A Christmas Wish for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  ‘I’m afraid I might be more shrewd than sentimental. The reason I’d use Bel’s paternity against my mother and my grandfather would be so that Hope could finally have a father in her life. That’s what’s really important. To have a mum and a dad in her life.’

  Dr Parker thought how lucky Hope was to have a big sister like Helen, a sister who was not only fiercely loyal, but was there for her, watching out for her, come what may.

  For the next hour they sat and chatted, their bodies touching occasionally, and enjoyed the time they were sharing, the friendship, their closeness.

  When it came to saying goodbye, Dr Parker bound for the Monkwearmouth Hospital, Helen for home, there was a moment’s awkwardness before they both gave each other a chaste kiss goodnight.

  Walking back, Helen was hit by an awful feeling of emptiness. It felt wrong for John to be going off in one direction and her in another. It had been such a relief to speak to him about her grandfather – to talk about the unspeakable to someone she trusted implicitly, who she knew cared for her, and most of all, who understood. John had been there from the start. From her first niggles about who it was that Bel reminded her of, to the moment she had realised that Bel was the spit of her own mother after seeing them together at Polly’s wedding. He’d been there when she had employed Georgina, and he had been a support when her ‘Miss Marple’ had relayed her findings, which she had typed up in a detailed report on two sheets of paper so that the truth was there in black and white.

  She thought about the night they had been out for a drink and she had agreed he could walk her home. She had been on the verge of telling him how she felt then, only for the air raid sirens to start wailing, forcing her to run home and John to head off to the Royal.

  Not long afterwards she had arranged for them to go for a meal at the café on the seafront, after which she had been determined to show John exactly how she felt – but Polly’s near miscarriage had put paid to that.

  The gods were clearly against their coupling. John might love her as a friend, he might well want to bed her, but he didn’t want her as his sweetheart, as the woman with whom he would walk down the aisle.

  It was why she could not do as Bel suggested and fight for him. And if Bel knew about her past, she would understand, would probably tell her she was doing the right thing. She should walk away with her dignity intact. There was no getting away from it – Helen was damaged goods and men of John’s standing, as her mother kept saying, didn’t have to go raking about in the bargain bucket – not when they could afford something brand new.

  As she reached her front door and got out her keys, she realised that she had been fighting her feelings for John for a long time. By admitting the truth to herself, she had unwittingly let the genie out of the bottle and in doing so she had got to know what true love felt like.

  As she kicked off her shoes and hung up her coat, she felt the cold of the terracotta tiles on the soles of her feet. She knew that she had no choice but to push the genie back into its bottle and move on. She could not – would not – spend her life hankering after something she couldn’t have. It would be a life wasted. And this war had taught her one thing: life really was precious.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Monday 31 May

  On Monday morning there was a noticeable energy in the office. The two days of enforced rest and recreation had worked wonders. As had the fact that everyone had been able to continue to enjoy undisturbed sleep; the air raid sirens had, thankfully, remained dormant for the past fortnight.

  When Helen saw Polly come back into the office at midday as everyone else was leaving for the canteen, she waved her in. Polly mouthed ‘Two minutes’ before having a quick word with Bel and handing her a copy of the Daily Mirror. Dumping her handbag and gas mask by her station towards the far end of the office, she manoeuvred her considerable girth around desks and tables and into Helen’s office.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Helen. ‘You look like you need it.’

  Polly plonked herself in the chair and looked at Helen. Both women burst out laughing.

  ‘Don’t!’ Polly said. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to go to the toilet. Again.’

  Her comments only made both women laugh even more.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Helen, getting up and pouring them both a cup of tea, ‘it’s just that sometimes you look so … so … well, so comical.’

  ‘I know,’ Polly said, wiping her eyes and taking the proffered tea. ‘I feel like Billy Bunter. Heavens knows what I’m going to be like in a few months.’

  Helen sat down at her desk. ‘I think it’s because you’ve always been so slim. It’s so strange to see you … well, expand so.’

  ‘That’s a nice way of putting it,’ Polly said, taking a sip of her tea. ‘At least I’m giving everyone a bit of a laugh, so there’s some good come of it all.’

  ‘So, come on,’ said Helen, ‘tell me what the wonderful Dr Billingham had to say today?’

  Polly knew Helen didn’t share her feelings about Dr Billingham, even though she had employed his services on her behalf.

  ‘Dr Billingham’s not that bad, you know. He comes across as a bit arrogant and hard-nosed, but I think it’s all a bit of a charade.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Helen said, unconvinced. He hadn’t been particularly sympathetic when she’d had her miscarriage. Not that she’d cared; she hadn’t cared about anything at that point in time.

  ‘He’s good at his job, which is the main thing,’ Helen said, sitting back. ‘Anyway, go on, I’m all ears.’

  ‘Well, we spent most of the time talking about his daughter, Mary.’ Polly smiled. ‘He thinks the world of her.’

  ‘Is this the one who’s in the Wrens?’ Helen asked.

  ‘That’s right. He’s just got the one,’ Polly said. ‘I think he misses her. And I think it’s a case of when he sees me, he thinks of her, which makes him talk about her.’

  Helen took a sip of tea.

  ‘But apart from that,’ Polly said, seeing that Helen was waiting for an answer to her original question, ‘everything’s going to plan. I’m apparently in tip-top health. As is the baby. Although he did admit today that I am slightly larger than average at this stage.’

  ‘He doesn’t think it’s twins then – even though they run in the family?’ Helen asked.

  ‘No, he had a good listen and can still only hear the one heartbeat, so he says he’s fairly confident that there’s just the one baby in there.’ Polly put her hand on her bump and smiled. ‘Although Ma’s convinced I’m carrying “double the trouble”, as she puts it.’

  Helen smiled. ‘And let me guess, Bel’s hoping your mum’s right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said, ‘you’ve got Bel down to a T. The more babies the better.’

  Polly took another sip of her tea.

  ‘I wish Bel was pregnant,’ she said suddenly, her voice sad, ‘and that she was expecting “double the trouble”.’

  The following day heralded the start of June and with it a change in the tide of war.

  There was a visible spring in the steps of those heading to the town’s shipyards, the Wearmouth Colliery and all the other factories and industries working flat out to do their bit for victory. Reports had come through that Germany was withdrawing its remaining U-boats from the North Atlantic as so many were being sunk by Allied forces – the heavy losses said to be due to the new anti-sub tactics.

  Naturally, during the lunch break, it was the main conversation amongst all of the yard’s workers, the name of Admiral Karl Dönitz, who had ordered the withdrawal, peppering all their conversations.

  ‘At last!’ Martha proclaimed.

  The women were sitting by the quayside as the weather, like everyone’s mood, was sunny.

  ‘I knar.’ Angie was leaning against her workmate’s solid mass. ‘At long bloody last.’

  They’d all admitted to feeling wrung out.

  Dorothy was sitting cross-legged on one of the wooden pallets. ‘It says here that they r
eckon forty-one U-boats were lost last month alone, compared with thirty-four of our own ships.’

  They all looked at Gloria, who had a look of relief on her face.

  ‘I might get my boys back home yet.’

  ‘The Mirror’s calling it “Black May”,’ Polly said. She was now spending every break with the women. She missed her work and her squad, though not half as much as she missed Tommy.

  The following day there was lots of cheering and joviality at the launch of Caxton at Thompson’s and Wrenwood at Austin’s, but the day after the newspapers were full of the news that Gone with the Wind star Leslie Howard had been killed when the passenger plane he was on was shot down over the Bay of Biscay. He had been flying from Lisbon to Bristol. All seventeen people aboard had perished.

  ‘I know it sounds stupid, but I feel like I knew him,’ Dorothy said.

  The rest of the women murmured their agreement. Dorothy had, after all, dragged them to see him in just about every film he’d ever been in.

  Pickersgill’s had a luncheon to mark Matthew Royce taking over from his father, who had recovered enough to attend the event, if not to return to the helm. Helen went, along with all the other shipyard managers, partly because she had to, but also because she wanted to say her farewells to the old man in person. She’d always had a soft spot for him even though he had a tendency to talk the hind legs off a donkey.

  Despite the launches and the sunshine that heralded the start of summer, after two of the worst air raids to date the townsfolk were still living on tenterhooks. The RAF were getting their revenge with a blanket bombing of Wuppertal, but the women, hearing of the thousands of civilians killed in the air raid and the ensuing firestorms created by the mass of incendiary devices, were left with a bad taste in their mouths. The Germans might be the enemy, but they were just ordinary folk – men, women and children – who, like so many Brits, had died simply because they lived in an area dense with industry.

  The start of the month might well have brought the sun out, but the hot weather made for sweaty work.

  ‘Don’t forget to keep yourselves covered!’ was Rosie’s new mantra.

  On hearing her, the women’s hands would automatically go to their neck scarves to make sure they were in place; they did not want to risk getting caught out. They’d all been branded at least once since they had started as welders and they didn’t want to have any more scars.

  When the klaxon went for lunch, the first thing they all did was unbutton their overalls and head for their spot by the quayside to catch the sea breeze.

  At the end of the week they all listened as Polly read a news report telling them that a French general called Henri Giraud had been made commander-in-chief of the Free French Forces. Although Rosie was not able to talk about what Peter was doing in the war – or where he was – the women all knew French was his second language, and as Dor said, ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work out where they’ve sent him.’

  ‘Free France and its Fighting French Forces – I won’t even attempt to say it in French …’ Polly had Angie’s Daily Telegraph spread out on one of the pallets ‘… have appointed General Henry – I don’t know how to pronounce his surname. Anyway, he’s been made top dog, by the looks of it.’

  ‘So,’ Martha said, ‘they support the Resistance in France?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dorothy said. ‘The Free France movement set itself up in London back in the summer of 1940 – it became what’s known as a government-in-exile, led by Charles de Gaulle.’

  They all looked at Rosie, who had gone quiet.

  ‘He’s gonna be all right,’ Gloria said, leaning over and squeezing her hand.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Rosie lied. She let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. ‘I just wish he’d get himself back home so he can give me a hand with Charlie.’

  They all chuckled.

  ‘Is she still arguing her case for going to Lily’s with you on an evening?’ asked Bel.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Rosie nodded solemnly. ‘She most certainly is.’

  ‘And are you going to give in?’ Bel asked. Maisie had told her how Charlotte was determined to make Lily’s her second home and how she’d often come down for breakfast to find Lily puffing on a Gauloise and Charlotte munching on a slice of toast, both chatting away, sometimes in French.

  ‘I’m holding fast. It’s helped that Georgina’s been an absolute star and has been more or less babysitting Charlotte on an evening.’

  ‘Don’t let Charlie hear you say that,’ Gloria chipped in. ‘She’ll go berserk.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘I know. Keeping her company might be a more acceptable way of describing it. Anyway, they’ve been to the library and Georgina’s helping her with her homework, not that I think Charlotte really needs help.’ Rosie took a sip of her tea. ‘But the thing is, Georgina won’t always be able to be there. She works for starters, and her father’s health is precarious. Sounds like she has to look after him quite a lot.’

  ‘Well, I think we should have another group trip to the flicks – keep Charlotte company and invite Georgina as well so we can meet her properly,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Sounds like a perfect plan,’ Rosie agreed. ‘I’ll tell Georgina.’

  ‘But not this weekend,’ Dorothy said, deathly serious. Not waiting for the women to ask why, she continued, ‘Because a certain someone – name beginning with Q – has finally been given leave.’ She let out a long sigh. ‘Although, he could only get a pass for Saturday, which, as you all know, is sacred.’

  Everyone looked at Angie, who let out an equally long sigh.

  ‘So, as I’m sure yer’ll all guess, I now owe Dorothy big time,’ she informed the women, her eyes going to the skies.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday 5 June

  ‘Wow! You look stunning!’ The words were out of Quentin’s mouth before he could haul them back in.

  Angie felt herself blush. ‘Yer only think that ’cos yer normally only see us in a pair of scruffy overalls.’

  They walked down the stone steps belonging to the flats.

  ‘This is the dress you wore for Polly Elliot’s wedding, isn’t it?’

  Angie laughed. Quentin had a habit of calling people by their full name, though his friends by their surname, which made no sense at all.

  ‘It is – but she’s Polly Watts now,’ Angie said, feeling a little self-conscious walking down the street in her canary-yellow dress. She wished she hadn’t been bullied into wearing it by Dorothy. It felt a little over the top.

  ‘And how’s Polly these days?’ Quentin asked.

  Angie let out a loud laugh as they reached the end of Foyle Street and turned right towards the museum.

  ‘Blooming – in all senses.’ Angie stretched her hand out in front of her to show Quentin just how blooming Polly was.

  ‘Her mam thinks she’s expecting twins, but the doctor told her she isn’t.’

  Quentin smiled. ‘But I’ll bet Mrs Elliot’s not convinced.’

  ‘Aye, that’s Agnes fer yer. Polly reckons she’s got the gift of foresight – her being part Irish ’n all – but she’s hoping ’n praying her mam’s got it wrong this time. There’s no way she wants two in one go.’

  ‘Why?’ Quentin asked.

  ‘Because!’ Angie gasped dramatically, looking at Quentin as though he was round the bend. ‘Twins are a nightmare. Hard work. Polly knows they might look cute, but she saw what her brothers were like. She said they used to run her mam ragged.’

  As they crossed the road, Quentin took Angie’s arm and was pleased she let him. Normally, she’d tell him she wasn’t some ‘auld grannie’ and shrug him off.

  ‘Pol wants more children, just not all in one go,’ Angie said, a little distracted by Quentin’s touch.

  ‘And you? Do you want children?’ Quentin asked. They were now walking up to the very grand entrance of the Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens.

  ‘Suppose so,’ Angie said. ‘But I’m not gonna have a
load like my mam.’

  Quentin looked at Angie’s face light up as she spotted Wallace, the town’s famous stuffed lion. They both walked over. Angie stroked it as though it was a pet dog. Quentin copied her.

  ‘It feels rough,’ he said. This was the first museum piece he had ever dared touch, having been brought up to believe any kind of displayed artifact was sacrosanct.

  As they wandered around the ground floor of the museum, Quentin pointed out paintings that were particularly revered or important, or which depicted significant events in history.

  ‘They’re all so big, aren’t they?’ Angie said, rubbing her neck, which felt stiff from the overhead welds she’d been doing all week.

  ‘Come and sit down here.’ Quentin gestured to a broad leather bench in the middle of the room. They both walked over and sat down.

  ‘They’ve been put here for people who have been on their feet working all day,’ he said, deadpan.

  ‘Really?’ Angie said, before her face crumpled and she batted Quentin on the leg. ‘Eee, yer had me going there.’

  ‘You’re meant to sit here and look for a long time at the paintings,’ Quentin said, giving Angie a sidelong glance. She had the most perfect skin. ‘And you have to wear a look on your face as though you are having the deepest and most meaningful of thoughts.’

  Angie looked at Quentin and smiled. She loved his take on life, and how he’d gently make fun of those who took themselves too seriously.

  They both sat for a few minutes while other visitors walked past, talking in muted tones. Both put very ‘deep and meaningful’ expressions on their faces, while all the time feeling the closeness of their bodies. Quentin fought the urge to take hold of Angie’s hand. In the end, when he thought he might lose the battle and embarrass himself as well as Angie, he stood up.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Angie. ‘I could eat a horse.’

  Quentin laughed. ‘Come on, then. I’m not sure they’ll have anything equine on the menu, but we can ask.’