The Shipyard Girls on the Home Front

by Nancy Revell

  ‘Oh, huge drama,’ Dorothy said, wondering how quickly she could steer the conversation away from him. She was still unsure if Toby had picked up that something had been going on between them as he’d arrived at the flat.

  They walked on.

  Toby laughed. ‘Yes? And the huge drama being?’ he asked. It was unlike Dorothy to need any encouragement to talk.

  ‘Oh, he’s finally sorted everything out with Gloria,’ Dorothy said, trying to act as though she was not the least bit interested.

  They turned right into Borough Road.

  ‘Well, that’s great news,’ Toby said, eyeing Dorothy and wondering why she wasn’t regaling him with every detail. She had spent the past three months giving him earache about bloody Bobby not doing what she wanted him to do, and now she barely had two words to say about the matter.

  ‘So, he’s forgiven her for divorcing his father?’ Toby continued to probe as they crossed the road.

  ‘Sort of,’ Dorothy said, wishing now she hadn’t gone on so much about the Bobby and Gloria situation to Toby. ‘Although I don’t think he was so much against the divorce.’

  Toby stopped at the stone-pillared entrance to the Palatine, the town’s most exclusive restaurant. Dorothy’s eyes widened. Her mind had been so preoccupied with what had just happened with Bobby that she hadn’t even thought about asking Toby where they were going.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘What are we celebrating?’

  Toby opened the heavy swing door and Dorothy walked through.

  ‘Peter being alive?’ Dorothy made a guess. ‘Us conquering Normandy?’

  Toby smiled but didn’t say anything.

  The maître d’ appeared and showed them to their seats. Dorothy guessed that Toby must have been in earlier to pick out a table for two set back from the main dining area.

  ‘Oh, Toby, I feel thoroughly spoilt,’ Dorothy said as the waiter pulled out her chair and she sat down. She smiled, desperately hoping the guilt that she was presently drowning in was not apparent.

  ‘You deserve it,’ Toby said as he too sat down.

  Dorothy pushed back yet more waves of guilt.

  Seconds later, the sommelier arrived with the champagne. Normally, Dorothy would have been desperately holding back a shriek of excitement. As it was, she felt terrible. Disloyal. If only she hadn’t kissed Bobby. What had she been thinking of when she already had Toby? Lovely, kind, handsome Toby.

  ‘A toast,’ Toby said.

  ‘A toast.’ Dorothy pasted what she hoped looked like an ecstatically happy look on her face as they raised their glasses.

  ‘To Peter and Rosie,’ Dorothy said.

  Toby smiled. ‘Yes, to Peter and Rosie. And also, to us.’

  ‘Of course, to us!’ she said, clinking glasses a tad too robustly and causing a little champagne to spill.

  As they took their first sips, the starters arrived. French pâté on toast. Dorothy thanked the waiter and widened her eyes at Toby.

  ‘My favourite!’

  Dorothy forced the first course down, making a show of enjoying every mouthful, clapping her hands in glee when the lobster thermidor arrived, all the while doing her best to banish images of Bobby and the kisses and caresses they had shared. If only she had stopped it and sent him packing. But she hadn’t. When she had slapped him, it was as though she were slapping herself for not having realised that she had let herself fall in love with him. She felt herself blush as she recalled telling him so in his deaf ear.

  Why did she have to fall in love with Bobby when she had Toby?

  She loved Toby, didn’t she? But the way she felt about Bobby was different and a little scary. He made her feel alive, and more than a little reckless. If Toby had not arrived when he had, she wondered if she would have been able to stop herself from going further with Bobby. She had held off sleeping with Toby – was determined to wait until she was married – but a few moments with Bobby and all those resolutions seemed to have vanished into thin air.

  ‘So, tell me more about Peter and how you found out he was still alive,’ Dorothy said. She needed Toby to talk while she dealt with the tsunami of thoughts crashing in her head.

  Toby chatted on, telling Dorothy what he could. His own head, though, was full to bursting with other thoughts, and as they finished their chocolate mousse dessert – another favourite of Dorothy’s – he started to feel the full throttle of nerves as they approached the reason they were there.

  ‘So,’ Dorothy said, playfully, ‘you got me and Ange to deliver the bad news to Rosie, but the good news you drive all the way up here to divulge yourself!’

  Toby laughed.

  ‘Actually, there was another reason I put the old gal through her paces to get here in record time.’ His face looked serious.

  ‘And what would that be?’ she asked.

  Please, no, please don’t. Not today. Not now.

  She could feel the colour drain from her cheeks as she watched Toby dig his hand into his trouser pocket and pull out a small leather box.

  Watched as he dropped to one knee.

  This was all she had wanted for so long. But now it was really happening it was the last thing she wanted.

  Damn Bobby!

  ‘Dorothy Mary Williams …’ Toby opened the petite red box to reveal a beautiful, sparkling diamond ring.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ Dorothy said, her hand going to her chest. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Toby looked at the woman he loved; her eyes were sparkling as brightly as the diamond he was offering her.

  ‘Dorothy, I want you to be my wife more than anything else in the world. Will you marry me?’ He looked up at the woman with whom he’d been madly in love since first setting eyes on her at Lily’s.

  Dorothy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It was as though she had been struck dumb. For once in her life she had no idea what to say. She was aware of the other diners looking at her and Toby. She knew what she was supposed to say and do, but she couldn’t. It was as if she had become temporarily paralysed.

  Toby stayed a few more moments on bended knee, but, seeing the look of confusion on Dorothy’s face and taking it to mean she was feeling overwhelmed, he pushed himself up and sat back down on his seat. He took her hand, squeezed it and smiled.

  The curious diners, sensing that this scene was not about to be played out as planned, turned their attention back to their own partners and meals.

  Toby scrutinised Dorothy. She looked as though she were about to burst into tears. He had never guessed she would react this way. Had something changed? Had her feelings changed since he had seen her last? Surely she was just overwrought. The news about Peter had affected them all.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently.

  Dorothy nodded vigorously, but still didn’t speak.

  ‘I’m guessing this has been all a bit too much. What with the news about Peter and now me springing this on you?’

  Again, Dorothy nodded; tears had started to well in her eyes. Tears of guilt.

  She looked at Toby and all she could see was Bobby.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Dorothy said, choking back the tears.

  She gave him an apologetic smile.

  ‘I just don’t know what I want.’

  Or rather, who I want.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Peter hurried as fast as his exhausted body would allow through the main entrance to King’s Cross Station.

  He was late, but at least he had made it.

  He hated to think what it might have done to Rosie, having been told he was alive, for her to have arrived in London expecting to meet him, only to be told once again that he was dead – and that this time it really was true.

  And he would have been dead had it not been for the skill of the pilots. The plane had lost all power, yet they had somehow managed to glide the aircraft down to the ground, avoiding a village and a forest, before crash-landing in a field. Peter could only surmise that the long stems of wheat had acted as a
cushion of sorts and had helped to break the speed of the plane as it skidded to a halt. Clambering out of the little hatch door on the side of the aircraft and looking around, he’d shaken his head in disbelief that the nose of the plane was just inches from touching the fence bordering the field. The two pilots were unbuckling their belts and hauling themselves out of the shattered windows of their cockpit. After they’d jumped down, they had both looked at Peter and smiled.

  ‘Sorry about the rough landing, old chap,’ one of the pilots said, deadpan.

  ‘We managed to radio in our position, so you should still be able to get to your very important meeting,’ the other said with a smile. They knew the reason for Peter’s trip back to Blighty.

  Laughing, Peter had walked over and slapped them both on the back.

  It took him a little while before he’d realised he was thanking them in French.

  ‘Long time overseas,’ the pilot said. His understanding of French was basic, but he had caught the gist of Peter’s gratitude.

  ‘Too long,’ Peter said.

  They had landed in a field in Kent, luckily near an RAF base that had immediately dispatched an army ambulance and truck. After being checked over and given a clean bill of health, Peter had managed to persuade the truck driver to transport him, at speed, to King’s Cross Station, where he was now hurrying towards platform number five.

  When Rosie saw Peter, she almost didn’t recognise him. He looked as thin as a rake, and his once salt-and-pepper hair was now completely grey. As he hurried towards her, she saw the life in his eyes and the smile on his face and knew he was all right.

  She didn’t run towards him, instead she simply stood there and devoured every second of seeing that he was really alive. The man she had grieved for and had believed was dead was here in the flesh. It was only now, watching him striding towards her, his eyes sparkling with love, that she was sure it was true.

  Peter was alive.

  When he reached her, neither spoke. No words were needed. Instead, Peter took Rosie in his arms and kissed her. And kissed her again. And Rosie kissed him back with the same fervour, enjoying the feel of his lips on hers as her lover, her husband, her friend, her soulmate kissed her over and over again.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he nuzzled her neck and breathed in her scent.

  ‘Rosie … Rosie … Rosie,’ he mumbled, kissing her neck before once again finding her lips.

  He broke off and looked at her, put his hand on her face, touched her cheeks, her blonde hair, her gorgeous face – a face he would never tire of looking at and which he hoped now to be seeing for the rest of his life. He gazed into her blue eyes – eyes he had pictured while he had been buried alive and that he had seen again when the plane had gone into a nosedive and he had thought the gods had reversed their decision and decided to lay claim to his soul. He had clearly been given a last-minute reprieve. And by God was he going to make the most of every moment he had left on this earth. Starting with this one.

  He looked down at Rosie and kissed her once more before forcing himself to pull away.

  ‘We’re not staying in London,’ he said. He didn’t say that he felt it wasn’t safe. The pilotless bombs that Hitler was dropping on the capital made it too dangerous. He took her hand, grabbed her overnight bag and started walking.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Rosie asked, not that she cared. Not one jot. As long as she was with Peter.

  Peter didn’t answer.

  ‘Is Charlie all right?’ he asked as they walked down the platform. ‘You’re OK leaving her for a little while?’

  Rosie laughed. ‘Oh yes, she’s more than OK. Overjoyed that you’re alive, and happy as Larry about where she will be staying while I’m away.’

  Peter gave her a quizzical look as they reached the end of the platform and turned left.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it later,’ she said. ‘It’s a long story. Very long.’

  ‘But with a happy ending by the sounds of it?’ Peter asked as they reached the adjourning platform. There was a train waiting.

  ‘A happy and rather unconventional ending,’ Rosie said, looking at the train, steam streaming out of the engine. Passengers had started to board.

  Peter walked towards the top of the train, to the first-class carriages, and pulled open the door.

  ‘All aboard, Mrs Miller,’ he smiled.

  She stepped from the platform into the carriage.

  ‘So, where are you taking me?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Guildford,’ said Peter, hauling their baggage in and stepping on board himself.

  Rosie’s face lit up.

  ‘Guildford!’

  Peter took Rosie into his arms and kissed her.

  ‘I’ve booked us into a lovely little hotel just a short walk from the registry office.’

  Rosie’s eyes were glistening. Their hotel. She had never felt so happy in her whole life.

  They heard the stationmaster’s whistle screech and the door to the carriage slam shut.

  ‘We’re going to have a second honeymoon,’ Peter said. ‘Only this time, I’ll be coming home with you.’

  Dear Reader,

  It was only when I had finished writing The Shipyard Girls on the Home Front that I realised the theme of this book is actually sacrifice. Peter is prepared to give up his life for the sake of humanity, as is Bobby. Bel gives up her need for retribution so that Hope can have a father. Helen sacrifices romantic love for the well-being of her friends and their families. And Lily is prepared to change her life and her livelihood to give Charlotte the security she craves.

  This got me thinking about the act of making sacrifices – of giving up something valued for the sake of something else deemed more important or worthy.

  I wondered if perhaps by making sacrifices a person can sometimes find themselves gifted with something else – and perhaps even end up with more than they relinquished. Bel certainly does! The idealist in me would hope so.

  Until next time, Dear Reader. I wish you all love and light – and lots of it – in your lives and in the lives of those you hold dear.

  Love

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  I just had to share with you this image of women shipyard workers taken during the First World War at a shipyard in Wallsend, Tyne and Wear. Little is known about the women shipyard workers during the Second World War and even less is known about those building ships during the first. Amazing and inspirational women. Let’s not forget them!

  Chapter One

  June 1944

  Mr Havelock was sitting alone in the large dining room in his very grandiose home in Glen Path, one of the richest areas of the town known as Ashbrooke. His mood had plummeted after he’d perused the headlines over breakfast. There was no denying the success of the Normandy landings and the opening up of the Second Front. You didn’t need to have a crystal ball to see that an Allied victory was on the horizon; it was just a matter of when. The photographs and illustrations of The Sunday Pictorial said it all. ‘WE’RE SQUEEZING IN – NOTHING CAN SAVE HITLER NOW!’ screamed the banner at the bottom of the page in bold, black ink.

  Reading the piece, Mr Havelock’s appetite left him and he pushed his plate of bacon and egg away. Lighting up a Winston, he smoked and drank his tea, flicking ash onto his untouched food before stubbing the half-smoked cigarette out in the middle of the perfectly fried egg. He knew it would hurt his housekeeper, Agatha, to see food soiled and wasted during these times of rationing. It gave him a smidgeon of sadistic joy.

  Scraping his chair back, he made his way across the large oak-panelled dining room, banging his walking stick on the polished parquet flooring as he headed out of the door and made a beeline for his office. Stepping into the room, its size condensed by the walls lined with shelves stacked with books, Mr Havelock slammed the door shut and went straight to the safe situated behind his mahogany desk. Unlocking it and letting the small, heavy door swing back, he started foraging around. Finally, under the thick parchment of his
‘Last Will and Testament’ and other important waxed sealed documents, he found what he was looking for – his membership of Oswald Mosley’s now defunct political party, the British Union of Fascists. He had kept it in the hope that Hitler would win the war. It would have been proof of his political leanings and alliances. Had the Nazis successfully invaded the British Isles, Mosley would have been installed as a head, albeit a puppet head, of a pro-German government.

  Mr Havelock muttered blasphemies under his breath as he took the souvenir of a future that would never be over to the fireplace. Pulling out his silver lighter from his trouser pocket, he clicked it open and held the flame under the thick card, on which the letters B.U.F. had been heavily embossed in black. It slowly caught alight. Leaning one hand on the mantelpiece he watched it burn, letting it go at the last minute.

  He had to accept that there really was no chance of Hitler making any kind of a comeback. Why the British were so against him he did not know. His policies made good sense. His own people certainly thought so, otherwise why would they have voted him in?

  Mr Havelock turned and sat down at his desk. His mind wandered, as it often did of late, to his wife, Henrietta. A wife who, on paper, had died of a terrible tropical disease in India but who, in reality, was very much alive and well. If only she really had died, he would not be in his current predicament.

  He was being controlled.

  No one had ever controlled him in his entire life.

  And it was all because of Henrietta.

  Mr Havelock sat forward, his elbows leaning on the leather-embossed top of his desk, his hands clasped as though in prayer. He thought again about Mosley. And Hitler. And the hoped-for future that now had no chance of becoming a reality.

  He thought of Hitler’s policies. He thought about Henrietta. Insane. Or at least she was deemed to be on paper. He thought of the controversial T4 Euthanasia Program adopted by the Führer at the start of the war, which sanctioned the killing of the incurably ill, the elderly, the physically disabled – and the mentally ill.