by Nancy Revell
‘Probably the same as you,’ Rosie laughed. ‘Getting Denewood back on her feet.’
Helen smiled. ‘Well, it’s certainly going to put us back on schedule if you can. I came in this morning with Harold, but we didn’t expect to get much done, other than make sure she’d been plugged up properly so that we didn’t find her bedded down on the bottom of the Wear tomorrow.’
‘Jimmy and I’ve had a good look. There’s quite a bit shrapnel damage. And it seems her hull’s been used for target practice, judging by the number of bullet holes we’ve chalked around, but they’re no bigger than eight inches, so it shouldn’t be too hard to get her patched up. With any luck she could be good to go by the end of next week.’
‘That’ll be brilliant if you can.’ Helen looked over at Rosie’s squad.
‘Hi, Helen!’ Dorothy and Angie chorused.
Martha offered her a ginger biscuit, which Helen refused with a smile and a shake of her head.
‘You all right?’ Gloria asked. She had become like a replacement mother to Helen this past year and, like most mothers, could sense when there was something amiss.
‘Yes, yes,’ Helen said. She gave a smile that she hoped looked convincing.
She looked at the women in their oil-stained overalls.
‘Thank you for coming in today.’
‘Well, we’re not gonna let Jerry get the better of us, are we?’ Angie declared, pushing strands of strawberry-blonde hair back into the confines of her headscarf.
‘And when we heard Denewood had been damaged, we were livid, weren’t we, Ange?’ Dorothy looked at her friend, who nodded, her face solemn.
‘I don’t think Martha’s mam was too chuffed, though, was she?’ Angie looked back at her workmate.
Seeing the question on Helen’s face, Martha explained, ‘She reckoned I broke a promise.’
‘The promise being?’ Helen asked. She knew Martha’s ARP work and her job at the yard caused her parents untold worry.
‘Mam said I could go and help with looking for survivors, if I was careful and didn’t do anything daft.’
‘Like walk into a collapsing building,’ Angie hooted.
Everyone looked at Helen. She and Martha had done just that when they’d rescued Gloria and her little girl, Hope, during the Tatham Street bombing last October.
‘Mam said I could go, but that I had to take the next day off work.’
‘Which Martha readily agreed to as she wasn’t meant to be working anyway,’ Dorothy said, tying her dark brown hair up into a ponytail.
‘So, when we tipped up on the doorstep –’ Angie pulled a face ‘– Mrs Perkins was not exactly chuffed.’
‘I told Mam I couldn’t stay at home, knowing my squad were going in. Especially when they said what had happened to Denewood,’ Martha said.
‘Well, you must tell your mam and dad how much it’s appreciated,’ Helen said.
‘We’ll tell them,’ Angie chirped up. ‘Mrs Perkins invited me ’n Dor back for a roast after work. Said we’d need it to keep our strength up.’
‘I’m guessing Polly’s all right?’ Helen looked at Gloria, knowing she would have seen her when she went to drop Hope off at the Elliots’.
‘Oh, yes, she’s fine. She said she couldn’t just sit at home while us lot were at work, so she’s gone to get us some sandwiches from Vera’s.’
‘Along with Charlie,’ Rosie said, rolling her eyes. ‘God forbid she misses out on anything.’
In truth, Rosie was glad Charlotte was with Polly after yesterday’s drama at the parade.
Still, at least her little sister now ‘knew’ everything.
Well, just about everything.
There were still a couple of things she had yet to tell her.
Polly and Charlotte were walking along High Street East, which, despite a huge clear-up operation, was still looking very much like a war zone. There was rubble strewn about the road, causing the army trucks, fire engines and ambulances to drive slowly. Shattered glass glinted in the sunlight, and there was a trickling rivulet where a water main had burst.
Charlotte had lain awake until the early hours, going over and over everything she had learnt the day before. Every shocking detail – from how her older sister Rosie had ended up selling her body in order to buy Charlotte a future, to the truth about Rosie’s so-called welding accident, which had left her with a smattering of small scars across her face.
Rosie had warned her fellow welder Polly, who was temporarily working as a timekeeper until after she’d had the baby, that her sister might well quiz her about what she had found out. And she’d been right. It hadn’t taken fourteen-year-old Charlotte long before she had managed to steer the conversation round to when the squad of women welders had turned up on the night her uncle had nearly killed Rosie.
‘Were you scared?’ Charlotte asked ‘Mmm, I think I was more shocked then scared,’ Polly said, wishing she could walk faster, but her bump had now ballooned to a size that meant she had to accept her mobility was compromised.
‘Rosie said you all just appeared through the darkness like her knights in shining armour,’ Charlotte said.
‘Well, that’s a nice thing to say.’ Polly thought back to the evening when they had found Raymond forcing Rosie’s head over a live weld. ‘Although, to be honest, I don’t think we really did a lot. I think your uncle thought we were quite laughable. It was only when Martha suddenly stomped over to him and gave him a shove that we got Rosie away and he ended up tripping over a welding rod and falling into the Wear.’
‘Never to resurface!’ Charlotte declared triumphantly.
Polly looked at Charlotte. ‘But you know, Charlie, none of us wanted him to end up dead, tangled up at the bottom of the river.’ She was, of course, lying through her teeth.
‘I know. That’s what Rosie said,’ Charlotte said, forcing herself to slow down. They were nearly at the café and she had a load more questions she wanted to ask. ‘I was thinking last night …’ she continued, looking at Polly’s long, wavy chestnut hair. Her own hair was a similar colour, though it would take a while for her to grow it as long.
‘Mmm?’ Polly braced herself.
‘It wasn’t just Rosie you all saved that night, but me too. If you hadn’t saved my sister, he’d have come for me as well.’
Polly felt a shiver go down her spine.
‘I don’t believe in what ifs. Now, have you still got the list?’ Polly asked, relieved to be almost at Vera’s. Heaven only knew how Rosie coped with the constant barrage of questions. She’d looked shattered earlier and the relief on her face when Polly had agreed to take Charlie had spoken volumes.
Charlotte dug into her coat pocket.
‘Ta-dah!’ she declared, waving the list in the air.
‘Polly! Charlie!’ Hannah hurried over to them as soon as she heard the little bell over the café door tinkle and saw who it was.
‘Pojď sem! Come in! Come in!’ Hannah, a Jewish refugee from Prague, often broke into her native Czech when she was happy, excited, shocked or upset. Today she was overjoyed to see that those she knew and loved had survived the latest air raid unscathed.
Polly and Charlotte manoeuvred themselves around the tables, most of which were empty, though judging by the crumb-strewn plates and pots of cold tea, the café had been busy.
‘Well, this is a surprise!’ Hannah wrapped her skinny arms around Charlotte and hugged her, before turning to Polly, taking her hands and squeezing them.
‘Your baby is forcing me to keep you at arm’s length,’ she laughed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fit as a fiddle,’ Polly said, waving over to Vera and Hannah’s aunty Rina, who were both busy behind the counter. ‘Well, perhaps not quite as fit as I was …’ she looked down at the maternity dress she’d had to buy as none of her old clothes fitted her ‘… but I’m fine. I feel fine.’ Polly forced a reassuring smile on her face. She knew how lucky she was to have so many people around her who loved and cared for her, b
ut since she’d nearly miscarried back in March, she felt as though she spent most of her time convincing people that she and her baby were in tip-top health. Even her letters to Tommy these days were mostly about how well she was feeling and reassuring him how easy she was taking it, cooped up in the timekeeper’s cabin – and that she was definitely not welding.
‘You got Olly working here now?’ Polly joked as she spotted Hannah’s boyfriend coming out of the kitchen.
‘Only on his days off,’ Hannah chuckled, looking over at Olly, who had taken off his black-rimmed spectacles and was giving them a clean.
‘Ah, you’ve come to give us a helping hand!’ Vera exclaimed, rolling up her sleeves.
Charlotte shot Polly a worried look.
‘Just fling yer coat over there, pet.’ Vera nodded over to the side of the café where there was already a small pile of coats. Seeing the last customers leave, she shuffled over to drop the latch and turn the sign to ‘Closed’.
‘Just this lot to clear and wash up,’ she said, tipping her head towards the tables with the dirty dishes.
‘Well … I’m afraid …’ Charlotte stuttered.
Vera let out a throaty laugh as she bustled back to the main counter.
‘She’s having you on,’ Rina said, walking over to Charlotte and giving her a kiss on both cheeks. She lowered her voice. ‘My boss has a strange sense of humour.’
‘Ha! “My boss” my foot!’ Vera said. She might be old but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. ‘I may well be the one paying the wages, but there’s only one boss here – and she’s stood right there. All five foot ten of her.’
Charlotte chuckled. Vera and Rina were like some odd comedy duo – one short and fat, the other tall and slim. One with a strong north-east accent, the other pure BBC, despite her Czechoslovakian roots.
Vera turned her attention to Polly. She noticed she was twisting her wedding and engagement bands around on her finger – beautiful rings that had once belonged to Arthur’s wife, Flo. God rest their souls. Arthur, a former dock diver and Tommy’s grandfather, had died on Boxing Day, just hours after seeing his grandson married. Vera knew the old man and Polly had become close and that she missed him terribly.
‘I’m not gonna ask yer how yer are, pet,’ Vera said, ‘’cos I’m guessing yer sick to death of folk asking. And I’m not gonna ask how Tommy is because I know he’s fine too. I can feel it in my waters. Next time yer write to him, tell him there’s a bacon butty going spare, so he best sort Jerry out ’n get back here pronto!’
Vera laughed, as did Polly. They both knew that the one thing Tommy missed more than anything – apart from Polly, of course – was Vera’s bacon baps. Well, it was a toss-up between that and his mother-in-law’s stew and dumplings.
‘We’ve come for some sandwiches for the workers,’ Polly said. ‘Charlotte and I said we’d go and get them provisions.’
‘They’re working today?’ Aunty Rina asked as she started to clear the tables.
‘Denewood got damaged,’ Polly explained.
‘They’ve gone to patch her up?’ Olly asked. He and Hannah had both worked on the ship’s plans.
Polly nodded.
‘Well, good for them,’ Rina said, bustling back behind the counter and starting to slice up a loaf of bread. ‘If they don’t do it, no one else will – or can. And then we really will be in dire straits.’ She walked back into the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder, ‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot of choice. It’ll have to be whatever we’ve got left.’
Charlotte pushed the list back into her pocket.
‘We opened up early,’ Olly explained. ‘Rina said those doing the clear-up after the bombing would need a “decent cup of tea and some sustenance”.’
‘Feels like we’ve had half the east end in here,’ Vera said, padding into the kitchen to help Rina.
The two women might be like chalk and cheese, Polly thought, but they worked together like a well-oiled machine.
Five minutes later, Vera was putting the sandwiches into a paper bag and giving them to Charlotte to carry.
‘There yer are. They’re on the house. And don’t even try to argue,’ Vera said, looking over her shoulder, ‘or else you’ll have the wrath of Rina to contend with.’
Chapter Five
When Helen opened the main door to the admin office, she could hear her phone ringing.
Who would be calling the office on a Sunday?
She felt a rush of joy that it might be John, followed by a hefty punch to the gut as her mind caught up with the present state of play.
As she strode across her office to reach the phone, a terrible feeling of depression hit home with the realisation that she had lost the only man she had ever truly loved.
She hesitated for a second. What would she do if it was John? How should she react? Should she congratulate him on finding himself a girlfriend? Or pretend she didn’t know?
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Helen spoke her frustration aloud.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up the receiver.
‘Good afternoon, Thompson and Sons Shipbuilders. Miss Crawford speaking.’ There was only the slightest tremor to her voice.
‘Ah, hello there …’
It wasn’t John. Helen didn’t know if she was relieved or gutted.
‘So sorry to bother you.’ The voice at the other end of the phone sounded very well-to-do. ‘I’m trying to get hold of one of your workers,’ the man continued. ‘I’ve tried ringing the home number and there’s no one answering. And to be honest, I’m becoming a little fraught … I know there was a bad air raid last night and I …’ There was the sound of a heavy sigh down the phone. ‘I thought there might be the slightest chance that the young lady I’m calling about might be at work. I know it’s a long shot – it being Sunday and all.’
Helen could hear the concern in the man’s voice. There’d been over seventy killed last night and hundreds injured. There was nothing to say that any of her staff weren’t among the dead or injured.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m just looking at the office now and there’s not a soul about.’
‘Oh, she doesn’t work in the office.’ The voice perked up. ‘She works in the yard. She’s a welder.’
‘Oh, what’s her name?’ Now Helen was curious. She doubted it was Rosie’s husband, Peter. Gloria had said his work was very hush-hush and didn’t allow for any kind of communication.
‘Miss Angela Boulter,’ the man said.
‘Ah, Quentin!’ A picture of a rather short, bookish-looking chap with a mop of strawberry-blond hair sprang to mind. ‘Apologies, but I don’t know your full name.’
‘Foxton-Clarke. But please, just call me Quentin.’
‘Quentin, it’s Helen here, Helen Crawford.’
The two had met very briefly at Polly and Tommy’s wedding on Christmas Day, as well as the night Polly had nearly lost her baby. Gloria had told her that Quentin, who was Angie and Dorothy’s neighbour, was giving Angie lessons on ‘how to be posh’, which Helen thought was the most bizarre form of courtship she’d ever come across – not that Angie would admit that they were actually dating.
‘Don’t worry. Angie’s here. She’s absolutely fine. I’ve just been chatting to her squad. They came in to see what they could do after the raid. The yard took a hit last night. Or rather, one of our ships did.’
Helen heard Quentin exhale heavily.
‘Good. Good. That’s a relief. I was starting to think the worst.’
Helen could hear voices in the background and wondered what kind of work Quentin did. Angie had told everyone he was a ‘pen-pusher’, but having met him – and with a name like Quentin Foxton-Clarke – she thought that Quentin might have played down his job description.
‘Sorry to be a total pain,’ he said, ‘but would it be possible for me to have a quick word with her, please?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. It’ll take me a few minutes to go down there and fetch her. Are you all right to hold?�
��
‘Yes, yes, this is much appreciated. Thank you so much.’
Helen put down the receiver and hurried out of the office, jumping when Winston the marmalade-coloured tomcat shot past her as soon as she opened the doors to the main entrance. Hurrying across the yard, she managed to catch the women just as they were heading across the makeshift wooden gangplank that led from the yard onto Denewood’s deck.
‘Angie!’ she called out.
Everyone turned round and stared at Helen.
‘You’re wanted on the phone.’ Helen skirted a mound of huge chains coiled up like a nest of snakes. ‘It’s Quentin.’
There was an immediate eruption of jeers and jibing. Angie scowled at the women as she pushed past Dorothy and headed over to Helen.
‘Send lover boy our best wishes,’ Dorothy heckled as they hurried across the yard.
‘Honestly, he’s just a mate, yer knar!’ Angie huffed as they stopped to let a crane trundle past on its way to the platers’ shed.
‘Well, he sounded like a very worried “mate”,’ Helen said, giving Angie a sidelong look and seeing that she had gone bright red.
When they reached the office, Angie hesitated.
‘Go on in,’ Helen cajoled. ‘I’ll let you have some privacy. Come and get me when you’re finished. And just shoo the cat off the chair,’ she added, seeing that Winston had taken her place while she’d been gone and was now looking at them both with big green eyes. ‘Honestly, as if his basket isn’t good enough.’
‘Thank goodness you’re all right,’ Quentin said as soon as he heard Angie’s voice. ‘I’ve been trying to get through to Mrs Kwiatkowski for hours and she’s not picking up.’ Mrs Kwiatkowski lived in the ground floor flat, above Quentin’s basement flat and below Dorothy and Angie’s on the first floor.
‘She went to church today ’n then she was gannin to her club,’ Angie said, holding the receiver a little away from herself, not trusting it. She had only used a phone a few times in her entire life.
‘I thought her club was in Low Street, next to Fenwick’s Brewery – or should I say what used to be Fenwick’s Brewery? By the sounds of it, it’s now just a mound of bricks.’
