The Shipyard Girls on the Home Front

by Nancy Revell

  Sergeant MacLeod nodded. ‘It is, sir. Reinforcements arrived this afternoon. Tanks from nearby Utah Beach.’

  ‘And they’ve checked for bodies?’

  ‘As much as they’ve been able to. The town’s got eighteen of their own to bury. Sounds like it’ll be a while before they’re able to clear the site.’

  Toby fought back his anger at the loss of more men – worse still, men he knew. He thought of Rosie. Pictured her face when he’d seen her last, unashamedly desperate to hear news of her husband.

  Toby pulled out his top drawer and retrieved his bottle of whisky, as well as the letter he had hoped he would never have to send.

  ‘Dorothy,’ Mrs Kwiatkowski shouted up the stairs. It had just gone six o’clock and she had heard Dorothy and Angie trudge up to their flat just a few minutes earlier.

  She waited a moment before shouting again, this time louder.

  ‘Dorothy!’

  She heard their door open and Dorothy appeared, still in her overalls.

  ‘Toby is on the phone,’ she told her.

  ‘Really? I’m not expecting a call from him,’ Dorothy said, stepping out of the flat.

  ‘Well, go and see what it’s about,’ Angie said, nudging her from behind.

  Dorothy hurried down the stairs. Mrs Kwiatkowski was glad to see she had taken her work boots off and was just in her socks. She moved to the side to let Dorothy pass.

  Dorothy heard Mrs Kwiatkowski ask Angie how her day at work had been and knew she would stand there chatting until her phone call with Toby was over. Walking over to the receiver, she picked it up. She was not one for premonitions, but she had an uneasy feeling that this was not going to be good news.

  Ten minutes later, Dorothy walked to the door to see that Angie was sitting with Mrs Kwiatkowski on the bottom step of the stairs that led up to their flat.

  Seeing Dorothy’s serious face, which looked unusually white, they both knew instinctively that something was wrong.

  ‘What is it?’ Angie asked.

  Mrs Kwiatkowski eased her arthritic body into a standing position.

  ‘Come on, let’s get a cup of tea,’ she said, squeezing Dorothy’s arm as they all walked back into her flat.

  ‘What is it, Dor?’ Angie asked again, although in truth she didn’t really want to know. She’d never seen such a look on her best mate’s face and knew this was serious. Really serious.

  Dorothy slumped into the chair by the kitchen table. Her eyes were bloodshot, and Angie could see the beginning of tears. Dorothy very rarely cried. When she did, they were generally crocodile tears. The ones starting to trickle down her face now were most definitely real.

  Angie sat down next to her.

  ‘It’s Peter,’ Dorothy said.

  Toby had told Dorothy that Peter had been officially declared ‘missing presumed dead’, which they all knew meant he was dead, only they didn’t have a body to prove it. Dorothy had asked him for more details, but Toby had apologised and said at this point in time they could not give any more information, but they believed Peter had been killed on the day of the invasion. He had told Dorothy that she could tell Rosie the news herself – with the support of the women around her – or he could do it through more conventional channels and send a telegram to her home. If he did that, though, Peter’s letter – his final letter to Rosie – would likely come later. Without hesitation, Dorothy said that the news should come from her squad – and that Peter’s letter might offer a minuscule drop of comfort. She knew her workmates would agree that Rosie should not be alone when she got the news, nor, indeed, hear it at this late hour.

  Just after ten o’clock, four hours after her phone call with Toby, there was a knock on the main front door to the flats. Dorothy and Angie hurried down the stairs to the hallway and opened the door to find a young uniformed soldier standing at the top of the stone steps. He saluted and handed over the two letters. They offered the soldier a cup of tea and a sandwich, which he politely refused. Dorothy and Angie were relieved. Neither of them were in the mood to make small talk. Angie told him to wait and quickly went up to their flat to wrap up the sandwich they had made in case he took them up on their offer.

  Going back up to their flat, Dorothy put the two letters on the tallboy. For once, Dorothy had not the slightest desire to sneak a peek – especially not at Peter’s letter. She thought her heart might break if she did. Toby had told her that most soldiers going into dangerous situations were advised to write letters to their loved ones in the event of their death. Some chose to. Some didn’t. Sadly, some didn’t have loved ones to write letters to. Dorothy didn’t know which was worse.

  Dorothy and Angie talked well into the early morning, recalling what they had all been doing the day Peter had died – how happy they had all been at work, and afterwards in the Admiral. They had all been so relieved. The day they had all been working towards, the day when the vessels they’d built and the landing craft they had pieced together so speedily had gone into battle. There had been an unmistakable sense of hope that the end of the war was in sight.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking cups of tea, Dorothy and Angie talked and talked, as if talking about it might make it better, but it didn’t. Angie had nearly started to cry when they recalled how positive Rosie had been. It had been infectious. She’d even convinced Gloria that Gordon would be fine – telling her that most of the attacks were on land and that it appeared as though there were plenty of smaller vessels in the Channel that could rescue those on Opportune should she take a blast and sink.

  Rosie had been acting as though she was privy to some inside information that Peter would be all right. That he was coming home.

  How wrong she had been.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Thursday 8 June

  As soon as Bobby saw Dorothy and Angie, he knew something was wrong. He always waited on the corner of High Street East so that he could catch the ferry with them – or rather, so that he could be in close proximity to Dorothy.

  He wondered if she was aware he purposely waited for her, or if she just presumed it was because they both left the house at the same time. Bobby knew his habit of waiting for them was a little pathetic, but he didn’t care. It gave him a chance to walk with Dorothy and chat as they made their way to work. Of course, it was always Angie he ended up talking to, despite Dorothy throwing her friend scowls of disapproval. Sometimes, though, Dorothy forgot she was angry at him and would join in the conversation. Dorothy, he had learnt, found it nigh-on impossible to keep shtum, no matter how much she purported to loathe him.

  Looking at Dorothy and Angie now, neither seemed to have had much sleep, both had dark bags under their eyes and their arms were linked firmly together, as though they needed each other’s support. Normally, he would have ribbed them about having had a night out on the tiles, but they did not look like two people who had been out painting the town red. Observing their wan faces caused him immediate concern.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked as he joined them walking towards Low Street.

  Dorothy threw him a hard stare. All her anger about Peter’s death suddenly had a target.

  Bobby looked at Angie.

  She shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘What’s happened? Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Again, Angie shook her head. ‘Don’t think there’s anything anyone can do about this.’

  They walked in silence for a while.

  Bobby looked down and saw that Dorothy was gripping two letters: one looked official, the other personal.

  ‘Who’s died?’ he asked as they reached the ferry. He paid their fares and ushered them on.

  They walked to the front of the old paddle steamer.

  ‘Peter,’ Angie told him.

  ‘Rosie’s husband?’ Bobby asked. He looked at Dorothy. She had been the one to tell him about Detective Sergeant Peter Miller – the man who had helped his mam and had got shot of his dad. Rosie’s husband had se
emed like one of the good guys. There was no justice in this life.

  ‘That’s right,’ Angie said. She usually complained about having to answer for Dorothy, but not today.

  The three of them looked out to the mouth of the River Wear, each lost in their own thoughts.

  After the ferry arrived at the north side, they all got off and walked in silence up to the main gates.

  When they collected their time boards off Davey and started towards their workstations, Bobby looked at Dorothy.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, his voice low and sombre. ‘And just say if I can help in any way,’ he added, looking at Angie.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Dorothy said. ‘This is going to be awful.’

  Seeing that Gloria and Polly hadn’t arrived and that it was just Rosie and Martha standing by the brazier, chatting, Dorothy looked at Angie. ‘You still agree – we need to tell her when everyone’s here?’

  Angie nodded. They slowed their pace. ‘Let’s do it at lunchtime.’

  ‘Yes, at lunchtime,’ Dorothy said, feeling a slight sense of relief that she didn’t have to drop the guillotine onto her friend’s neck just yet. It was a temporary stay of execution, though. Whether they told her now or in a few hours, it would not make the news any less devastating, but at least she’d have her workmates there to support her in whatever way they could.

  ‘Just act normal,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Angie said, plastering a smile on her face as she wished Rosie and Martha ‘Good morning’ before declaring that she needed the loo.

  Rosie and Martha watched as the group’s ‘terrible two’ sloped off to the outside toilets – something they usually avoided at all costs.

  ‘Do they seem a bit out of sorts to you?’ Rosie asked Martha, who laughed and said that they were probably just hung-over.

  By the time the klaxon sounded out the lunch break, Dorothy felt as though she was going to be physically sick with nerves.

  ‘Shall we all have our lunch out here?’ Angie said, cocking her head over to the stack of pallets by the quayside.

  ‘Sounds a good idea,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ve got a packed lunch.’

  ‘I’ll just nip to the canteen,’ Gloria said. ‘I didn’t have time to make anything today.’

  Dorothy and Angie looked at each.

  ‘Well, dinnit take all day!’ The words – and the harshness with which they had been spoken – were out before Angie could rein them back in.

  Gloria gave Angie a questioning look. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Yeah, you two have been acting strange all morning,’ Martha said.

  ‘Quentin and Toby all right?’ Rosie asked.

  The last question pushed Dorothy over the edge. She felt the urge to burst out crying, but managed to hold back. She had to be strong. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bobby and the rest of his squad settling down nearby with their packed lunches. She caught his eye and looked away.

  ‘Actually,’ Dorothy said, looking nervously at Gloria and then focusing back on Rosie, ‘it’s Peter.’

  Everyone stopped dead.

  Everyone was staring at Dorothy, who had put her hand into the side pocket of her overalls and had taken out Peter’s letter.

  She put her other hand in her other pocket and pulled out the official notification of death.

  Rosie’s eyes dropped down to Dorothy’s hand. Suddenly everything became slow motion. Was that Peter’s handwriting she could see on the front of one of the envelopes? Her heart lifted. Dorothy had brought news. She had brought a letter from Peter. But why did she look so serious?

  ‘Is that from Peter?’ she asked.

  She watched as Dorothy nodded, her face grim, as Gloria stepped forward and took the other letter – the official one with typing on the front.

  She watched as Gloria slid her thumb under the seal and opened it, casting her eyes briefly down the page before offering it to her.

  Rosie could feel her hands starting to shake as she took hold of the letter. Her eyes scanned the typed words:

  It is with the deepest regret that I have learnt that your husband, Mr Peter Miller, a member of the Special Operations Executive, has been recorded as ‘missing presumed dead’ following an operation on 6 June in France. I wish to express my admiration for the services he rendered and to convey my profound sympathy in your sad bereavement.

  She stood staring, unable to move.

  She sensed Angie was handing her the other envelope. The one with Peter’s handwriting on it. She heard Dorothy say something about Toby, and that he’d asked Dorothy to give it to her along with the notification.

  She felt her body starting to tremble along with her hands as she took the envelope, ripped it open and began to read.

  Dear Rosie,

  I hope that you will never read this letter, for if you do it means that my superiors have received news that I am dead.

  It pains me to write this, but I know it is going to cause you much more pain to have to read it, so I want to say sorry to you. Sorry I have put you through this heartache.

  God only knows, you have been through enough in your life. But you’ve survived it – all of it. You kept going when others would have given up, you forced a smile when others would have cried, you made untold sacrifices in your life for the sake of love – the love you have for your little sister.

  I know you understand the nature of sacrifice. You gave up so much to ensure that Charlotte was safe from harm and to give her the chance of a good life. And you did so without any hesitation. You knew without any kind of doubt that what you were doing was right.

  I too have felt the same about the work I have been doing since I left you that day at the train station in Guildford. There has never been any doubt in my mind that what I decided to do after we said our goodbyes as man and wife was the right thing, and – I can’t stress this enough – so very necessary. I hope as you are reading this that you understand. And that you know I have no regrets. My love for you knows no bounds, but it also has to be sacrificed for the Greater Good.

  Now I am writing, I realise there is so much I want to say – and which I haven’t been able to say. First of all, about Charlotte – I do hope she is well and not making your life too hard. It’s funny, but I feel like I know her even though we have never met, so say hello to her from me – and a reluctant goodbye – and tell her she has to be strong and brave, just like her older sister, and that she must now be there for you.

  It took me some time to know what to write. I have sat here for a good while at the wooden kitchen table in the house where I am presently staying. It is dark and quiet, and it strikes me, as I sit and contemplate, how strange it is to write such a letter, but also very necessary – for us both.

  When I first tried to put pen to paper, I didn’t know what to say. But in my mind’s eye I pictured you and the times we shared, and as I did, it started to feel as if you were near to me. I remembered the last time we were together at home in our bed and I could almost smell you – feel the touch of your bare skin on mine.

  Just writing the words makes me feel sad – not for the loss of my life, but because I will never get to lie with you again, kiss you, or make love to you. But I will take it all with me, wherever that may be.

  I need you to know that I have no regrets and that you must not either – for anything – nor any guilt. I have been around too much death these past few years and I know the residue that death can leave behind, how it can taint a life and darken a future and I need to know that this will not be the case for you.

  It is why so many men – and women – have given their lives to this war: to fight the terrible darkness that will engulf the whole of humanity if we don’t beat this evil.

  The life we had together was incredibly special and was all that I believe true love to be. Don’t ever forget that. And don’t ever let it stop you loving again. You are young and life is precious.

  But I know you don’t want to hear that now.

&
nbsp; What I’m trying to say is that the sacrifice of my life and the lives of so many others has been made so that love – not hate – can flourish.

  So that the world can be one of light and not darkness.

  Please, please don’t forsake that because I am not here to enjoy it with you. Whenever you feel lonely, just close your eyes and I’ll be there right by your side. And know I will always be with you. And I will always love you.

  Forever yours,

  Peter x

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  After reading the final words of Peter’s letter, Rosie felt the life leave her body. Every ounce of energy drained from every part of her physical being. It felt as though she had suddenly taken a step back and was looking at reality from a distance; as though a protective see-through curtain had dropped between herself and life, and she was viewing everything from afar.

  As she felt her legs lose their strength, she sat down on something hard and wooden and then the tears came. Doubled up, she cried from her very core, great heaving sobs. Through a blur of tears, she looked up and saw the women’s concerned faces around her. Hannah disappeared and returned moments later with a glass of water. She saw her hand reach out and felt the cool liquid run down her throat, but it did not seem to quench her thirst. She saw Gloria move and sit down next to her. She looked at her friend’s grave face and realised that she was talking to her. Her mouth was moving and her face expressed such sadness and concern, but all Rosie could hear were muted, mumbled words.

  She caught movement to her right and turned her head to see Martha lowering herself down so that she too was sitting next to her, dwarfing her. She felt Martha’s arm go around her shoulders as she gave her a hug. She felt her head slump onto Martha’s chest and then she felt her body shuddering. More tears ran down her face and left the taste of salt on her dry lips.

  She saw Polly’s face, which seemed to be a reflection of her own. Tears were running down her cheeks, making white streaks through the dirt on her skin. Dorothy and Angie turned and disappeared. Time seemed to have taken on a different dimension, because it seemed as though they were back in the blink of an eye, with Helen in tow.