her head, ‘I discovered that Bel is definitely not the daughter of your great-uncle Alexander.’

  She looked up to see disappointment on Helen’s face. This would have been by far the most preferable result.

  ‘I managed to get hold of your uncle’s death certificate and it would appear that you were right, he did indeed die
of tuberculosis aged forty, in January 1913 – well before Bel would have been conceived.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Yes, absolutely not possible.’

  Helen sat back in her chair.

  ‘With this in mind …’ Georgina took a breath ‘ … I began to look more closely at the other men in the family. And found there were no other men that could possibly have fathered Bel.’

  She paused.

  ‘Apart from your grandfather.’

  Helen felt a growing sense of trepidation that was reflected in Georgina’s demeanour.

  ‘This is where it all gets a little delicate,’ Georgina says. ‘And I think the best way forward would be for me to tell you all the facts and for you to decide for yourself how you think it is best to proceed.’

  ‘Gosh, this all sounds very serious,’ Helen said, suddenly having an overriding desire to have John by her side.

  ‘These are the facts,’ Georgina said, her voice flat and without emotion.

  ‘First of all, I discovered that Pearl Hardwick is a former employee of the Havelock household.’

  Helen’s eyes widened. This was certainly a turn-up for the books. She couldn’t imagine Bel’s ma working anywhere but behind the bar in some east-end boozer.

  ‘Yes, that surprised me as well,’ Georgina said, seeing Helen’s reaction. ‘But two of your grandfather’s staff, Eddy and Agatha, who, I’m sure you’re aware, have worked at the house for a very long time, confirmed this.’

  Helen nodded slowly. Eddy and Agatha were like part of the furniture. And almost as old.

  ‘I managed to speak to them in confidence,’ Georgina said, which was another way of saying that they had been paid for their information. ‘And they remembered Pearl well. She was apparently very pretty when she was young.’

  Georgina took a sip of her tea. Her throat felt dry.

  ‘She turned up one night and your grandmother, who I think we have agreed was a little eccentric, took her in. Eddy said he had advised the mistress of the house against it, as they weren’t in need of another maid, and also because the young girl on the doorstep had no experience from what he could gather – but Mrs Havelock had insisted. She had been convinced Pearl was,’ Georgina glanced up at Helen, ‘the character from the Hans Christian Andersen story “The Little Match Girl”.’