by Nancy Revell
Rosie looked at Gloria, who was pulling on her gloves and stamping her feet on the ground. They’d all been talking about her dilemma as to whether or not she should write to Bobby and Gordon to tell them about Jack and Hope. There was a general consensus that she should tell them; Dorothy had even offered to help her write the letter.
Observing the rest of her squad, Rosie could tell that they were tired, their pale faces still visible through the black smears of soot and dirt.
‘I’m freezing,’ Dorothy moaned, wrapping her winter coat around herself tightly as the rest of the women welders shuffled about, trying to keep warm by the side of the slipway. ‘We should have stayed in the canteen for longer.’
‘If we had, we wouldn’t have got prime position for the launch.’ Angie argued the point a little half-heartedly; she was also chilled to the bone.
‘I thought you wanted to support Marie-Anne,’ Gloria said, tightening her headscarf, which was fluttering about in the wind.
‘We do.’ Dorothy and Angie spoke in unison as they linked arms.
‘I still can’t believe Marie-Anne is launching a ship,’ Martha said, looking up at the towering bow of the cargo vessel. She was standing behind the women, so as not to block their view and to provide a buffer against any pushing and shoving from the throng of shipyard workers gathering behind them.
‘It’s something new they’ve started to do,’ Dorothy informed them. ‘A typist launched a collier at Austin’s on Tuesday.’
Hannah and Olly arrived, squeezing their way through and catching the tail end of the conversation.
‘We heard they did a ballot and she got to smash the bottle,’ said Hannah.
‘Is that what happened with Marie-Anne?’ Martha looked at Rosie, who was standing to the side of the women. ‘Did she win the ballot?’
‘I believe she did,’ Rosie said, flicking a look across to Gloria. They had both agreed it seemed a coincidence that Marie-Anne had ‘won’ the ballot around the same time Helen had broken the news to her that she would not be replacing Bel.
‘Where’s Polly?’ Gloria asked. ‘I thought she left the canteen with us.’
‘She nipped to see Marie-Anne. Bel asked her to say that she was sorry she couldn’t come, but to wish her luck.’
‘Here she is,’ Martha said, looking over her shoulder and seeing her workmate weaving her way through the sea of flat caps.
‘Made it!’ Polly said breathlessly, taking her spot beside Rosie.
‘Is Marie-Anne all right?’ Dorothy asked.
Polly chuckled. ‘She seemed a bit jittery.’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ Angie gasped. ‘Standin’ in front of this lot, swinging a bottle of champagne. I’d be terrified it didn’t smash.’
‘That seemed to be her main concern too,’ Polly said. ‘She’s been told to really give it a good whack.’
Everyone knew that if the bottle didn’t smash, it was a bad omen and the ship would be cursed. It was a suspicion dating back to when ships were made of wood and sail.
Now more than ever these ships made of steel needed every bit of luck they could get.
‘You nervous?’ Helen asked Marie-Anne as they left the warmth of the offices and walked across the yard towards the little platform that had been erected at the top of the slipway.
‘A little,’ Marie-Anne admitted.
‘Enjoy it – and feel proud,’ Helen said. ‘You’re a working-class girl done good. You deserve the honour as much as anyone.’
Marie-Anne was taken aback. She knew Helen was being extra nice to her because she wasn’t getting another clerical assistant to replace Bel, but it didn’t matter, she’d take any compliments she could get.
‘Is that my favourite granddaughter?’
Helen could feel herself stiffen, and it wasn’t the cold weather.
‘Grandfather!’ She stopped in her tracks and turned around, forcing a smile on her face as she greeted the man she despised. She was irked to see him in such rude health. He looked positively dapper. Underneath his grey woollen winter coat, he had on his best navy blue Savile Row suit with matching tie, a starched white handkerchief poking out of his top pocket. The ornate walking stick he was swinging forward and stabbing into the ground as he walked towards her proved to Helen that it was not really needed and that his moans and groans about his physical health were overblown. He did not look nearly eighty years of age. He was opening his arms to embrace his granddaughter when Helen spotted Matthew running across the yard to catch them up.
‘Ah, Matthew,’ she turned, rebuffing her grandfather’s embrace and raising her hand to wave. ‘Glad you made it.’
Mr Havelock hid his ire at having been stonewalled by his granddaughter.
‘Apologies for my tardiness,’ Matthew said, breathlessly. He smiled at Helen, Mr Havelock and a nervous-looking Marie-Anne.
‘Ah, Royce Junior!’ Mr Havelock put his hand out to Matthew. ‘Good to see you. How’s your father?’
The two men shook hands.
‘He’s well. Taking it easy these days.’ Matthew’s father had suffered a stroke and had handed the reins over to his son. ‘Miriam not here today?’ he asked. It seemed unusual to see Mr Havelock without Helen’s mother by his side.
‘Not today, old boy. She’s having a break up north. Gone to stay with her sister Margaret and that son-in-law of mine on their country estate near Loch Lomond.’
‘Ah.’ Matthew nodded, although he couldn’t think why anyone would want to have a break in the wilds of Scotland in January. Strange that Helen hadn’t mentioned it. Not that she was particularly forthcoming about her family life.
‘Come on, let’s get this done before everyone freezes to death,’ said Helen.
Mr Havelock stuck close to his granddaughter’s side, forcing Matthew and Marie-Anne to walk behind.
‘I didn’t expect you to be here,’ Helen said, glancing at her grandfather. ‘I heard you were at the launch of HMS Nunnery Castle at Pickersgill’s on Wednesday.’
Helen had not seen her grandfather since Christmas Day, but she kept her ear to the ground and knew exactly what he was up to. He’d been keeping a low profile. Until now.
‘Nothing escapes your notice,’ said Mr Havelock.
‘Not like you to attend the launch of a lowly merchant cargo vessel?’ Helen probed.
‘Every ship counts,’ he said, waving at Harold, the shipyard’s manager, who was waiting with Basil, the head draughtsman, on the makeshift platform. ‘Merchant Navy or Royal Navy – they’re all in it together. All equally important.’
Helen looked at her grandfather. Why was he really here? She didn’t trust him one bit.
‘Couldn’t agree more, Mr Havelock,’ Matthew said, having manoeuvred himself so that he was back at Helen’s side. ‘Especially after hearing about SS Fort Buckingham.’ The merchant vessel had been torpedoed and had sunk in the Indian Ocean a few miles off the Maldives. Thirty-eight of the crew had perished, including a twenty-one-year-old gunner from the Southwick area of town.
They walked in silence for a moment.
As they neared the small gaggle of bigwigs by the ship’s bow, Helen turned to her grandfather.
‘There’ll be no celebrations afterwards,’ she lied. She had just sent one of the office juniors out to fetch cakes from the local bakery up the road in Monkwearmouth. This was the first time a ship had been christened by a female worker from the yard. They would mark the occasion.
‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ Mr Havelock said. ‘I know there’s work to do – a war to be won and all that. I’ll be on my way as soon as the old gal’s gone down the ways.’ He looked at Matthew. ‘I might even pop in and see Royce senior, if you think he’s up to it?’
‘Of course,’ Matthew said, full of enthusiasm. ‘He’ll be over the moon. He misses the cut and thrust of work – and the company – not that he would admit it.’
‘Splendid,’ Mr Havelock said, slapping Matthew on the back. ‘Splendid.’
H
elen looked at her grandfather. He’d never had a good word to say about Matthew’s father in the past. Why did she feel that he was ingratiating himself with Mr Royce senior because she was chummy with Matthew? Was he trying to wheedle his way into her life? Was it a subtle way of saying he could spill the beans on Helen’s tawdry past to any potential beau – or potential beau’s family? Her grandfather knew all about Theodore, her pregnancy and ensuing miscarriage – enough to make most suitors run a mile. Well, he was barking up the wrong tree if he thought she was interested in Matthew. The man she really loved already knew all about her past.
‘Oh. My. God,’ said Dorothy, trying to keep her voice low but not so low that her workmates couldn’t hear. ‘Look who’s with Helen and Marie-Anne.’
The women all looked to see a smartly dressed Charles Havelock swinging his walking stick with gusto as he crossed the yard with Helen by his side. Behind them was Matthew Royce, looking as dashing as always, and an apprehensive Marie-Anne.
‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Gloria. Helen would have mentioned it to her if she’d known he was showing his face today. She had been anxious about seeing her grandfather; unlike Bel, she couldn’t simply cut him out of her life and ignore him. People would talk. It would draw attention to the family. Helen had wondered if the best course of action would be to treat him as though nothing had happened, which by the looks of it, she was having to do now, whether she wanted to or not. Her decision had been made for her.
‘Has the man no shame?’ Hannah said quietly, but not so quietly that they could not hear. It disturbed her greatly that his wife was imprisoned in the Ryhope mental hospital.
‘Men like that don’t feel shame,’ Rosie said. When Bel had told them how Mr Havelock had raped her ma and that she had been the result, Rosie had been catapulted back to her own past; to her own rape at the hands of her uncle Raymond. Seeing Mr Havelock for the first time since she’d learnt what a monster he was, she felt the anger swell up inside her. His presence at the launch had somehow defiled the occasion.
‘I didn’t think he and Helen got on now …’ Martha hesitated ‘… since Christmas Day.’ She too had been shocked by what she’d learnt. It had frustrated her that yet again the truth about her birth mother being a child killer was being used as a chip to stop the truth from coming out. It had been bad enough when Miriam had used it to send Jack to the Clyde, but for it to be used now to enable one of the town’s VIPs to get away with rape and imprisoning his wife, that angered her – a lot.
‘They don’t,’ Gloria said. ‘I think this is his way of saying to us all that he might have been knocked down, but not out.’
‘There’s nothing he can do, though, is there?’ Angie asked. Just looking at the old man made her skin crawl. She hated that her mam having a bit on the side had given him power. Even more power than he already had.
‘Bastard,’ Dorothy mumbled under her breath so that only Angie could hear. She still wasn’t sure what would happen if the law found out her mother had committed bigamy.
Polly didn’t say anything, simply observed as Mr Havelock chatted and smiled and shook hands. Thank goodness Bel had decided not to come to the launch. She hadn’t said as much, but Polly knew it was unlikely her sister-in-law would ever go to another again; certainly not if there was the remotest chance that Mr Havelock or Miriam would be there. She had told Polly that from this point forward she would not let any of their toxicity near her or her family – her new, extended family.
Looking at Helen as she walked onto the platform and was greeted by Harold, Polly thought she would bet her boots that Helen would have loved to do the same – simply erase her grandfather from her life. But today had proved that was simply not a possibility. That man would be a bane in her life – in all their lives – for as long as he lived.
Still, she reassured herself, Bel and Pearl had won the day. They’d got Jack back, and providing Henrietta’s secret was never revealed, the women’s secrets would also remain intact.
The women watched as Marie-Anne put on a long protective glove that looked rather like the ones they used for welding, only cleaner. She then smiled nervously as Harold passed her the bottle of champagne, which was dangling from a rope and had been covered in a loose netting so as to prevent any broken glass from going flying. Taking a deep breath, she pulled her arm right back, as though she were about to throw a javelin, and with all her strength hurled the bottle at the bow.
It smashed instantly, covering Marie-Anne and Harold, who was the nearest to her, with a spray of champagne.
There was a huge cheer and Marie-Anne looked over to the women welders and beamed from ear to ear – a smile of unadulterated relief.
They all shouted out ‘Hurrah!’ and waved back to Marie-Anne as the Empire Pitt slid majestically down the ways, huge chains unravelling behind her until she hit the water, at which point the chains became taut to prevent her from hitting the docks on the south side. Flat caps were thrown in the air, and the yard was filled with the sounds of cheers, whistles and the blowing of horns. Another ship had been born on the Wear.
Chapter Eight
One week later
Friday 4 February
Rosie, Dorothy, Angie and M1artha were standing around their five-gallon barrel fire.
Rosie looked around the yard at the various squads of platers, riveters, caulkers and general labourers, then up at the yard clock, just about visible through the dirt and grime. It was only a few minutes to go until the klaxon sounded out the start of the morning shift.
‘It’s not like Gloria and Polly to be late.’ Martha said what Rosie was thinking.
‘They might have got held up with Hope – or baby Artie,’ said Angie.
‘Or the twins,’ Dorothy said. ‘They’ve probably spent too much time fussing over them and made themselves late. They’re so gorgeous, you can’t help it.’
‘That’s if they’re not screaming their lungs off,’ Angie said. The twins could be the most perfect babies one minute, all sweetness and light, smiles and gurgles, the next minute the worst, screeching and shrieking with all their might.
‘Yeah,’ Martha chuckled, showing her gapped front teeth, ‘they’re worse than any air raid siren, that’s for sure.’
‘Is that why yer never give them a cuddle?’ Angie asked.
‘I’m always frightened I’ll hold them the wrong way and hurt them,’ Martha confessed.
‘I think babies are pretty robust,’ Rosie reassured her, thinking that Martha herself was a prime example, her birth mother having tried to poison her.
‘Yeah, providing you don’t drop them on their head,’ said Angie.
‘Like your mam did with you,’ quipped Dorothy.
Angie was just about to bat back a reply when Gloria and Polly came hurrying through the main gates, quickly grabbing their clocking-on cards from Davey, the young timekeeper, and breaking into a jog to make it over to their workplace by the quayside.
‘Glor doesn’t look too happy,’ said Dorothy.
‘She doesn’t, does she,’ Angie agreed.
‘I hope nothing’s wrong,’ Martha worried.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Rosie as soon as they were within earshot.
Polly’s face looked grim.
‘Yes ’n no,’ Gloria said, puffing as she reached them and dropping her haversack on the ground. ‘It’s my Bobby. He’s been injured.’
‘Oh my God!’ Dorothy said, going over to her friend.
Even though none of the women had ever met Gloria’s sons, they all felt as though they knew them, especially as Gloria often brought their letters and postcards to work and read them out. The loud blare of the yard’s horn suddenly sounded out, making any more talk impossible as the noise of the shipyard instantly started up.
‘You all right to work?’ Rosie shouted into Gloria’s ear as a nearby worker turned on his pneumatic drill.
Gloria nodded.
‘Bobby’ll be fine,’ she shouted back, more to c
onvince herself than anyone else.
At half-past ten Rosie made the sign of a T and they all downed tools. Seeing her grab her haversack, they all did the same, following her across the main deck of the ship they’d been welding, to the tip of the bow. It was far enough away from the other workers, most of whom had also stopped for a break, to allow a modicum of conversation.
‘So, what’s happened?’ Rosie said as they all sat down with their backs to the railings.
Thankfully, the wind had dropped and the temperature had risen to just about bearable.
‘He’s suffered some kind of head injury,’ Gloria said, her face full of concern.
Dorothy made a gasping sound and was instantly glowered at by the rest of the women.
‘But he’s not too bad from what I can tell.’ Gloria forced a smile and looked at Dorothy. ‘He’s not been made a vegetable or anything. He managed to write to me, which says a lot.’ Gloria fished around in her bag and pulled out his letter.
‘His writing looks a bit ropy,’ Dorothy said, looking over her shoulder.
‘That’s because he’s out at sea,’ Martha said.
‘Yeah,’ Angie laughed out loud, ‘yer writing would be ropy if yer were having to write while yer ship was gannin up and down like a bleedin’ seesaw.’
Polly looked at Rosie and rolled her eyes.
‘So, what exactly does he say?’ Polly asked as Rosie handed Gloria a cup of tea from her flask.
‘Thanks,’ Gloria said, taking a sip.
‘Give her one of yer mam’s flapjacks,’ Angie commanded Martha. ‘She needs sugar. She’s had a shock.’
Martha did as she was told, offering them around, as Angie had hoped.
‘So, come on, what does it say?’ Dorothy said impatiently, her eyes darting down to the page. Bobby’s writing was small and spidery, making it impossible for Dorothy to read from where she was sitting.
