by Nancy Revell
Dr Parker chuckled.
‘I take it your hard-put-upon secretary is from the Land of the Blarney?’
Helen nodded. ‘Even if she didn’t speak, you’d know. Long curly ginger hair. Pale. Freckles. Sea-blue eyes.’
Helen got out her handbag and pulled the little saucer on which the bill had been placed towards her.
‘My treat,’ she said, pulling out her purse.
‘Please,’ Dr Parker said, trying to take the bill from Helen’s grasp. ‘I can’t allow the woman to pay. It goes against every bone in my body.’
‘Well,’ Helen said, ‘it’ll just have to.’ She opened her purse and put five shillings on the silver dish, which included a generous tip.
‘Besides, if I pay,’ Helen added, ‘the young waitress will know we’re not a couple, and you can come back and ask her out on a date.’
Dr Parker forced an unconvincing laugh.
‘Just look at that lovely dress,’ Helen said as they walked out of the Holme Café.
Dr Parker looked at the pastel pink wedding dress that was displayed in the window.
‘The seamstress here,’ Helen pointed at the Maison Nouvelle sign above the shop, ‘is incredible. There’s nothing she can’t do with a needle and thread – and her designs …
Amazing. She’s shown me a few and they are wonderful. If we win this war—’
‘When,’ Dr Parker interrupted.
‘When we win this war,’ Helen corrected herself, ‘she’s going to be huge. You mark my words.’
As they turned and walked back down Holmeside, Helen looked at the museum. ‘Remember that night?’
Dr Parker nodded, knowing exactly which night Helen was referring to. The fateful night she had left the charity do and had unwittingly been targeted by Theodore, who had followed her out, slowly reeled her in, and landed her good and proper.
‘I often think of that evening,’ Helen said. ‘Do you remember that you were a real gentleman and offered to walk me to the Grand?’
Dr Parker nodded.
‘I often think that if I’d have said yes, my life would have been so different. I’d never have ended up going out with Theodore – and none of this awfulness would have happened.’
Helen took Dr Parker’s arm as they strolled to the bus stop on Fawcett Street, both lost in their own worlds, thinking of what life might have been like if only Helen had said yes.
Helen lay in her bed and let the tears roll down her cheeks. She knew her eyes would be puffy in the morning, but she didn’t care.
When she had been discharged from hospital, she had made a resolution not to shed another tear over her baby – she had cried enough. She had sobbed so much during the two and a half days she’d been in the Royal, she’d believed she had no more tears left.
But she did.
There seemed to be a bottomless well of the damn things. After being driven from the hospital, she had walked back through her front door and cried.
She had gone to her bed and stayed there for two days and cried.
She had come downstairs and eaten whatever Mrs Westley had put in front of her and cried.
She had walked into the room that she had intended to be her baby’s nursery and sat on the bare mattress and cried so much she thought her head was going to explode.
And today, when she was with John, she’d felt like crying – really crying – but, thank goodness, she’d manged to stop herself. She might have lost just about everything else, but she was determined to hang on to her dignity.
The only time she didn’t feel like crying was when she saw her mother, which wasn’t often. Her mother had put on a display of concern, but it didn’t wash with Helen any more, although it did make her wonder how many occasions in the past her mother had put on the same false mask and she had believed the pretence.
Helen had told her mother, ‘The joy in your eyes belies the words coming out of your mouth, dear Mama,’ before adding that she thought it would be best all round if they simply avoided each other. Every night since she had heard her mother quietly slip out to the Grand, no doubt to continue celebrating her sudden and unexpected turn of fortune.
Helen was glad she was going back to work. She needed to hear the chaotic cacophony that was the sound of the shipyards – she needed to hear life, feel life, to be a part of life. She felt as though she was drowning in death – and as much as she would have preferred to have been sucked under, she knew that was not to be.
Her baby had been taken from her – dragged from her very being – but she had been washed ashore.
Chapter Fifty
Two weeks later
Friday 2 October
When all her squad had sat down at their table in the canteen, Rosie rummaged around in her haversack and pulled out half a dozen white envelopes. Like a seasoned croupier she dealt one card to each of the women presently tucking into their lunch.
Dorothy immediately dropped her knife and fork and snatched up her card. Inspecting the front of the envelope on which her full name had been written in swirling calligraphy, she quickly opened it and pulled out a gold-embossed wedding invitation.
‘Oh. My. God!’ she declared. ‘Cinderella is going to the ball!’ All the other women had also stopped eating and were opening up their envelopes.
‘Cor.’ Angie was agog. ‘We’re being invited to your Lily’s wedding, miss?’ she asked Rosie in disbelief.
‘It’s also your landlord’s wedding, don’t forget,’ Rosie said, looking at all the surprised faces.
‘What? We’re being invited to both the wedding and the party afterwards?’ Martha was also staring slightly open-mouthed at the thick white card she was holding carefully in her hand.
‘That’s what the invite says,’ Rosie answered, suppressing a smile.
‘Blimey, they’re having the after-do in the Grand!’ Polly exclaimed.
Rosie looked at Gloria, who was staring down at her invite. She looked up.
‘A week before Christmas. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to get married then.’
Rosie chuckled.
‘Well, that’s Lily for you. God forbid she does anything that may be in the least bit conventional.’
‘This,’ Dorothy declared, waving her invitation in the air and nudging Angie, ‘is going to be the best Christmas ever!’
The rest of the lunch break was spent excitedly discussing every aspect of the Yuletide nuptials in between mouthfuls of fish pie. Dorothy was so excited she looked like she was going to burst. Rosie felt as if she was on some kind of quiz show, with question after question being fired at her, each one demanding an instant response. When Hannah and Olly turned up later with their packed lunches, they automatically took a joint step back as five ecstatic faces loomed at them and broke the latest news.
The two lovebirds, as they were now known, were clearly chuffed to pieces at being given an invitation as a couple. Olly’s Cheshire-cat grin said it all, while Hannah admitted she was particularly excited about seeing the Grand because of what she had heard about its colourful history and artistic interior design.
During the flurry of chatter, Rosie kept a discreet eye on Polly. She had actually put off handing out the invitations for fear of causing her more heartache. A wedding might be a cause de célébration, as Lily had declared the other night when dishing out the invitations to the girls at the bordello, but for Polly it could only be a reminder of the love she had lost. The wedding she would never have. Watching her now, smiling at Dorothy’s and Angie’s high jinks and animated discussion on what they were – and were most definitely not – going to wear, it didn’t appear as though the wedding invites had pushed the knife in any further. Or was that because the blade of grief had already gone as deep as it could go and there was no more damage to be done?
As Dorothy debated what she and Angie should wear and just about every other aspect of what promised to be a rather grand wedding, Polly again forced herself to smile, determined that no one should gues
s her true feelings – should see her broken heart.
She used the past tense as her heart did indeed feel as though it had now broken. The actual breaking had been a slow process – delayed by the hope that Tommy might still be alive. Somewhere. That some day she might see him again. But when she’d received the letter about his gratuity pay that morning, what little hope she had hung on to had been yanked away from her.
Seeing her workmates’ jubilation over Lily’s forthcoming nuptials, she wished more than anything that she could participate more in their excitement. Feel that lightness of being. But how could she when all she was able to think about was her own wedding – the one that she should have been planning and looking forward to with Tommy.
She had never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but more than anything she did not want her workmates to know how she honestly felt for the simple reason that she did not want to see their happiness turn to sadness on seeing her pain.
She didn’t want her misery to infect their joy.
‘You all right? About this wedding malarkey?’ Rosie asked Polly as they all headed back into the yard. The temperature had dropped and the wind was whipping up.
Polly forced a smile and nodded. Rosie thought she looked on the verge of tears and realised that the blade of grief hadn’t, in fact, gone as deep as it could go.
‘Lily said to tell you that she won’t be offended if you decide you’re not up to coming,’ Rosie said.
Polly shook her head vehemently. ‘What? And miss out on a knees-up at the Grand? You’ve got to be joking.’ Her words were jovial, but her voice sounded shaky. Polly stopped to put the invitation into the side pocket of her haversack. As she did so, an official-looking document poked out and Rosie couldn’t help but see the heading typed in big bold black lettering: payment of war gratuity.
Polly noticed that Rosie had seen it.
‘It’s notification of Tommy’s pay,’ she explained, sadly.
‘Apparently they pay it even if someone is missing or a prisoner of war. Tommy obviously told them to give it to me if anything were to happen to him.’ Polly stopped speaking for a moment. ‘I feel like giving it away – probably would, but Ma would kill me!’
Rosie could see Polly was struggling to keep it together. She looked at the rest of her squad, who were walking on ahead, still chattering away nineteen to the dozen.
‘I’m guessing you got it in the post this morning?’ Rosie asked.
Polly nodded.
‘Perfect timing, eh?’ Rosie said. She saw that Polly was subconsciously touching the top pocket in her overalls, where she kept her engagement ring. ‘And there’s me handing out wedding invites!’
Polly let out another sad laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have minded – I mean I don’t mind, really … It’s just so ironic because Tommy told me he was saving every penny of his pay for our wedding.’
‘Oh, Pol,’ Rosie said, putting her arm round her workmate and pulling her close, ‘I’m so sorry. I really am.’
Helen was smoking at the window overlooking the yard, watching the women welders as they made their way back to SS Brutus.
God, they all looked so bloomin’ chummy!
They had clearly had some good news as Dorothy was practically dancing across the yard and even Martha looked animated and was moving her great big arms around as she nattered away to Gloria. Polly didn’t look too chirpy, though. Mind you, that wasn’t surprising. Gloria kept her informed on any updates regarding Tommy and there still hadn’t been a word.
Helen stubbed out her Pall Mall. She had started smoking again, much to John’s disapproval. She was just about to turn back to her office when she saw Rosie putting her arm around Polly and comforting her. She felt a bolt of unrestrained jealousy.
‘Sorry, Miss Crawford.’ It was Marie-Anne shouting across to her from her desk. She had the black Bakelite receiver pressed into her chest.
‘You’ve got a call,’ she said, pointing down at the phone buried in her bosom.
Helen turned and walked back into her office.
‘Hello, Miss Crawford speaking,’ Helen said in the usual hoity-toity voice she used on the phone when she didn’t know who it was or it was someone she didn’t like.
‘Helen, it’s John!’
‘Are you all right? You sound harassed.’ Helen immediately picked up that he was in a rush.
‘Yes, sorry … I am … I’m just about to go into theatre. Bit of an emergency with one of our recent recruits.’
Helen had got used to John calling his patients ‘recruits’, as though they had signed up to being at the Ryhope.
‘No idea who the poor chap is … not that that’s so unusual.’
Helen knew her friend was anxious as he had a tendency to ramble when he was worried or under pressure.
‘Not that you need to know any of this.’ He paused. Helen could hear shouting in the background. ‘I just rang to say I won’t be able to meet up with you this evening. This looks like it’s going to be an all-nighter.’
‘John, don’t worry,’ Helen said. ‘Saving the life of some “poor chap” is a little more important than meeting me for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. Now, go and save a life!’
Helen heard more panicked shouts and the phone went dead.
After she put the phone down, Helen did something she would never normally have done and she offered up a prayer for the ‘poor chap’ with no name.
Please let him live, she silently pleaded.
It was as though lately she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else being deprived of life.
Chapter Fifty-One
The Ryhope Emergency Hospital
Two days later
Sunday 4 October
‘So, please tell me you saved the “poor chap” from the other day?’ Helen looked at Dr Parker. ‘Actually, scrap that. Only tell me if he’s alive. I don’t want to know otherwise.’
Dr Parker glanced across at Helen. She had finally got her colour back – and her figure. She looked more stunning than ever.
‘Well, we operated on him – and he did make it through.’ Helen noticed that John always used the plural when he talked about performing surgery. He had told her that any kind of operation was a team effort. Helen thought how totally different he was compared to Theodore, who had openly boasted about his prowess as a surgeon as though he were the Saviour himself.
‘But?’ Helen asked. ‘I can tell there’s a “but” coming.’
Dr Parker grimaced.
‘But,’ he said, ‘it’s still very touch-and-go. He’s got round-the-clock care, but to be honest, I think it’s fifty-fifty whether he makes it.’
The pair were strolling at a snail’s pace around the hospital grounds. They had their arms linked, as was their custom whenever they walked anywhere together. Dr Parker had caught their fractured reflection in one of the large windows criss-crossed with anti-blast tape, and had been reminded of the film The Wizard of Oz and of the way Dorothy had linked arms with her companions – the Scarecrow, the Lion and the Tin Man: totally platonic.
As he only had an hour to spare, and because Helen knew her friend craved fresh air whenever he got the chance to leave the confines of the hospital, she had suggested they spend the short time they had together simply walking around the grounds, chatting.
Helen smiled at a couple of soldiers in wheelchairs, who were chatting and smoking. Their faces lit up and they gave her a salute and a wink.
‘So, the other day when we spoke briefly on the phone – when it all sounded rather chaotic, to say the least – what was happening?’ Helen had become increasingly curious about John’s work at the hospital. Even more so after he’d saved her life.
‘Ruptured spleen, causing massive internal bleeding. If we hadn’t got him into theatre there and then he’d have been a goner for sure.’
Helen shivered. Perhaps someone had been listening to her prayer.
Helen looked at another soldier who was hobbling on crutches, a roll
ed-up cigarette in one hand. His left trouser leg had been pinned up, revealing a gap where the lower part of his limb should have been.
‘Nice day,’ he said to Dr Parker as he lurched past, swinging his lower body forward.
‘It is indeed, Danny,’ Dr Parker replied.
Helen smiled.
‘How can he be so cheery?’ she whispered when the one-legged solider was out of earshot.
‘I really have no idea,’ Dr Parker mused. ‘Danny’s just applied for a desk job with the War Office. Says if he’s not fighting, he’s got to be doing something to beat Jerry.’
They walked on in silence.
‘I guess that’s what they call an indomitable spirit,’ Dr Parker said.
‘Well,’ Helen said, ‘don’t you be getting any ideas about going off to the front line to work in any of those field hospitals you’ve been telling me about, or sailing off on one of those hospital ships that are being bombed even though they’re not supposed to be.’ She glanced at him and caught a look in his face she couldn’t read.
‘You hear me?’ she said. ‘You’re needed here … And I don’t just mean as my one and only friend.’
Dr Parker looked at Helen.
‘You have Gloria.’
‘Ah,’ Helen said, ‘Gloria’s more than a friend.’ She laughed. ‘Strange though this may sound – considering she is, after all, my father’s secret lover – Gloria’s more like the mother I never had and always wanted, if that makes sense?’
