The Shipyard Girls on the Home Front

by Nancy Revell

  Bobby clenched his fists. If his father were here now, he’d knock the living daylights out of him.

  Dorothy saw the change in Bobby’s face; her eyes dropped down to his balled fists.

  ‘I know, it makes me so mad even now just thinking about it,’ she empathised.

  ‘That must have been shortly before he signed up for the navy?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Yeah – signed up with one hand holding a pen, the other behind his back.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, Rosie’s husband, well, he wasn’t her husband then, but anyway, he sorted it out.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I don’t know the exact details.’ Dorothy dropped her voice even though there was no one else around to hear. ‘But at the time he was working for the Borough Police – and let’s just say, he went to see Vinnie in the cells and the next thing we knew, your dad was getting on a train to Portsmouth not only having signed up, but having also signed his divorce papers.’

  Bobby’s eyes widened. ‘Where’s this Peter now? I think I’d like to shake his hand and buy him a drink.’

  ‘He’s not here any more.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘No, God, I hope not – for Rosie’s sake. No, he’s somewhere – but no one’s meant to know where. I shouldn’t really even be saying anything at all – you know what they say, “Careless talk costs lives”.’

  ‘I understand,’ Bobby said.

  ‘But let’s just say his mother was French,’ Dorothy said conspiratorially.

  Bobby nodded. Now he understood why he’d not heard much mention of Peter, and why Rosie had been pushing everyone extra hard of late.

  ‘It’s not been all doom and gloom, though,’ said Dorothy. ‘There’s been two good things – no, three good things that’s happened to your mam since you and Gordon left home.’

  ‘Go on.’ Bobby finished his lemonade and put his glass down by his side.

  ‘First off, she came to work at Thompson’s and secondly, she met me and the rest of the squad.’

  Bobby smiled. ‘Big-headedness is not an attractive quality in a woman.’

  Dorothy ignored him. ‘And thirdly, she was reunited with Jack—’

  ‘What do you mean, “reunited”?’ Bobby asked.

  Dorothy rolled her eyes to the still, blue skies above. ‘Don’t you know anything?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ said Bobby, putting his hands behind him and leaning back. ‘Tell me more.’

  Dorothy had to twist around a little to look at him. She felt the sun on the side of her face and allowed herself to relax. For an insane moment she had a sudden urge to lay her head on his broad chest.

  ‘Jack and your mam …’ Dorothy forced herself to concentrate ‘… used to be love’s young dream, before manipulative Miriam came along.’

  Bobby angled his head slightly to the left to hear better, but also to take in the entire enticing vision of the storyteller. He watched as Dorothy turned and crossed her legs so that she was facing him, and he listened as she related to him the story of how Gloria and Jack were ‘star-crossed lovers’ who had been parted as childhood sweethearts, but finally reunited after being separated for decades.

  Bobby knew that Dorothy was giving the tale plenty of topspin, and it was also clear she was determined that his mam’s love story, like the movies he knew she liked to go and see, would have a happy ending.

  ‘It really is Shakespearean,’ Dorothy said, enjoying telling her tale with full theatrics, even if she did only have an audience of one. ‘When Jack finally makes the journey home from America – over the moon that he is finally returning to the woman he loves – and is about to learn that he has a newly born baby daughter, the ship he’s travelling on is torpedoed and he nearly ends up dead at the bottom of the ocean.’

  Bobby’s eyes kept straying to Dorothy’s mouth, making him wonder what it would be like to kiss her.

  ‘Amazingly, he’s rescued and survives,’ Dorothy continued, her eyes widening. ‘But he falls into a coma, and for weeks on end it’s touch and go – until one day he wakes up.’ Dorothy raised her arms into the sky as though praising the gods above. ‘He is alive and well. Apart from one major hiccup – he can’t remember a thing! And so he ends up going back to live with Miriam!’

  Bobby had heard bits and pieces about Jack from Jimmy and some of the other workers. He had a reputation as a fair manager, a decent bloke, who’d been part of Churchill’s British shipbuilding mission to the United States and had been instrumental in educating the Americans on how to mass-produce the more efficient and economic Liberty ships. Bobby had listened carefully to what people had to say – and the way they had said it – and no one, as far as he could tell, had a bad word to say about his mam’s new bloke. Bobby, though, was still wary. His own father had put on a good act outside the home. There were plenty of people who thought Vinnie was a decent chap – he was a veteran of the First War, no less – but it’d been a very different story behind closed doors.

  ‘If Jack’s such an all-round Mr Nice Guy,’ Bobby said, ‘why is it he’s not divorced from his wife?’ He eyed Dorothy. ‘Nothing to do with the fact she’s loaded to the hilt, is it? And he doesn’t want to go back to a life of poverty?’

  ‘Oh, Bobby, you really have no idea – no idea at all.’ Dorothy’s laugh was deep and held no mirth. ‘The reason Jack’s still tied to that vile woman is the same reason he’s been stuck on the Clyde for two whole years, unable to come back and see his own daughter and the woman he loves.’

  Bobby frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the point I’ve been trying to get you to understand since you turned up.’ Dorothy felt a hint of victory. ‘There’s a lot you don’t understand.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  Dorothy felt herself deflate. ‘I can’t.’ She put her hair behind her ears. ‘All I can tell you is that Jack and Gloria did not see each other once over those two years because of what might happen to some people they care about.’

  Bobby rubbed his hand across the top of his head, a habit Dorothy had noticed he did when he felt flummoxed or agitated.

  ‘I know it’s confusing, but I can’t tell you any more because, well, I just can’t – I’m sworn to secrecy.’

  Bobby sat up straight, brushing his hands free of dirt and putting on a look of disbelief at the idea that Dorothy could keep a secret.

  ‘But what I can say is that Gloria’s had to cope with a lot on her own,’ she added.

  ‘She had you lot,’ Bobby said.

  ‘That’s nice of you to say,’ Dorothy said with sincerity. ‘We all try and be there for each other. But it proves the point that I’ve been trying to make since you came back: your mam’s a lovely, kind-hearted person who’s made sacrifices for the well-being of others – has put her own love on hold so that people she knows and cares about don’t suffer.’

  Bobby didn’t say anything but looked out across the Wear to the south docks, his face serious and pensive. Dorothy wanted to ask what he was thinking, but something told her he wouldn’t tell her even if she did. She finished the rest of her lemonade and got up. ‘I have to use the pub’s facilities.’

  Bobby stood up, slid his arms back into the top of his overalls, picked up his empty glass and took Dorothy’s off her. ‘OK, I’ll pop these back and you can continue filling me in about all the things I don’t know on the way back home.’

  Dorothy didn’t need any encouragement and chatted away quite happily as they got the ferry back over to the south side. She took particular pleasure in relating Hope’s birth to Bobby and how it had really been her and Angie who had been the stand-in midwives, although she had forced Angie to cut the cord. Bobby chuckled away, again a little unsure about how much of the story was exaggeration and how much true. ‘And that’s how I earned my stripes as Hope’s godmother,’ she said.

  As they walked up Low Street, Dorothy relayed the drama of Hope’s christening, when Jack had turned
up with Arthur, Tommy’s grandfather. Bobby knew who he was as Polly and Agnes often mentioned him.

  ‘They were both dripping wet, and poor Arthur looked like he was going to breathe his last,’ Dorothy said. ‘But when Jack walked to the font and took Hope in his arms, it was like father and daughter were mesmerised by each other. It felt really special.’

  For a while, they walked down Norfolk Street in comfortable silence. Dorothy had enjoyed her storytelling and Bobby had enjoyed listening.

  ‘Just out of interest,’ she said as they started down Foyle Street, ‘your tattoos?’ They crossed the road. ‘I know that the star means a sailor will always find his way home, and that an anchor is something to do with crossing the Atlantic, but I’m never sure about the swallows – something about distance sailed?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Bobby smiled. ‘Five thousand nautical miles … Do you know what the crossed cannons and the rose and dagger mean? They’re always the ones to confuse.’

  ‘I’m guessing they’re something to do with war or fighting?’ Dorothy said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bobby said. ‘The cannons represent military naval service. And the rose and dagger mean a sailor is loyal and willing to fight anything, even something as sweet and beautiful as a rose.’

  Dorothy didn’t say anything.

  ‘You haven’t been out with any sailors before?’ he asked, a cheeky glint in his eye.

  ‘Of course I have,’ Dorothy said in her best hoity-toity voice. She returned his look of mischievousness. ‘But I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing them with their tops off.’

  Bobby barked with laughter. ‘You’re certainly a rare one, Dorothy. I’ll give you that much.’

  By now they had reached the steps to the Georgian terraced house that had been converted into apartments. He caught the twitch of a curtain at the window of the ground-floor flat.

  ‘Thanks, Dorothy,’ he said, his tone genuine.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For everything you’ve told me.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to thank me,’ Dorothy said in all sincerity. ‘I didn’t do it for you – I did it for Gloria. She’s been like a mother to me – has been to all us women welders, actually.’

  Dorothy looked at Bobby and expected to see pride that his mother had been such a pillar of strength and support, as well as loving and caring, but she didn’t. Instead, she caught a look she’d seen before when they’d chatted about Gloria; it was a look she couldn’t read.

  ‘So, does that mean you’ll be all right with your mam now – and with Jack?’ Dorothy asked in earnest. ‘Now that you know everything?’

  ‘Oh, Dorothy.’ Bobby smiled as he sighed. ‘You are a one for a happy-ever-after ending, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dorothy said. ‘What other kind of ending would anyone want?’

  Bobby didn’t reply, but tipped an imaginary cap and watched as she let herself in the front door and waved him goodbye.

  ‘Dor! Where have you been? We were just starting to get worried about you, weren’t we, Mrs Kwiatkowski?’

  The old woman nodded as she headed over to put the kettle on, although as soon as she had seen Dorothy and the tall, strapping lad walking up the cobbles, she had known she was fine – more than fine.

  ‘And yer’ve missed Toby’s phone call!’ Angie said in disbelief.

  ‘Oh my God! I completely forgot,’ said Dorothy. ‘I just presumed I’d be back in time, but Bobby and I ended up having a lemonade and then I got all carried away telling him about Gloria and Jack and Hope – and everything that’s happened since we all started at the yard.’

  ‘Everything?’ Angie frowned, thinking of all the secrets it was imperative they kept.

  ‘No, not everything,’ Dorothy frowned back.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief at least,’ said Angie. ‘So, what about Toby? When yer gonna speak to him?’

  ‘Why don’t you call him back now?’ Mrs Kwiatkowski suggested.

  Dorothy fought back a wave of guilt that she had missed Toby’s phone call – and that it was because of another bloke.

  ‘You sure?’ Dorothy said, going over and hugging the old woman. ‘You’re the best. I’ll make it quick, and I’ll pay you back, of course.’

  ‘He sounded gutted when I said yer weren’t back from work,’ Angie said. ‘He tried to make a joke of it ’n said there must be something “dreadfully amiss if you and my girl have been apart for more than five minutes”.’ Angie had just about perfected what she called an ‘upper-crust accent’ due to the amount of time she spent chatting to Quentin.

  Dorothy laughed. ‘Sounds like Toby.’

  She walked over to the phone.

  ‘But it’s been worth it … It’s been a long haul, and boy oh boy is Bobby as stubborn as a mule, but I’ve broken him. Wait until I tell Toby that I’ve finally made him see sense. Shown him the error of his ways,’ Dorothy shouted over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sure Toby’s gonna be over the moon,’ Angie said, deadpan.

  Angie took Mrs Kwiatkowski’s arm as they both headed out of the kitchen to give Dorothy some privacy for her call to Toby.

  ‘He will be!’ Dorothy said, picking up the receiver and starting to dial.

  Angie and Mrs Kwiatkowski looked at each other, both shaking their heads. Neither of them needed to say what they were thinking.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  France

  Peter sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen of a large farmhouse, just outside Caen, that had been taken over by a small group of maquisards, a rural band of fighters in the French Resistance. The Tempest circuit, which Peter headed, had moved to the new base at the beginning of the year. He had managed to keep intact his circuit of a radio operator, whose job it was to intercept and decode messages, a liaison officer, who met with local resistance fighters, and a courier, who relayed messages and information. No mean feat, as many réseaux had been infiltrated and their members captured or killed: a treacherous situation, much like his former circuit White Light. Peter worried, though, that their luck was running out and prayed it would last just that little bit longer, as the next couple of months were going to be the most dangerous – as well as the most important – of their time behind enemy lines.

  That evening Peter had suggested to his men that now might be a good time to write letters to their loved ones in the event of their death. It was not widely known, but it was common practice in wartime for soldiers to write a ‘last letter’, especially before going into battle. The hope being that a final few words from a loved one might ease the burden of their loss, or at least gift them something to remember them by.

  For Peter and his circuit, there was no sugar-coating the issue. They were planning a number of clandestine operations, mainly the sabotage of primary targets, but also the reconnaissance of strategic areas, having been sent colour-coded messages from London. ‘Green’, ‘Black’, ‘Violet’ and ‘Blue’ were orders to derail French train tracks, blow up fuel depots and take out phone and power lines in the vicinity.

  Peter looked at his watch. It was gone eleven. He was glad he had the kitchen to himself. Arron, his radio operator, was in a small room at the back of the house waiting for a message from headquarters. Phillip, the courier, who had been on the move for the past two days, was already in bed, exhausted, having had very little sleep. And Francis, the liaison officer, was in his room, no doubt doing the same as Peter.

  Putting pen to paper, Peter consciously put all thoughts of war aside and instead focused on those of love – on what he wanted to say to the woman he adored – the words that might be his last to her.

  Taking a sip of strong French coffee, which he was now accustomed to drinking from a small bowl, he looked into the dying embers of the fire and pictured Rosie asleep in their bed. He looked at the blank sheet of paper. There was so much he wanted to ask her. What was she thinking? Feeling? How was Charlotte? Work? Lily’s? Toby had sent the occasional message when he could, simply rel
aying that Rosie was well – and at the end of last year he’d sent a brief, coded communication that Charlotte was back living at home. That must have opened up a can of worms. How he wished he’d been there to help Rosie. Had Charlie found out about her sister’s ‘other life’? About Lily’s? Her uncle Raymond? So many questions.

  He’d been told his identity would most likely be compromised after this latest operation, which meant that if he made it out alive, he was heading home. Suddenly, the thought of being with Rosie in the bed in which he had imagined her sleeping flashed across his mind’s eye; it was so real that he could almost feel their bodies next to each other, holding each other; he was breathing in her smell, feeling her blonde hair against his face. The last time they had been together they had made love; afterwards, neither had been able to sleep, their time together too precious.

  Peter looked at the blank sheet of paper again and as he let his mind wander, he imagined himself waking Rosie up, kissing her softly and talking to her. As he did so, he wrote exactly what he would say to her if she were, in fact, there, sitting up in their bed, looking at him and listening.

  He continued writing for the next hour, his make-believe world only broken once, when Arron came in and relayed a decoded message explaining that when the first three lines of Verlaine’s ‘Chanson d’automne’ were read out on Radio Londres, it meant that the invasion of the north coast would take place within two weeks. There had been rumours that the attack was to happen at Easter, in just over a week’s time, but those had been scorched, and now it seemed more than likely it would be May, possibly the beginning of June. No one knew for sure. Even those giving the orders weren’t a hundred percent. Much was dependent on the weather and the tides.

  By the time he had finished writing, Peter was missing Rosie more than he had ever done before. What he wouldn’t give to be with her now – especially if it was to be his last time. He refused to castigate himself for thinking such thoughts for he had to be practical and face up to the reality that he and his men might not make it back to their homeland. But if they didn’t, there was no doubt in his mind that the sacrifice would have been worth it, for the next few months would decide the fate of the war – and thereby, the fate of humanity.