Shipyard Girls 10.The Shipyard Girls on the Home Front

by Nancy Revell

  Helen also found herself subjected to similar tirades whenever Dorothy would drag her aside for a ‘quick chat’ that ended up being anything but quick. After listening, Helen would tell Dorothy that she didn’t think there was anything any of them could do other than wait it out, and she was sure the situation would sort itself ‘sometime soon’. To which Dorothy would huff and say, ‘Let’s hope sometime this century.’

  Helen thought Jack was wise to agree to stay out of the way when Bobby paid his weekly visits to the flat, giving Gloria’s son the space he needed. If Jack went up against Bobby, it would only cause ructions, which would likely make Gloria feel as though she had to choose between her son and the man she loved. And she knew her father didn’t want that. It would be a recipe for disaster.

  If Bobby didn’t want him around for a few hours on a Friday night, her father had told her, then that was fine with him. Even if Bobby never came round to accepting him in his mother’s life, then he’d deal with it. There were worse things.

  Helen, though, could see that her father was becoming more impatient about when Miriam was going to file for divorce. She knew how desperate he was to make his union with Gloria legitimate. Living with her while still married to another woman did not sit comfortably on his shoulders. Not that it was something he talked about to Helen; she knew he did not want to bring his daughter onto the battlefield of his marriage.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday 28 March

  ‘I think we all deserve a pat on the back – or a bonus in our pay packets,’ Jimmy said as the shipyard’s entire workforce slowly made its way over to the far end of the yard to the dry basins.

  ‘Two in one day,’ Rosie smiled. She was bursting with pride. They’d managed to build two vessels bound for France in record time and they were being launched on the same day. ‘It helps having a full squad,’ she added, cocking her head back. They both looked behind to see the women welders walking alongside Jimmy’s gang of riveters.

  ‘With yer having Polly back?’ Jimmy asked, lighting his rollie as they walked.

  ‘That and the fact you’re not nicking Martha off me all the time,’ she laughed.

  ‘I would be if Helen’d let me,’ Jimmy said, deadpan, expelling smoke.

  ‘She wouldn’t dare,’ Rosie said. ‘I’d go spare. You’ve got more than your fair share now.’

  They both knew Rosie was referring to the latest addition to Jimmy’s squad – Bobby.

  ‘Aye, yer right there,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘He getting on all right?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘More than all right,’ said Jimmy. ‘He’s like a machine, he is – never stops. Driven. Can’t get enough overtime. He’s proving to be a real role model for the younger lads.’

  Rosie glanced round to see the young rivet burner and catcher jostling each other and joking around, their young faces smeared with dirt but animated with excitement at the prospect of a launch.

  ‘Does Bobby get on with everyone?’ Rosie asked, trying not to sound like she was probing. Gloria had confided in her that she had no idea how her son was doing. During his Friday visits he was polite enough, but he still had his defences up. The time he spent at the flat was purely given over to playing with Hope – except, of course, for his verbal sparring with Dorothy.

  ‘He’s not the chattiest of blokes I’ve worked with,’ Jimmy said, taking a string of tobacco off his lip, ‘but he gets on with everyone.’

  They carried on walking to the dry dock at the very end of the yard, where the first launch was to take place.

  Rosie knew Gloria was over the moon that Bobby adored Hope and wanted to be a part of her life, but it was obvious to them all that she was hurt by Bobby’s refusal to reconcile their differences and accept Jack as part of the family. Personally, she couldn’t understand it. They were all alive – and together. They should be counting their blessings.

  ‘How you doing, Dorothy?’ Bobby asked, nudging a path through the crowd of workers all heading over to the ways.

  His question was met by a dark, sidelong look from Dorothy, and a smile from Angie next to her. Dorothy walked on in silence.

  ‘She’s good,’ Angie said. ‘We’ve just been chatting about Pearl and Bill’s wedding.’

  Bobby smiled. He had heard all about the wedding from Bel, who had told him several times these past few weeks that she would never have guessed she would ever see her ma hitched, and that, in fact, she would not believe it until it happened.

  ‘Are yer gannin?’ Angie asked.

  ‘I’ve been invited,’ Bobby said. ‘So, yes, I’ll be there.’ He looked at Dorothy, who was muttering something under her breath he couldn’t make out. He followed her line of vision as she looked over at Gloria, who was chatting to Martha and the young girl from the drawing office who he knew was called Hannah.

  Dorothy looked back up at him. ‘Why won’t you make things up properly with your mam? Today would be the perfect opportunity,’ she said. ‘The day of your first launch. Ships we’ve all been working on. Together. Men and women. Mothers and sons.’

  Bobby laughed loudly. ‘That sounds like something Churchill would say.’

  They walked on.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bobby, just be nice to her!’ Dorothy demanded.

  ‘I am nice. You make me sound like I’m horrible to her,’ Bobby defended himself.

  ‘What? Like you are to Jack?’ Dorothy hissed.

  ‘I’m not horrible to Jack either,’ Bobby said, his expression innocent.

  ‘Actually, you’re not,’ Dorothy conceded. ‘You’re not horrible because you don’t even speak to the man – you don’t get the chance to be horrible to him.’ She looked at him. ‘Although, some would argue that not speaking to someone is in itself being horrible.’

  Bobby shook his head and touched his ear, indicating that he couldn’t hear.

  Dorothy stomped round so that she was walking on his right side.

  ‘You’re being civil to your mam like she’s a stranger – not like she’s your mother, the person who brought you up, cared for you, loved you, who has been worried sick about you since the day war was declared.’

  Bobby looked down at Dorothy. Every time he saw her, they had the same conversation. He didn’t mind being castigated on a regular basis; he just wished he didn’t feel like kissing her every time she opened that very loud but lovely mouth of hers.

  Watching the launch of both landing craft, Rosie’s physical being might well have been in a shipyard on the north-east coast of England, but her mind was somewhere on the north-west coast of France – an area she was now quite well acquainted with thanks to Charlotte getting her a map of France from the school library. They had both studied it the other night, looking at where the invasion would likely take place and wondering where Peter might be. They had chatted about the ‘dress rehearsals’ that were taking place on the stretches of beaches along the Devon coastline, and Rosie had explained to her little sister about the Royal Navy landing craft that all the shipyards were producing. Charlotte had, of course, taken the opportunity to quiz her big sister more about Peter, making Rosie repeat what she had already told her about how they had met and fallen in love. Charlotte never tired of listening, just as Rosie never tired of the telling. When Rosie told her again about her wedding in Guildford, how she had been married for barely two days before Peter left for the war, Charlotte had sighed, as she always did, saying, ‘How sad, but so romantic.’

  Minutes after the second landing craft hit the water, Rosie turned to her squad. ‘Back to work we go!’ The harder they worked, the more ships they got down the ways, the more chance they’d win this war. Which, of course, meant Peter would return.

  Rosie would get the man she loved back. For good.

  ‘Come on, Dor, what yer deeing?’ Angie was standing with her haversack and air raid mask slung over her shoulder, hands on hips.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Dorothy said, pretending to do up the shoelaces on her boots. ‘Do you w
ant me to go flying and break an arm and then I won’t be able to work and Rosie will flip her lid?’

  Dorothy looked up to see that Rosie was now standing next to Angie, looking equally impatient to be off.

  ‘Sorry, Rosie,’ Dorothy quickly added, ‘I didn’t see you there.’ She stood up. ‘And of course I know that obviously you would never flip your lid.’

  ‘I might if you don’t get a move on,’ Rosie said. She liked to be the last to leave, to make sure all their machines had been switched off and their equipment put away.

  ‘You get yourself off,’ Dorothy said, throwing Angie a look. ‘I’ve gotta go to the loo. I think I drank too much tea this afternoon. It’s gone through me like water through a sieve.’

  Angie frowned. Dorothy hadn’t drunk any tea this afternoon. She’d said the weather was too hot.

  ‘All right then,’ Rosie said, wanting to get home, get changed and get to Lily’s. The sooner her work there was done, the sooner she would be home for Charlotte. ‘See you all tomorrow,’ she said, having a quick last look around. Everything seemed in order. ‘Have a nice evening.’

  Angie waited until Rosie was out of earshot. ‘What yer playing at, Dor?’

  ‘Come on, follow me,’ Dorothy commanded, tugging Angie off in the direction of the women’s toilets.

  ‘What? Yer really do need the lav?’ Now Angie was totally puzzled.

  ‘No, of course I don’t. You know me, cast-iron bladder,’ Dorothy said. They all had cast-iron bladders due to their reluctance to use the yard’s very basic facilities. Although none of them had ever seen a rat, they’d all heard scratching sounds, which got worse the warmer the weather.

  ‘So, what we doing?’

  Angie suddenly felt herself being grabbed by the arm and propelled sideways and under the long iron neck of a resting crane.

  ‘’Ere, Dor, I’m not a rag doll, yer knar,’ she said, looking askance at her friend.

  ‘We’re waiting on Bobby,’ Dorothy explained. ‘This has gone on too long. He needs to hear some home truths.’

  ‘Ah, nah, Dor,’ Angie wailed. ‘You can’t force people to dee what yer think they should be deeing.’

  Dorothy shot Angie a look before focusing her attention back on the yard.

  ‘I beg to differ,’ she said defiantly.

  They both watched as the yard started to clear. Dorothy knew that Bobby was usually one of the last to leave the day shift, sometimes even staying on to do a few hours with workers on the evening shift. Polly had told them that Agnes had got into the habit of putting his supper in the oven to keep warm.

  ‘There he is,’ Angie said, hopeful he wouldn’t stand about chatting too long. Quentin was due to call this evening and she’d be gutted if she missed him. ‘Ah, nah, he’s gannin into the platers’ shed.’

  They stood watching and waiting for five long minutes.

  ‘Dor, this doesn’t feel right,’ Angie said. ‘I feel like we’re spying on him.’

  ‘We’re not spying – we’re waiting,’ Dorothy said, eyes trained on the entrance to the huge prefabricated metal shed.

  Another five minutes passed that felt longer still.

  ‘Dor, I’m gonna have to gan. I’ll miss Quentin’s call if we hang about much longer.’

  Dorothy looked at Angie’s forlorn face. ‘OK, let’s walk over to the main gates and if he’s not come by then, you can go and catch lover boy and I’ll stay here.’

  ‘Gee thanks, Dor. That’s kind of you,’ Angie said with undisguised sarcasm.

  ‘I know,’ Dor said as they both stepped out of the shadow of the mammoth crane. ‘I’m a kind and considerate friend, I am.’

  When they reached the timekeeper’s cabin, it was nearly six o’clock. Dorothy shouted up at Davey to put down half five, which was the time they should have left.

  ‘Now, we’re lying as well as spying,’ Angie mumbled as they walked away from the large metal gates that had been partially closed after the end of the day shift.

  ‘No, Ange, lying would be making out we’ve worked an extra half-hour and we’ve not.’

  Dorothy took a final look into the main yard before turning back to Angie. ‘Go on then, go and have your verbal smooch with Quentin and I’ll see you a bit later.’

  ‘Don’t forget Toby’s ringing yer at seven,’ Angie said, turning to leave.

  ‘As if,’ Dorothy tutted. But in truth, she was surprised to realise she actually had forgotten. Lately it seemed that she was thinking more about Bobby than her own beau. She was certainly seeing more of him.

  ‘At last!’ Dorothy mumbled to herself as she pushed herself up from the kerb of the embankment and wiped dirt and grit off her bottom. It was warm and she had slipped her arms out of her overalls and tied the sleeves around her waist. She had also untied her headscarf and her dark brown hair was hanging in loose, messy curls over her shoulders and down her back. She had been enjoying the feel of the early-evening sun on her skin. It wasn’t often she felt anything other than scratchy denim on her body during the day. Dorothy, like all the women welders, was terrified of getting burned and scarred by spitting welds. It hurt and it was unsightly when they did get to dress up and go out.

  ‘Bobby!’ Dorothy shouted out as he took his time card off Davey and started to make his way down to the embankment.

  Stopping dead in his tracks, he shielded his eyes against the sun. Seeing Dorothy walking towards him, he couldn’t speak, only stare. She looked like some Greek goddess, the kind some of his shipmates had inked on their arms and chests. She looked incredibly strong, her arms toned, the muscles defined. The vest she had on looked like a man’s, but what it was covering was far from manly.

  ‘Dear me,’ he finally found his voice, ‘you’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  ‘And you’re late!’ Dorothy retorted, totally unfazed by the way he was looking at her. ‘I’ve been waiting ages.’

  Bobby gave a bark of laughter, which was part amused, part incredulous, a reaction Dorothy always seemed to provoke in him. ‘I wasn’t aware we had arranged a date.’

  ‘We hadn’t,’ Dorothy said simply.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Bobby said, still standing rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the incredibly scruffy, but also incredibly sexy woman welder standing in front of him, hands on hips, wearing a pair of leather hobnailed boots. ‘I’ll just add telepathic communications to my considerable list of skills.’

  ‘Big-headedness is not an attractive quality in a man,’ Dorothy scowled.

  Bobby suppressed a smile. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, as it’s clear it’s me you’ve been waiting for?’

  Dorothy was just about to speak when he butted in. ‘No, I’m going to use my mind-reading abilities and tell you …’ he put his large, blackened hands to his temples ‘… you are here to speak to me about …’ a pained expression was followed by a look of enlightenment ‘… my mam.’

  ‘Ten out of ten,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Well, why don’t I get us both a drink from the Admiral?’ He glanced over to the pub at the bottom of the embankment. ‘We can drink it by the quayside, and you can tell me exactly what it is you want to say.’

  Dorothy stood for a moment. Realising she was actually really thirsty, not having drunk much all afternoon and having sweated a lot, she nodded. ‘All right. I’ll have a lemonade, please.’

  ‘Lemonade it is,’ he said, his eyes still on Dorothy as they walked over to the pub.

  Dorothy took a long drink, then turned her head to look at Bobby. They were sitting on the edge of the wharf, between two black metal balustrades, their overall-clad legs dangling down; the seagulls were squawking above them, the murky water of the Wear gently slapping against the quayside below. Dorothy felt conscious that their bodies were almost touching.

  As Bobby pulled his arms out of the top of his overalls, Dorothy leant to the side to allow him elbow room to free himself. He tied the sleeves around his waist, as Dorothy had done with hers. It was hot; the sea breez
e on his skin cooling. Dorothy couldn’t help but be taken aback by the sight of his tanned, very muscular arms, as well as by his array of tattoos. There was an anchor and a nautical star on one arm, a swallow on each shoulder and what looked like two cannons crossed on one of his forearms and a dagger going through a rose on the other. She forced herself not to stare.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Bobby said. ‘You said you wanted to speak to me about my mam.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, a little distracted.

  ‘And?’ Bobby said, looking at her profile and thinking he would love to do a sketch of her and send it to Gordon.

  ‘When are you going to start being nice to her – and Jack?’ Dorothy turned her head and forced herself to look Bobby in the eye, something she found surprisingly hard to do.

  Bobby let out a hearty laugh. ‘Don’t hold back, Dorothy.’

  ‘I speak as I find,’ she threw him a scathing look, ‘and I find your behaviour around Gloria and Jack …’ She paused, trying to find the right word. ‘Distant … Distant and cold … And unfeeling.’

  Bobby exhaled. He’d been back almost a month now and during that time Dorothy had repeatedly asked him the same question but in a myriad different ways. Bobby looked at her face, which was painted with smears of soot and dirt, but looked just as attractive as when he’d seen her that first night all done up to the nines.

  ‘I think you’re going to have to let it go, Dorothy. I know you think the world of Mam, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but this is a family matter. It’s something I have to sort out with my mam myself. Just the two of us.’

  Dorothy sighed. Angie and Helen had said the same to her.

  ‘I do understand that.’ She tried to soften her tone. ‘But the thing is, Bobby, you’re not going to be able to sort it out if you and Gloria don’t actually talk to each other.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘And also, I know when you do get round to talking, there’ll be a lot Gloria won’t tell you.’