by Nancy Revell
‘Exactly,’ Polly said.
Bel looked at her lifelong friend. It still hurt her to recall how devastated she had been that day and in the ensuing weeks.
‘I tried to carry on as normal,’ Polly said, her eyes tearing up. ‘But inside I was in bits. I hate to admit it,’ she looked at Bel, ‘but the moment I got the letter … At that very moment, all hope that Tommy was alive just left me.’
A tear ran down Polly’s cheek. She brushed it away.
‘I gave up hope. I gave up all hope I had of ever seeing Tommy alive.’
‘I know,’ Bel said.
They had all watched helplessly, wanting to make Polly feel better, but knowing there was absolutely nothing they could do.
‘And what made it even worse,’ Polly continued, ‘was that Tommy had told me he was saving his pay for our wedding. So that we didn’t have to scrimp and save. So we could get married when we wanted. So that we didn’t have to wait.’
Bel looked at Polly.
‘And then,’ Polly continued, ‘to make matters worse, the day I got the notification in the post, Rosie came into work and handed out the invites to Lily’s and George’s wedding.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ Bel thought she saw guilt in Polly’s eyes.
‘Can you remember me saying to Ma that I just wanted to give it all away?’
Bel nodded. ‘I do.’ Her eyes were fixed on Polly.
‘And Ma said she’d have my guts for garters if I did any such thing and to stop talking like “an eejit”.’
‘Mmm,’ Bel said. She had an awful feeling she knew what her sister-in-law was about to tell her.
Polly looked at Bel and grimaced.
‘Well, I did,’ she said.
‘Did what?’ Bel asked the question, hoping to hear a different answer to the one she was expecting.
‘I gave it all away,’ Polly confessed.
‘You gave it all away?’ Bel repeated.
Polly nodded.
‘Oh, my God! I don’t believe it.’
‘I know,’ Polly said, guiltily. ‘I don’t either.’
‘Oh, my goodness. No wonder you don’t want to set a date,’ Bel gasped. ‘Poor Tommy’s been saving every penny for a top-notch wedding for the woman he loves – and you’ve gone and given it away!’
‘Stop it, Bel,’ Polly commanded. ‘You’re not helping.’
Bel looked at Polly’s guilt-ridden face. All of a sudden, she just erupted into laughter.
Polly looked at Bel as though she had gone mad, but then Polly’s face suddenly creased up and she too started to laugh.
Before long they were both crying with laughter, unable to stop themselves.
For the next few minutes neither woman could speak as they held their sides. Tears blurred their vision.
Finally, when they had both just about managed to control themselves, Bel asked Polly, ‘So, pray tell,’ she wiped underneath her eyes, ‘who or what was the lucky recipient of poor Tommy’s hard-earned money?’
‘Don’t, Bel, I feel bad enough as it is,’ Polly said, sitting back on her chair and wiping her cheeks dry.
‘No, seriously, though,’ Bel said. ‘Who did you give the money to?’
Polly took a drink from her Ovaltine, which was now lukewarm.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t just chuck it away. I did think about it.’
Bel couldn’t help another burst of laughter.
‘Ah well, that makes it all right then?’
She took a deep breath and forced herself to be serious again.
‘Go on. What did you do?’
‘Well, I donated some of it to the Red Cross. I’d been reading about all the good they’ve been doing and how many lives they’ve saved. As well as risking their own.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ Bel said. ‘And particularly poignant after what happened to Tommy.’
Polly nodded. The same thought had occurred to her more than once lately.
‘Then I gave some to the King George’s Fund for Sailors,’ Polly said.
‘Oh yes?’ Bel asked, curious. She’d not heard of the charity before.
‘Tommy told me about it. It was set up because there were so many maimed or lost at sea during the First War. It’s to help the maritime community – those in need and their families.’
‘Like those in the Royal Navy and the Merchant Navy?’ Bel asked.
‘Yes, and fishing fleets,’ Polly added. ‘I knew Tommy would like it if some money went to them.’
‘Ah, that’s nice,’ Bel said. ‘And what about the rest? There must have been a fair amount?’
‘Well,’ Polly said, ‘I wanted someone from here to benefit from it.’
‘What? From Sunderland?’ Bel asked, intrigued.
‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘Tommy was always so proud of where he came from. It got me thinking about how it would be nice to help someone local.’
Bel listened.
‘Do you remember that poor girl who lost both her hands when a German bomber crashed into her home just down the road in Suffolk Street?’
‘Yes,’ Bel said, sadly, ‘the one who worked at the GPO as a telephonist. I think her mam was killed as well?’
‘That’s right. Well, I heard a while ago, from Muriel of all people – ’ Polly rolled her eyes ‘ – that doctors were trying to get her fitted with some kind of artificial hands.’
Bel gave a look of amazement.
‘I know. Incredible, isn’t it?’ Polly said. ‘Anyway, there was a bit in the Echo about her, saying that they were trying to get her better and back to normal – well, as much as anyone can get back to normal after something like that happening.’
Bel nodded in agreement.
‘So, I just put the money in an envelope,’ Polly said, ‘found out which hospital she was in, and asked the matron on her ward to give it to her.’
‘You didn’t tell her who it was from?’ Bel asked.
Polly shook her head.
Bel stared. She shook her head slowly.
‘Pol,’ she said, ‘you’re a very special person, you know that?’
Tears welled up in Bel’s eyes. She got up out of the armchair, went over to Polly, and wrapped her arms around her.
‘The world,’ she said, ‘would be a lot better place if there were more people like you in it.’
She squeezed her sister-in-law tight.
Polly hugged her back.
‘I hope Tommy thinks the same as you do, Bel.’
‘Well, he’d be mad not to,’ Bel said. ‘He’s lucky to have you. Very lucky.’
Chapter Nineteen
Monday 26 October
‘Make sure she gets her bleedin’ money back,’ Lily whispered in George’s ear as she hugged him goodbye.
George nodded, walked over to his MG and got into the driver’s seat.
Lily tottered from the front gate to where the car was parked. She looked about her and was glad to see the street was empty. It had just gone eight o’clock and was only starting to get light. Most of the other residents on West Lawn were elderly and rarely left their homes, so she could risk leaving the house in her dressing gown with her hair still in rollers. Not that she would have been too concerned had any of her neighbours seen her. They all believed her to be French and as a result she was relieved of the burden of being either ‘normal’ or ‘respectable’.
Bending down, she poked her head into the car. Charlotte was sitting scrunched up in the back seat. Rosie had made her wear her school uniform for the last time.
‘Do as your sister says, you hear?’ Lily commanded.
Charlotte nodded, her face a mix of excitement and apprehension.
Lily then turned her attention to Rosie, whose face was bare of make-up, save for a thin layer of foundation and a light brush of powder to cover her scars. She was a little taken aback to see that she was wearing her faded blue denim overalls, which were covered with a scattering of pinhole burns.
‘See you when you get back,’ Lily said simply, before stepping backwards. ‘No need to tell you to drive carefully,’ she said to George.
‘No need at all, my dear,’ he said, adjusting his rear-view mirror. He gave Lily a wink and a half-smile before pushing the gear stick into first and pulling away.
With both hands stuck in the pockets of her plaid night robe, Lily watched as the MG drove to the end of West Lawn.
Seeing Charlotte’s smiley face looking out the back window and waving at her, Lily waved back.
She couldn’t have wished for a better outcome had she actually planned it.
The journey to Harrogate passed quickly. The noise of the car engine made conversation practically impossible, which Rosie was glad of. She wanted to be totally focused on what she was about to do. Going up against someone as educated and as well-to-do as Mrs Willoughby-Smith was a little intimidating. She didn’t want to stumble over her words or make a fool of herself, plus she wanted to take the deputy head down a peg or two. If she could also leave with a cheque for the fees she had paid for the rest of the term, then all the better. She was damned if she was going to beg for it, though.
As they made their way down the A1, Rosie looked at the passing landscape and the patchwork of fields – so lush and green, so unlike the grey metal and concrete terrain she was used to. She looked down at her overalls and recalled her first day at Thompson’s. She’d been given a pair of men’s overalls that were far too big for her, but she had not dared to ask if there was a smaller pair. She’d just been so thankful to be taken on. She hadn’t realised at the time that it was thanks to Jack that she’d got the job. He had argued with management that they should give her a chance, despite her gender. He had tipped the scales in her favour by reminding them that they had recently taken on a girl of roughly Rosie’s age in the admin department – his own daughter. In doing so he had also subtly reminded them that he was the son-in-law of one of the town’s most influential and powerful businessmen, Mr Havelock. It was a card he rarely played and one he only allowed himself to use for the benefit of others.
Seeing the signs to Harrogate, Rosie felt a slight fluttering of nerves. She thought about yesterday evening when she had gone to see Gloria. She’d felt bad asking her to cover for her on her first day back at work, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else until she’d done what she needed to do.
When she’d walked into Gloria’s flat, she’d been surprised to see Helen sitting on the sofa with Hope on her lap. She knew, of course, that Helen had become close to Gloria and Hope. But still, it was strange to see them together in such a domestic scenario.
They had both been aghast when she’d told them what Charlotte had told her, although Helen hadn’t seemed particularly shocked. Her words were, ‘Welcome to my world.’
‘One mile to go!’ George shouted above the noise of the engine. Charlotte and Rosie sat up straight in their seats.
Five minutes later they had turned off the main carriageway and were driving slowly along winding country roads and it wasn’t long before they were crunching down the gravel driveway of the Runcorn School for Girls.
As soon as George had reversed the car into the parking place allocated for visitors, he climbed out. Using his stick, he hurried round to the passenger side.
‘Thank you, George,’ Rosie said, stepping out of the car and looking around her. She saw the large clock on the front of the main school building. It was twenty-five-past ten. Her appointment was at half past. Their journey had been timed to perfection.
‘Right, Charlie,’ Rosie said as her sister clambered out of the back seat. ‘Get your bag out of the boot and get your stuff.’
Charlotte nodded, went to the car boot and hauled out her empty suitcase.
‘And remember what I said,’ Rosie said sternly. ‘I don’t want even a cross word – regardless of what anyone might say to you.’
Charlotte nodded again and headed off in the direction of her dormitory at the back of the school.
‘After you, my dear,’ George said.
Rosie took a deep breath and the pair walked up to the main entrance and into the expansive foyer. The deputy headmistress’s office was to the left and the school secretary’s office was on the right.
‘Oh, excuse me!’
Rosie saw the school secretary, whom she knew to be called Miss Howey, hurrying towards her. She had a cup of tea in her hand.
‘Tradesmen’s entrance. Around the back!’ the secretary ordered, using her free hand to shoo Rosie back out the front door. She made no effort to hide her disdain.
Rosie forced a smile onto her face.
‘Ah, good morning, Miss Howey,’ she said. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
She paused.
Seeing that the secretary still had no idea who she was, she informed her, ‘It’s Mrs Miller. Mrs Rosemary Miller. Charlotte Thornton’s sister.’ Rosie put her hand out to greet the secretary, whom she had met on her last visit.
Miss Howey looked at Rosie’s outstretched hand but made no effort to shake it. Instead her eyes flickered to George, who was standing behind Rosie, his walking stick in one hand, his fedora in the other.
‘Sorry, can I help you?’ she asked, throwing an irritated look in Rosie’s direction, but giving the smartly dressed gentleman a welcoming smile.
‘I’m with Mrs Miller,’ George said politely. Unlike Rosie, he did not offer his hand in greeting.
Rosie looked at George and then back to the school secretary.
She undid the top button of her overalls. Her temperature was rising.
‘Miss Howey,’ she said, ‘I think you’ll find I have an appointment with Mrs Willoughby-Smith at half-past ten.’
At that exact moment, the door to the deputy head’s office opened.
‘Mrs Miller—’ Mrs Willoughby-Smith stopped in her tracks. The look on her face changed in a split second from pleasantly professional to one of undisguised horror.
She nervously scanned the immediate vicinity, terrified that others might have seen a labourer standing on the polished parquet flooring in an area only teachers and parents were allowed to tread. Even the pupils had to use a side entrance.
‘Ah, Mrs Willoughby-Smith,’ Rosie said, this time dispensing with the niceties of a handshake. Instead she stretched out her arm and signalled towards the deputy head’s office door.
‘Shall we? I believe it’s almost half-past ten.’ Rosie pulled up the sleeve of her overalls to look at her watch. The only belonging she had left of her mother’s. ‘Of course, I can sit and wait if you’d prefer.’
Rosie looked over Miss Howey’s head as though she had just spotted someone she knew. She raised her hand in a wave.
‘Oh, is that Charlotte’s Latin teacher?’
She looked at Mrs Willoughby-Smith and then to Miss Howey.
‘Gosh, I always forget her name.’
‘Please come into my office!’ The deputy head moved aside and pushed the door wide open.
‘Are you all right to wait?’ Rosie turned to look at George.
George nodded and sat down on a hard wooden chair in the foyer.
Having ushered Rosie into the confines of her office and quickly shut the door, Mrs Willoughby-Smith’s demeanour changed.
‘I have to say, Mrs Miller, that this is most improper of you.’
She pulled her chair closer to her desk and put her hands palms down on the embossed leather top.
‘And I really must point out that if you come here again dressed like some lowly labourer fresh from the factory, we will not be able to allow you over the threshold. If any of my girls were to see you wearing such attire, what kind of example would that be setting?’
If there had been a shred of doubt in Rosie’s mind that she was doing the right thing, Mrs Willoughby-Smith’s last comment successfully obliterated it.
Rosie bit her tongue and pointed to the chair in front of the desk.
‘May I?’
&nbs
p; Before Mrs Willoughby-Smith had a chance to object, Rosie sat down, pulling up the trousers of her overalls as she did so and crossing her legs. She put her clasped hands on her lap.
‘First of all, Mrs Willoughby-Smith, you need have no worries about me turning up here ever again, let alone dressed in what you refer to as “such attire”.’ Rosie smiled pleasantly.
Mrs Willoughby-Smith looked at Rosie and furrowed her brow.
‘As of today,’ Rosie explained, ‘I am withdrawing Charlotte from this school.’
‘I’m guessing,’ Mrs Willoughby-Smith said, her eyes focused on Rosie’s overalls, ‘that the reason for you doing so is because you can no longer afford to dress yourself properly, never mind pay the fees to keep your sister here?’
Rosie glared at the deputy head.
‘Far from it!’ she retorted. ‘In fact, Charlotte will be starting at another independent school – a school, I hasten to add, that runs its affairs with a far higher level of professionalism than Runcorn does.’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Willoughby-Smith said, sitting back in her chair. ‘And which school might that be?’
Rosie looked at the deputy head.
‘That’s none of your business,’ she said simply. ‘What is your business, though,’ she continued, ‘and which I feel you have a right to know, is the reason why I have decided to remove my sister from the school.’
‘Pray tell, Mrs Miller. I’m all ears.’
Rosie looked at the woman sitting in front of her and realised that nothing she said would make any difference, but she didn’t care, she was going to say it anyway.
‘When I was here last and we were discussing the possible reasons why Charlotte and the other girl in her year had ended up fighting, you knew all along what was really going on, didn’t you?’
Mrs Willoughby-Smith didn’t answer.
‘You knew that Charlotte’s classmates had found out that I was a shipyard welder and that she was being relentlessly bullied, didn’t you?’
Again silence.
‘You also knew that Charlotte had, in fact, endured a rather long and consistent campaign of bullying since first coming here due to the fact that she has neither a mother nor a father.’
