The Shipyard Girls on the Home Front

by Nancy Revell

  The women – like countless others across the length and breadth of the country – prayed with all their hearts that the words penned by the editor of the local paper in a town on the north-east coast of England would come true.

  As Rosie made her way over to admin, she felt happy. She hadn’t read the Sunderland Echo’s editorial, but she too had felt a sense of hope ever since Toby had told her that Peter was alive. She’d wanted to beg him to tell her more when he’d turned up at Vera’s café, where they had all been having their Christmas dinner en masse, but she knew it wasn’t fair and that it didn’t matter if she pleaded, Toby would not have been able to give her any more information, for he was part of ‘Churchill’s secret army’ – formally known as the Special Operations Executive.

  It was Toby who had recruited Peter for the SOE’s French division while Peter had been working as a detective sergeant. Since Rosie had said her goodbyes to Peter in Guildford, where he’d gone for his training two years ago, she had only seen him the once, when he had turned up for an overnight stay in the summer of 1942. Since then she’d only had a short but very beautifully worded message from him, transcribed by a wireless operator. Since then, not a whisper. An entire year had gone by, during which time she had become increasingly worried and convinced that no news was not actually good news at all, so on Christmas Day when Toby had told her that Peter was alive and well, the relief had been overwhelming. She had failed to keep her emotions in check, which was unusual for her, and she had wept openly in front of everyone.

  In the days that followed she’d decided that she would continue to revel in the good news for as long as possible – before the worry set back in. She’d even allowed herself to imagine what life might be like if – no, when – Peter came back from the war. For the first time in a long while she began to believe that dreams really could come true – it didn’t just happen in the Hollywood films which Dorothy dragged them all to see. The dream of having a family could become reality – not a family in the traditional sense, of course, that would never happen, but a happy-ever-after with her husband and sister living in the house in Brookside Gardens, with Peter back working for the Borough Police and Charlotte continuing her education. She might even be able to convince Lily to go legit. Rosie laughed at herself as she pulled open the main doors of the offices. As if that would ever happen. Lily and legit just didn’t go together.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she reached the door to the open-plan office and yanked it open. A dozen faces looked up momentarily to see who it was before their attention returned to their typewriters or comptometers. There was a skeleton staff as it was Saturday and New Year’s Day at that.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ Marie-Anne called out as soon as she saw Rosie. She got up from her desk and hurried over.

  ‘Happy New Year to you too,’ Rosie smiled.

  ‘Thanks,’ Marie-Anne said, her face suddenly becoming sombre, ‘but I have to admit, I’m going to miss Bel terribly … I’m already missing her and it’s barely been a week.’

  Rosie smiled again. She knew Marie-Anne had loved having Bel as her second in command. The two had got on well.

  ‘And she’s going to be hard to replace – that’s if I get a replacement.’ Marie-Anne pushed back a stray curl of her unruly ginger hair and looked over to the manager’s officer. ‘Are you here to see Miss Crawford?’

  Rosie nodded and Marie-Anne walked her over to the small office, knocked and opened the door.

  ‘Mrs Miller to see you, Miss Crawford,’ Marie-Anne said in her best King’s English, just a hint of an Irish accent sneaking through.

  ‘Ah, Rosie.’ Helen waved her in. ‘Perfectly timed. Marie-Anne has just made a pot of tea.’

  ‘Ask if you need anything else,’ Marie-Anne said as she made to leave, jumping as Winston, the office tomcat, shot past her.

  ‘I will,’ Helen said, reaching down to stroke the cat, now rubbing up against her legs and purring loudly. ‘And Marie-Anne – I just wanted to say thank you for all your hard work. I do appreciate it, you know.’

  Marie-Anne’s pale, freckled face lit up; she was beaming as she shut the door.

  Rosie gave Helen a sceptical look. ‘I take it you’re not replacing Bel, then?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘Am I that readable?’

  Rosie didn’t say anything but just smiled. She had known Helen from first starting at the yard. They’d both risen through the ranks in their areas of expertise. Rosie through skill and hard work, Helen also through hard work and long hours, but helped along by a good dollop of nepotism and a nature that could be both wily and a little ruthless.

  ‘I’ll make it up to her,’ Helen defended herself. ‘A promotion, title and a small pay rise.’

  Rosie sat down in the chair in front of Helen’s desk.

  ‘You got everyone to work through their lunch break?’ Rosie asked, surprised.

  ‘No, no, I’m not that much of a slave-driver, although I’m sure Marie-Anne would argue the case. I’m letting everyone go at one o’clock. It is New Year’s Day, after all.’ Helen fished around for her packet of Pall Malls. ‘So, tell me, how’s things?’

  ‘All good, thanks,’ Rosie said. ‘My squad told me to wish you a Happy New Year.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Helen said, lighting up a cigarette. ‘I think I’ve finally been forgiven for all my past misdemeanours, of which there are many.’

  Rosie laughed, thinking of the old Helen, the one who had tried unsuccessfully to split up Polly and Tommy, and failing, had then tried to split up Rosie’s squad of women welders. There had been a lot of water under the bridge since then and Helen had more than proved her worth by saving Gloria from her violent ex-husband, Vinnie, after he’d attacked her in the yard, and later when she and Martha had pulled Gloria and Hope from a collapsing building during the Tatham Street bombing.

  A little frostiness had returned to the women’s relationship with Helen when they had found out she had been the one to tell Miriam about Gloria’s affair with Jack and about Hope, but that had completely thawed after recent events. Any resentments towards Helen that the women might have still been hanging on to had been well and truly severed after hearing how Helen had helped Bel by giving her the private eye’s report on her grandfather.

  Helen and the women welders were now firmly bonded. They all now knew the truth about Bel’s true paternity and the real reason Charles Havelock’s wife was in the asylum. Just as they all knew that the truth must never get out. Henrietta was the axe over Mr Havelock’s head, but it would only remain there for as long as Henrietta was a closely guarded secret. The women were well aware of the importance of keeping shtum, even Dorothy.

  ‘So,’ Rosie chose her words carefully, ‘is everything all right at your end? No repercussions from your grandfather – or your mother?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Helen said, taking a deep drag. ‘Mother’s done a bunk and gone to stay with my aunty Margaret and uncle Angus up in Scotland. I’ve not spoken to Grandfather since, but I know there will be repercussions of some sort. Perhaps not immediately, but sometime in the future.’ She blew out a long stream of smoke, thinking of her grandfather and his obsession with winning at all costs. ‘But when that time comes, I’ll deal with it.’

  ‘And Jack?’ Rosie asked. ‘Gloria said he’s got back his old job at Crown’s.’

  ‘Yes, he has.’ Helen’s face brightened, as it always did nowadays when her father was mentioned. ‘He went straight round there on Boxing Day and saw the MD, who couldn’t get him started quick enough by all accounts.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ Rosie said. She’d always had a soft spot for Jack since he’d stuck his neck out for her and given her a job after her parents had died.

  ‘And the twins are settling in?’ Helen asked, making a mental note to ask Dr Billingham to pop round and give them a once-over. Dr Billingham was the obstetrician who had helped Polly when she had nearly lost her baby.

  Rosie laughed. ‘According to Glor
ia after she dropped Hope off this morning, there’s absolutely nothing whatsoever wrong with their lungs.’

  Helen chuckled. She had popped in to see Gabrielle and Stephen at the Elliots’ a couple of days after Bel and Joe had brought them back from the orphanage on Boxing Day. She had become close to Bel since she’d learnt the truth about her grandfather; it was a closeness that they were both keen on maintaining. On top of which, they were family: Bel was her aunty, which made the twins her cousins.

  ‘I’ve a sneaking suspicion that much as Polly loves her new little niece and nephew, they have also contributed to her urgent need to get back to work.’ Rosie chuckled.

  ‘And Pearl? Has she set a date?’ Helen asked. They had all been a little taken aback to learn that Bill Lawson, landlord of the Tatham Arms, had proposed to Pearl on Christmas Day – and that Bel’s errant ma had said yes.

  Rosie shook her head. ‘Apparently she won’t get married in the winter. It being her least favourite time of year.’

  ‘I think we’d all agree with that,’ Helen said, looking out at the dark afternoon skies threatening rain.

  They were quiet for a moment. Helen would have loved to have taken the opportunity to bring Lily into the conversation – to ask Rosie about her connection to the woman Helen now knew to be a madam. But despite the urge, it just didn’t feel appropriate.

  ‘So,’ Helen said instead, ‘let me fill you in with the latest wish list from the Ministry of War Transport.’

  Rosie felt herself relax. She had wondered if Helen would ask her about Lily’s; she must be curious about her connection to the bordello. She’d prepared an explanation – a lie – but didn’t want to use it unless forced to.

  ‘Why does the sound of a wish list make me nervous?’ Rosie said.

  Helen let out light laughter. ‘Because you know as well as I do that it means hard graft, lots of overtime and nigh-on impossible deadlines.

  ‘Go on,’ Rosie said, ‘tell me the worst.’

  ‘Well,’ Helen said, opening up a green hardback ledger lying on her desktop, ‘we’ve got to get Empire Pitt down the ways as fast as humanly possible.’

  Rosie groaned. The cargo ship had a way to go before she was ready for launch.

  ‘I’m going to get everyone working on her,’ Helen said, looking up at Rosie. ‘So, can you spread the word that overtime is expected?’

  ‘For those who can,’ Rosie added, thinking of Polly.

  ‘Of course,’ Helen countered.

  ‘Is there a particular reason the Ministry of War Transport want her ready so quickly?’ Rosie asked, sensing there was more to this than the usual need to increase Britain’s shipping capacity in order to offset those lost to German U-boats.

  ‘There is,’ Helen said, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘It looks like we’re going to be concentrating on producing LCTs for the next five to six months.’

  Rosie looked surprised. LCTs – Royal Navy landing craft tanks – were not usually vessels they were asked to build.

  Helen caught her look.

  ‘For the anticipated invasion of France,’ she said simply. ‘They need as many as they can get their hands on. All the yards here are being asked to knock them out. The Yanks are mass-producing them as well.

  ‘Ahh,’ Rosie said. She had read about what the papers were calling the planned assault on Fortress Europe. ‘Of course, it makes sense. They need to get troops and tanks onto the beaches.’

  Helen looked at her watch. ‘But we can chat about it in more detail later. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rosie said. She felt momentarily disorientated. Any mention of France always knocked her for six.

  Helen picked up her handbag. ‘I’ll follow you out. My presence is needed at Doxford’s.’

  Rosie snapped herself back into the here and now and turned to leave.

  ‘Say hello to Matthew from all of us,’ she said as they walked out of the office.

  ‘I will,’ Helen sighed.

  Chapter Four

  RAF Tempsford, Bedfordshire

  Tuesday 4 January

  ‘At ease,’ Toby said, looking at the roomful of men and women whose eyes were all trained on him. He strode to the brand-new blackboard at the front of the ops room. As he did so he was aware of some of the younger women watching him with particular interest. He knew he cut a fine figure in his army uniform and his rank always gave him an extra edge with the opposite sex. Reaching the blackboard, he picked up a stick of chalk. There were certainly some lookers in the room. There was a time when he would have earmarked at least one of them for a date, but not now that he had Dorothy. The moment he had first clapped eyes on her at Lily’s, he’d fallen for her. Well and truly.

  ‘We are here today,’ Toby said, his voice commanding and serious, ‘to be a part of one of the most important special operations of this war.’ Toby knew how to inspire those under his command so that they gave it their all, making them feel that what they were doing was just as important as being out in the field. ‘The purpose of the work you will begin today, and will most likely continue to do over the next six months or more, is to enable the successful delivery of military supplies, and the parachuting of weapons and equipment to resistance groups in enemy-occupied countries. Namely, France, Denmark, Norway, Belgium and Holland.’ He paused. ‘There will also be times when personnel – specialised agents conversant in transmissions, demolition or armaments – will be dropped into the field and occasions when they will be brought back.’

  Toby looked at the military personnel and civilian workers standing, listening intently to every word he spoke. He smiled. ‘You can all sit down.’

  He waited until chairs had been scraped back and the room was once again quiet.

  ‘This operation that you are now all a part of is called …’ he turned and started scrawling on the blackboard before facing his audience again and pointing at what he had just written ‘… Operation Carpetbagger.’

  He waited a beat before continuing. ‘It will be written about in years to come. It will be a success. And it will be a success because of people like you, working day in, day out, often throughout the night. Everyone in this room will be an important cog in the wheel that takes us to victory.’

  You could hear a pin drop – the swell of patriotism was all-pervading.

  Half an hour later the room was abuzz with activity. There was a huge pinboard detailing the various categories of supplies, which ranged from sewing kits and bikes to grenades and guns, and where exactly they were to be dropped. Looking down at his watch, Toby left his sergeant, who had been transferred down south with him, in charge. He spoke with a broad Scottish accent and was a natural-born leader.

  Walking out of the ops room, Toby headed along the corridor and into the deputy group commander’s room. As soon as he walked through the door, he was greeted by a lower-ranking officer who quickly introduced himself as Officer Kayle and took him over to a huge operational map covering the back wall of the office.

  ‘One inch equates to ten miles,’ he explained. ‘As you can see, topographical features such as elevations, rivers and forests are clearly marked out.’ He tapped the map with a long wooden ruler. ‘Any areas where Special Operations flights are prohibited are clearly indicated.’ Another tap.

  ‘Anything from London?’ Toby asked. He’d been informed on arrival that the base was to expect communications via a scrambler phone direct from Air Operations headquarters in the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), an American intelligence agency based in London.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Officer Kayle stood up straight. ‘S2 has just been given a list of approved targets.’ Toby knew S2 to mean the intelligence officer based on-site.

  ‘Good stuff,’ Toby said as Officer Kayle took him over to a nearby desk and showed him the list of target drops, which were designated by names and numbers – everything was coded: ‘Joes’ were agents and ‘nickels’ referred to bundles of propaganda leaflets.

  Tob
y saw that there were a series of planned drops over Caen, in northern France. It was where Peter’s unit of men were presently positioned. Talk about being in the middle of a nest of vipers. Toby often wished he could have been an undercover operative like Peter, but his French, although good, was not good enough. Looking at what was planned over the next few months, and the danger that men like Peter, working alongside the Resistance, would undoubtedly encounter, he had to admit that he was glad to be on this side of the water.

  Chapter Five

  Sunday 9 January

  ‘Jack! It’s grand to see yer!’ Agnes ushered him into the house, nearly tripping over the two dogs, Tramp and Pup, who were trying to beat her to greet the visitor.

  ‘Yer look well, very well,’ she said. ‘No Gloria and Hope?’

  ‘They won’t be long,’ Jack said, patting the two small dogs. ‘They just had to run a few chores first.’ He shook off his coat.

  ‘Here, give it to me,’ Agnes said, not giving Jack any option. ‘I’ll stick it by the range, see if we can’t get it dry.’

  Jack smiled. It had been two years since he had seen Agnes. Her Irish brogue seemed more pronounced and her hair greyer, like his own, but other than that she hadn’t changed a bit.

  ‘We can’t say enough how wonderful it is to have yer back,’ Agnes said, pushing him down the hallway. The dogs scampered ahead excitedly. ‘And Gloria – well, I’ve never seen her so happy in all the time I’ve known her.’ They both walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, Jack!’ Bel’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘How lovely to see you!’

  ‘And you too,’ Jack said, looking at the two small babies nestled in Bel’s arms. ‘Glor told us about the bairns.’ He leant forward to get a good look at their scrunched-up faces. ‘Bonny, eh?’

  Bel laughed. ‘I think so, but of course, I’m prejudiced.’ She got up and put the twins in their Moses basket by the side of the range, praying they didn’t wake up.