by Nancy Revell
‘I do love this house,’ Rosie said as she handed Peter his tea and climbed back into bed.
‘I do too – now that you’re living here.’ Peter took a sip of tea. ‘And there’s a spare room should you relent and allow Charlotte to come back here to live,’ he suggested cautiously.
‘Well, that’s one thing that you and Lily agree on.’ Rosie gave him a sidelong glance.
‘I’m not saying she should move back,’ Peter said. ‘I’m just wondering whether it might be a good idea to be able to keep an eye on her if she is going a little wayward.’
‘I agree, to a certain extent,’ Rosie said, ‘but I wonder whether she might just end up going even more wayward, as you put it, if I did allow her to come back here to live. I mean, I’ll be working all day and most evenings, so I’m not going to have a lot of time to be with her – or to keep tabs on her, for that matter.’
She was quiet for a moment.
‘And I still can’t face the thought of telling her about Lily’s.’
Peter sensed Rosie’s frustration, as well as the heavy weight of responsibility she clearly felt when it came to Charlotte. He understood. If he was in Rosie’s shoes, he’d also feel a certain amount of reticence regarding Charlotte’s possible return, although, having finally met Lily and George, he honestly believed that Charlotte could only benefit from their love and care. It was as plain as day just how much they thought of Rosie, and also how protective they were about her. Peter knew that they would apply the same intensity of love to Charlotte and would probably be even more protective of her because of her youth.
Rosie put her teacup on the bedside table and snuggled back up to her husband.
‘I’ve promised Kate to take Charlotte to the boutique when she visits next. She’s dying to meet her. I think it means even more to Kate because Charlotte and I are the only connection Kate has with her old life.’
‘When she lived in Whitburn?’
‘Mmm, when her mum was still alive.’ Rosie put her head on Peter’s chest. ‘Before Nazareth House.’
‘How old was she when she went there?’ Peter asked. ‘Ten,’ Rosie said.
‘And you don’t think she’ll get bothered any more by that Sister Bernadette?’ Peter asked. Rosie had told him all about the nun’s unexpected visit to the Maison Nouvelle, and how Kate had sought sanctuary in a bottle of cooking brandy, which was the reason she had forgotten to give Rosie his letter.
‘I’m not sure, to be honest,’ Rosie mused.
They were both quiet for a moment. Both thinking of the great many injustices at home and abroad.
Rosie turned her head to look at Peter’s profile.
‘I know there’s so much you can’t tell me, Peter, but you’ll be careful out there – as careful as you can – won’t you?’
Peter looked his wife in the eye.
‘I will do everything in my power to stay safe. Alive,’
Peter said. He traced her face gently with the tips of his fingers.
‘I have so much to live for. Every night I lie and think of you and imagine our life together, here in this house, after the war has ended.’
He was quiet for a moment.
‘But you do understand why I’m doing what I’m doing, don’t you?’
Rosie pressed herself even closer and kissed him on the lips.
‘I do, Peter. I really do.’
‘It’s unbelievable what’s happening over there,’ Peter said. ‘Shocking.’ He shook his head, stressing his disbelief. Rosie saw the look on Peter’s face – the seriousness, the sorrow, and the anger. ‘I thought I’d seen pretty much all sides of human nature working for the Borough, but what’s happening now is far, far worse.’
Rosie put her arm across Peter’s chest and felt the warmth of his skin on hers.
‘Hannah tells us bits and pieces that she hears from her rabbi, you know, things that don’t always make it into the newspapers. None of us know what to say. What can you say? This ghetto her parents are in sounds awful. How the poor girl sleeps at night, I’ve no idea.’
Peter had heard about the Theresienstadt ghetto and others like it, but didn’t say so to Rosie.
‘Hannah says it’s like the Jews are being treated as though they have some terrible contagious disease.’
Peter nodded. He thought about the Jews in Paris, how they now had to wear the yellow Star of David and were banned from all restaurants, cafés, cinemas and theatres. He could feel his blood boil even now as he recalled having to stand back and watch as the Gestapo carried out a huge trawl of the city, rounding up thousands of Jewish men, women and children and herding them into the Vélodrome d’Hiver, the city’s main sports stadium, before packing them all off on trains to the so-called ‘labour camps’, or rather, ‘death camps’, as they were becoming known.
‘And what’s truly worrying,’ Peter said, ‘is that if we lose this war, exactly the same will happen over here. And it won’t just be the Jews, but any other race Hitler decides he wants to wipe off the face of this planet.’
Peter blew out air, sat up and pulled Rosie closer to him. Rosie shivered at the thought.
‘Anyway, enough morbid talk,’ Peter said, thinking that this woman lying next to him had known her own horror during her lifetime and she didn’t need burdening with more. ‘I think we’ve got at least another hour or so before I’ve got to go.’
He looked at the little clock on the bedside table.
‘And I don’t want to spend it talking.’
Peter kissed Rosie and she responded.
And for the next hour they put aside all talk of the poison that Hitler was spreading across Europe and beyond – and instead they thought only of love.
Chapter Thirty-One
Peter had tried to persuade Rosie to say goodbye to him at the house but he should have realised that this was never going to happen. Rosie had merely laughed at the suggestion, put on her overalls, grabbed her gas mask and holdall and walked out the front door. Peter had smiled and acquiesced, and the pair had walked together into town. Rosie had waited with him until his train arrived and stayed there for a while after it had pulled out of the station. Only then had she allowed herself to cry. And cry she did.
She had then dried her eyes and walked back out into the slightly chilly but sunny morning and escaped into thoughts of the previous night as she had walked to work, choosing the longer route across the Wearmouth Bridge.
She had bumped into Helen at the main entrance and was taken aback when Helen had smiled at Rosie and wished her ‘Good morning.’
Heading over to the welders’ work area, she had returned to her private reminiscences. As they’d had breakfast this morning, Peter had promised to try to send her a letter or some other kind of sign that he was alive and well, but that she must not think the worst if she didn’t receive anything. He had warned her that it wouldn’t be long before the whole of France came under German occupation, which would, therefore, make any kind of communication nigh-on impossible.
Rosie had been able to ask him some questions about his everyday life in France, and he’d told her about some of the strange habits peculiar to the French; she was aghast to hear they ate snails, cooked in butter and garlic and served in their shells, and that the people loved nothing more than strolling along the street with a freshly baked baguette, tearing bits off and eating it as they went about their business. Rosie knew that what Peter was able to tell her was also mere crumbs, but she had been starved of any kind of knowledge of what his life was like over there – had only her imagination to fill in the blanks – so she was more than happy to have her own frugal nibble, which felt like a feast in comparison to what she’d been fed these past seven months.
Peter had also talked about his mother and how he would be forever thankful that she had forced him to speak her native tongue, but it was something Rosie secretly wished that she hadn’t done. If Peter’s French wasn’t so fluent, he would still be here in his hometown, enjoying tea with
her this evening. They could make love knowing that they could do the same the following night, and every night thereafter if they so desired – and not as though it might be their last time.
‘Miss! Are yer all reet, miss?’
Rosie looked up to see Angie and Dorothy stomping across the yard towards her.
‘We’ve been watching yer since we came into the yard ’n yer haven’t moved a muscle – just staring at the ground like yer were in some sort of trance,’ Angie said, concerned.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Honestly.’ Rosie shook her head as though waking herself up. ‘I think I just drifted off into my own little world for a moment.’
‘Dinnit worry, miss.’ Angie smiled. ‘Dor’s always going off into her own “little world”.’
Dorothy gave Angie a scathing stare.
‘It’s called daydreaming, Angie, and it’s meant to be good for you, isn’t it, “miss”?’ Rosie chuckled as she heaved a box from the shed and dumped it on the workbench.
‘Presents,’ she said, ‘courtesy of Helen.’
‘Cor!’ Angie said, striding over to the box and gaping inside. ‘Eee, Dor, come and look – we’ve got new rods and everything!’
Dorothy gave Rosie a mock-weary look and did what her best mate asked. Secretly, though, she was relieved that Rosie was all right. For a moment, when she’d seen her there, just staring into space, she’d thought something might have happened to Peter. They didn’t need another one of their gang walking around with a broken heart.
As Rosie stood up and straightened her back, she realised she’d have to be careful today. She’d had so little sleep and, as Dorothy and Angie had just brought to her attention, she wasn’t at all with it. Sleep deprivation and the high she’d felt, having just spent the last twelve hours with the man she loved, made a heady combination.
Looking across the yard, her eyes focused on the rest of her squad negotiating the usual obstacle course of men, metal and machinery. As they neared, though, Rosie immediately saw that something was wrong. Polly was flanked by Gloria and Martha and looked terrible. She had dried tear marks lining her face and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot.
‘Oh God, it must be Tommy!’ Rosie heard Dorothy’s voice behind her.
‘Polly,’ Rosie hurried over to see her, ‘what’s happened?’ Rosie looked at Gloria and Martha, who were both wearing grim expressions, but they didn’t volunteer any information.
Rosie put her arm round Polly, guided her over to the pallets and sat her down. Dorothy sat on her other side, while Angie poured her a cup of tea from her flask.
Polly took it in both hands and sipped.
‘They sent back all of Tommy’s gear,’ she said simply. Rosie looked up at Gloria, who was standing nearby. Martha had bobbed down on her haunches in front of Polly, her big hands on her workmate’s knees.
‘That doesn’t mean he’s dead, Pol,’ she said.
Polly looked at Martha and round at the rest of the women and forced a brave smile.
‘I know.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath, the kind that follows a prolonged bout of crying.
‘It just seems so final. If they thought he was coming back they’d have kept his stuff, wouldn’t they?’
Rosie looked to Gloria, hoping she’d know more about these things, having two boys at sea.
‘I believe they have a set time before they send stuff back home.’ Gloria pulled up a crate next to Martha and sat down. ‘It’s just a formality.’
Gloria had no idea if this was the case, but sometimes white lies needed to be told.
Polly looked up.
‘I’m sorry, everyone. I wish I could be braver. I feel like I’m letting Tommy down, but I just don’t seem to be able to stop blubbering.’
More tears cascaded down her face.
She bowed her head.
Rosie gave her another squeeze and carefully pushed Polly’s long, slightly curly hair away from her face, now wet with tears.
When the klaxon sounded out, Rosie didn’t move, but instead looked up at Gloria and cocked her head in the direction of Brutus.
‘Come on.’ Gloria touched Martha’s shoulder and stood up. She looked at Dorothy and Angie. ‘Let’s make a start.’ For the next ten minutes Rosie and Polly sat together. There were no words spoken as the riveters had started up nearby. Not that Polly really wanted to talk. There was nothing she wanted to say and nothing much else anyone could really say to her by way of comfort. It had been eight weeks since she had received the letter from Tommy’s commander. Eight weeks of being pushed and pulled between two poles of thought:
Hope that Tommy was somehow still alive.
And acceptance that he was dead.
Rosie kept her arm around Polly, who rested her tired head on her boss’s shoulder, tears rolling down her cheeks. Their view of the river was obscured by a frigate that had been moored by the quayside. As if to rub salt into Polly’s wounds, two Wear Commissioner dock divers were getting ready to go and inspect the damage. If they had been able to see the two women’s faces from one of the little port windows on their twelve-bolt helmets, they would have seen a picture of the two faces of war.
Grief and anger.
Polly had finally given up her grip on the hope she had been desperately hanging on to by the tips of her fingers. And in its place, she had handed over a free rein to grief.
Rosie, on the other hand, was in fury’s hold. Anger seeping from every pore. All this heartache, sorrow, death and destruction need never have been. This madman and all his willing cohorts were not just taking land and lives – the lives of tens of thousands of men, women and children – but were also ripping love out of the very hearts of those they’d left behind.
Rosie put both her arms around Polly and gave her a gentle cuddle, wanting to make her feel better, but knowing that it was impossible. She thought about Peter and what he had said when she had told him about Tommy. It was obvious that he too thought Polly’s fiancé had become yet another victim of war, and he had told Rosie that she and her squad had to be strong for each other.
‘You have to be there for each other, look after each other. And,’ he’d added, a stern look in his eyes, ‘you have to accept each other’s help.’
Rosie knew what he was really saying.
She pushed the thought away.
After a while Polly sat up. She looked at Rosie and mouthed, ‘I’m all right,’ and the two walked over to the dry basin to join the rest of the women welders. Rosie didn’t question whether Polly was up to work because she knew that she wasn’t up to not working. Building ships might not mend her broken heart, but it would help her survive.
And in these times that was about as much as they could hope for.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘Baker Street, please,’ Peter told the taxi driver as he jumped into the back seat of the black cab.
Typical, he thought. There hadn’t been any free taxis when he was desperate to get to Rosie, but on walking out of King’s Cross with time to spare, there’d been a whole line of cabs waiting.
‘Anywhere in particular on Baker Street, sir?’ the cabby asked, his balding head turned slightly to his left so he could be heard through the half-opened glass partition.
‘No, anywhere will do,’ Peter said. There was no way he could give the driver an address because where he was going didn’t technically exist. The Special Operations Executive headquarters had expanded from number 64, so that it now occupied much of the western side of Baker Street. If anyone were to ask, the properties were said to be occupied by the Admiralty or Air Ministry, or some kind of civilian company. What went on in those buildings in Baker Street was top secret, as well as surprisingly controversial. Churchill’s so-called ‘secret army’ was still seen by many in the know as an unacceptable – ‘ungentlemanly’ – form of warfare.
Driving along the long stretch of Euston Road, leading on to Marylebone Road, Peter looked out the window.
‘Bleedin’ Jerry, eh?’ the cabb
y said, as much to himself as to his passenger.
Peter nodded as he continued to look out at the huge mountains of rubble, dust and debris interspersed along their route, as well as countless partially demolished buildings, one of which, the cabby pointed out, was Madame Tussauds. There was no denying London had not only taken several beatings, but was being obliterated, razed to the ground, brick by brick.
There had never been any doubt from the start of Peter’s initiation into this exclusive group of undercover agents that what he and others like him were doing was right, totally justified, but passing the ruins of so many once-beautiful buildings, churches, shops and family homes, Peter’s resolve was made even more steadfast. Great Britain and her Allies could not lose this war. Just the thought of it made Peter feel ill. Looking at what was happening to his own country, and having seen the Third Reich in action in Paris, he knew exactly the kinds of atrocities that would be inflicted on Rosie and just about everyone else living in this once green and pleasant land.
Quite frankly, it terrified him. Much more than losing his own life.
Thank goodness Rosie understood that he had to do everything and anything he could to protect the country he loved and the people in it.
And thank goodness Rosie had people like George – and Lily – who would always be there for her, regardless of what might happen to him. He had been dreading going to the bordello and would have given anything for Rosie to have been there at home in Brookside Gardens when he had arrived last night, but he was actually quite pleased that he had ended up at the house in West Lawn. It was good to meet them all, to put faces and personalities to the names. And boy, were they all personalities, every single one of them, each in their own unique way. Lily had been even more outrageous and over the top, in both looks and behaviour, than he had anticipated. She had dominated the ten minutes they had all spent in the kitchen, and had pretty much grilled Peter about all aspects of his life to date. It had not escaped his notice that she had lost her faux French persona by the time they had all raised a toast, and by the end of their short little soirée had been speaking like the cabby presently chauffeuring him across the capital.
