A Christmas Wish for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  ‘That’ll be all, thank you,’ Quentin said, handing his menu back to the waiter.

  ‘Eee, it really is very posh in here, isn’t it?’ Angie looked down at the silver cutlery and felt relieved for those evenings in Mrs Kwiatkowski’s kitchen, laughing and drinking tea while they pored over a guide to etiquette and good manners.

  ‘It is,’ Quentin said. ‘But I’m just keeping my side of the bargain.’

  Angie looked at him.

  ‘Yer knar yer dinnit have to do that any more? Give me lessons ’n all that?’

  Quentin smiled at the memory of Angie turning up at his door late on Christmas Eve and telling him he could accompany her to the wedding the next day, providing he gave her ‘lessons in being posh’. He’d felt as though he had been gifted a lifetime’s worth of Christmas wishes all in one hit.

  ‘I know I don’t have to,’ Quentin said, ‘but I want to.’ He looked at Angie. ‘As long as you still want me to?’

  Just then the waiter appeared and poured a small amount of wine into Quentin’s glass. Angie watched in fascination as Quentin gave it a quick swirl, inspected it for a moment, then smelled it before finally tasting it. He smiled at the waiter, who then proceeded to pour them each a glass.

  Having read a guide to ordering wine in a restaurant, Angie did not need to ask why this little bit of theatre had been played out – why the waiter held the bottle in front of Quentin so that he could see the label, or the reason for offering him the cork.

  ‘Yer knar,’ Angie said, waiting until the waiter was out of earshot before she spoke, ‘before I knew what all that malarkey was about, I would have thought it a bit barmy.’

  Quentin looked at the young woman opposite him. Did she have any idea how totally in love with her he was?

  ‘And you don’t still think it’s all a bit barmy?’ he asked.

  Angie took a sip of her wine and her eyes widened. ‘Cor, this is nice.’ She took another sip and put it down. ‘It’s hard not to just neck it in one go.’

  Quentin smiled.

  ‘So, you’re going to see your parents and your siblings tomorrow?’ he asked. He knew Angie and Dorothy went to see their families every Sunday. It was their trade-off for being allowed to live independently.

  Angie nodded.

  They were both quiet as the waiter brought them their starter of mushroom soup.

  ‘They must look forward to seeing you?’ Quentin probed.

  ‘Mmm,’ Angie said. ‘I think they look forward to me bringing them a bit of dosh and cooking a dinner for them all. Especially since Liz has run off and become a Lumberjill.’

  ‘They must be proud of you?’ Quentin said. ‘Doing what you’re doing? I bet you there’s not that many women in the country who can weld. And not only that, but who work in the shipbuilding industry.’

  ‘If they are, they’ve never said so,’ Angie said. ‘I think they think it’s a bit odd. Yer knar, being a woman ’n working in the yards.’

  ‘Even though your mother works in the ropery?’

  ‘I suppose that’s true. But women have always worked in the ropery – ’n the shipyards have always just taken on men. Until now.’

  For the next few minutes, Angie concentrated on consuming her soup in the way she had learnt, which was the opposite of how she had been doing it all her life. When she’d finished, she relaxed and looked at Quentin.

  ‘Yer parents must be proud of what you do?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, if they are, they’ve never said so.’ Quentin smiled.

  ‘I’m not daft, yer knar,’ Angie continued. ‘I know yer more than a pen-pusher. Mrs Kwiatkowski was telling me that yer’ve got a really important job. She said yer used to work for local government, but yer got a promotion ’n that’s why yer now work at Whitehall for the War Office.’

  Quentin smiled but didn’t say anything. He was glad Angie hadn’t asked him outright what he did. He would hate to have to tell her he wasn’t able to divulge that information – and for her to think he didn’t trust her enough to tell her.

  They both thanked the waiter when he came and took the bowls away.

  ‘What are they like – your mother and father?’ Quentin asked.

  ‘They’re all reet,’ Angie said.

  ‘Do you think they’re happy?’

  ‘What? With each other?’

  They were both quiet as the waiter came and replenished their wine glasses.

  ‘Nah,’ Angie said, dropping her voice so no one could hear and looking about the restaurant to make sure she didn’t know anyone, which was highly unlikely.

  ‘Mam’s got a fancy man.’

  ‘Really?’ Quentin was shocked, not by Angie’s mam’s infidelity, but by Angie’s honesty.

  ‘Aye, she’s got herself some young bloke lives on St Peter’s View.’

  Quentin knew the street in Monkwearmouth. It was only a few streets away from her family home.

  ‘That’s a bit close for comfort,’ Quentin said.

  ‘I knar.’ Angie leant forward across the table. ‘Dor ’n I saw her with him. They were in the back lane.’

  Quentin looked shocked.

  ‘Nah, not like that. I think he lives there. They had a quick cuddle ’n went in the back gate.’

  ‘She’s taking a bit of a chance if your father finds out,’ Quentin said.

  They fell silent as they were served their main course. Angie couldn’t remember the last time she’d had beef. And a steak at that.

  ‘That’s what I wanna tell her,’ Angie said, ‘but it’s her business. My dad’s not a bad man, but I’d be worried what he’d do if he found out. He’s a big bloke. He’s given me a fair few backhanders. It feels like I’ve had my block knocked off, but he doesn’t think it hurts. Says I need to toughen up.’

  Quentin had to look down at his plate to prevent Angie seeing his anger. No wonder her mother was having an affair.

  ‘Do you think your mother’s serious about this other bloke? In love, even?’

  Angie put her knife and fork down and looked at Quentin.

  ‘Yer knar, I’ve never once thought about that. But now yer’ve asked, yer’ve made me wonder.’

  They both ate for a little while – enjoying this rare luxury.

  ‘What about yer mam ’n dad?’ Angie asked as she cut a piece of beef. She popped it in her mouth and savoured it.

  ‘Very different to yours, but also not too dissimilar.’

  Angie put her hand to her mouth to stop herself laughing. She swallowed.

  ‘Eee, Quentin, yer do make me laugh. Sometimes you speak in riddles. What does different but not too dissimilar mean?’

  ‘You’re right, I do, don’t I?’ He cut his steak. ‘I think what I’m saying is that our parents are probably poles apart, but not so much our mothers.’

  ‘Really?’ Angie said, her eyes widening in surprise. She dropped her voice. ‘Yer mean, she’s having it off with someone else as well?’

  Quentin nodded.

  ‘But,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘I think my mother might be a tad more discreet than yours – and unlike your father, I think mine might know exactly what’s going on.’

  ‘Eee, well I never,’ Angie said. ‘I guess we’re not that different after all.’

  Quentin smiled and raised his glass.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  The pair chinked glasses.

  Angie thought this was the best night she’d ever had. Even better than the ones she’d had with Dor at the Ritz. Not that she’d tell her that, of course.

  When Angie let herself into the flat, she was relieved that Dorothy was still out with Marie-Anne. She wanted to be alone with her own thoughts for a while, before the inevitable barrage of questions. Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and sat down. The wine and the food this evening had been out of this world. Going out with Quentin had felt as though she had stepped into one of the films she and Dorothy went to see at the flicks – and she’d only j
ust stepped back out. Her head was a swirl of thoughts and feelings, most of which made her feel incredibly happy, but also extremely confused.

  Downstairs in the basement flat, Quentin sat down at the kitchen table with its reinforced steel top. He hoped it wouldn’t be needed for much longer. The outcome of the war was still uncertain, but it was going in the right direction. The German Army had been defeated in North Africa, the Americans had the Japanese on the back foot, and now their troops were being prepped to take Italy.

  As he sipped his cup of tea, thoughts of war were over-taken by ones of love.

  He thought about the first time he had clapped eyes on Angie. It must have been six months ago – a few weeks before Christmas. He had to chuckle to himself. It had hardly been the most romantic first encounter, with Angie storming down the road, cheeks flushed, a face like thunder, demanding to know what he was doing trying the main door to the flats and looking as though she was about to lynch him.

  He’d explained that he had mislaid his keys and Angie had backed down, telling him, rather gruffly, that she’d thought he was trying to ‘rob the place’.

  He didn’t know what he had fallen for the most – her fierce but beautiful face, flushed with fury, or her bravery in confronting a potential burglar. He had laughed later that evening when he and Mrs Kwiatkowski were enjoying a cup of tea, having been formally introduced to Angie and Dorothy. They had both agreed they would have felt sorry for anyone who had been trying to break into the flat.

  It had been a case of love at first sight for him. He hadn’t even tried to fight it; hadn’t wanted to. He’d tried to chat to Angie whenever he had the chance, which was infrequent as most of the time he was in London. But when she had come knocking on his door on Christmas Eve dressed in her stunning citron-coloured dress that showed off her lovely curves, he had felt like whooping with joy. Of course, he knew that he had only been asked – or rather, Angie had only been coerced into asking him – because Dorothy had found herself a date for the wedding and she needed Angie to have one too. He didn’t know to whom he was most indebted – Toby for sweeping Dorothy off her feet, or Dorothy for forcing Angie to ask him to the ball.

  And they really had had a ball. After a little awkwardness at the start, and a fairly unsuccessful attempt to teach Angie how to waltz, they’d got on like a house on fire and had a rather magical Christmas Day. Certainly, the best one he’d ever had.

  Since then he’d managed to see Angie every time he’d been back up north, either when he had leave, or when he had work assignments. At first it hadn’t mattered that most of their ‘lessons in being posh’ were conducted in Mrs Kwiatkowski’s kitchen, as he had simply revelled in every moment he was in Angie’s company, but lately he had become quite desperate to spend time with her on his own, and when she had agreed to go out for a meal, he’d felt like sprinting all the way from London to Sunderland.

  It was obvious that Dorothy and Mrs Kwiatkowski knew how he felt.

  Angie, on the other hand, seemed totally oblivious.

  He hoped after this evening she might have an idea – even if it was just an inkling – of how he felt towards her.

  It pained him that, at this moment, Angie was just twenty feet away from him. Or rather, above him. How he wished he could be with her now, holding her, kissing her. He had never felt this kind of yearning for a woman before. He just had to work out how she felt about him, and for that he needed to be able to see more of her – something that, at the moment, was just not possible. He had to go back to London early tomorrow, and he had no idea when he was going to be able to come back again.

  ‘You’re just going to have to be patient,’ he said, looking up to the ceiling with longing. ‘All good things come to those who wait.’

  He sighed.

  ‘I bloody well hope so.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monday 7 June

  By the time the klaxon sounded out the end of the lunch break on Monday, all the women welders, as well as Polly, Bel, Marie-Anne, Hannah and Olly, had been privy to a blow-by-blow account of Angie’s date on Saturday night. It wasn’t Angie, however, who had regaled them all with every minute detail of the evening, down to what vegetables they had been given with their meal – but Dorothy.

  And the reason Dorothy knew every cough and spit of Angie’s evening at the museum and then at the Palatine was down to her having spent the best part of Sunday grilling Angie about every aspect of her ‘date’, which Angie kept repeating was not a ‘date’.

  Dorothy had been exasperated by Angie’s lack of observation regarding much of the evening. She had gasped in disbelief when Angie was unable to tell her if any VIPs had been dining there; when she could tell her next to nothing about the decor, and hadn’t known the name of the wine they had drunk. (‘It was in French!’ said Angie.) And when Angie admitted they had consumed the whole bottle, Dorothy had screeched so loudly that Mrs Kwiatkowski had stuck her head out of her front door and shouted up the stairs to ask if they were both all right.

  Angie had eventually managed to deflect the attention away from herself by saying what a brilliant idea it would be for Toby to take Dorothy to the Palatine when he was here next, then she could see it all for herself. Dorothy had jumped up and down in excitement, before reprimanding herself for not having thought of it first.

  Polly had been sitting next to Angie during the lunch-time reenactment of Angie’s date-which-wasn’t-a date and could see that her former workmate seemed unusually quiet and a little withdrawn. She asked her if she was all right, but Angie had said she was just tired.

  Polly then made her chuckle by saying that she would be exhausted all the time if she shared a flat with Dorothy.

  Later that week they all had a trip to the flicks to see Deanna Durbin in The Amazing Mrs Holliday at the Regal and everyone met Georgina for the first time. As Rosie knew would be the case, everyone loved her and the next day they all agreed that she was now officially part of their gang.

  Georgina was also overjoyed to be welcomed into the fold. She just hoped that they never found out about her private-eye work, and especially that she had dug up dirt on all of them. She mightn’t know why Helen’s mother had employed her to do what she’d done, but she was pretty certain it was not for any kind of altruistic reason. And Georgina certainly wouldn’t want her new friends knowing she’d been tasked by Helen to find out about Bel’s bloodline, even if she was sure that Helen – unlike Miriam – didn’t want to use the report Georgina had given her to hurt anyone. She didn’t think so, anyway.

  The following day, during their lunch break, Dorothy read out with pride an article in the Echo about the young girl who’d had to have her hands amputated and whom Polly had secretly gifted some of Tommy’s gratuity pay when she had thought he was dead.

  ‘“It is now three years since she and her mother and father had been sheltering in the family’s brick surface shelter,”’ Dorothy read, ‘“when a Heinkel crashed into their home, trapping them in their shelter, killing her mother and injuring the then fifteen-year-old newly appointed post-office girl probationer with dreams of becoming a telephonist.”’ She looked up at the women, who were all listening avidly. ‘“When both her hands had to be amputated, she never thought she’d fulfil that dream. Today the eighteen-year-old started work as a telephonist at Telephone House with her new artificial limbs.”’

  Dorothy looked up. There was not a single dry eye.

  For Dorothy the weekend couldn’t come quickly enough as she was desperate to speak to Toby and tell him that he would be taking her to the Palatine next time he got leave. When she did, he laughed and said he’d better start saving up.

  Gloria had also been ringing Jack on a daily basis as he had been threatening to jump on a train after hearing that Helen had got the doctor to take a look at Hope. Gloria managed to keep him from crossing the border by reminding him that three families would be thrown into chaos if he did, and could he live with his conscience?

 
; ‘Hope’s going to be fine,’ she reassured him.

  There was silence down the phone.

  ‘Honestly,’ she reiterated. ‘The doctor Helen sent round told me what I knew already – that it would work its way out ’n that it’s nothing sinister.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jack was still unconvinced.

  ‘Bobby ’n Gordon had the exact same cough when they were Hope’s age, ’n they were fine.’

  It was hard to know what Jack was thinking – she would have liked to have seen his face as he wasn’t the most loquacious of men – but she was hopeful that she had managed to placate him. Still, she rang him every day, just to be certain.

  Later on in the month, Bel went to the launch of Empire Camp at Short Brothers with Helen, although this time Helen made sure her grandfather and mother would not be in attendance, and Bel found herself being photographed alongside Helen and making it into the Echo, much to everyone’s excitement. The photographer had wanted to get another shot of Helen and Mr Royce together as he was also at the launch, but Helen had insisted the readers would much prefer to see ‘two stunners’ staring out at them over their tea, rather than just the one. Matthew had roared with laughter and wandered off, still chuckling to himself.

  Bel told Polly about her trips out of the office, and Polly was pleased that Bel and Helen seemed to be getting on so well, but she also felt that their burgeoning friendship was at the expense of her own relationship with her sister-in-law.

  Or was it, she wondered in a letter to Tommy, because of her expanding belly?

  Tommy had written back that it would be understandable if that was the case, but was there anything else it could be?

  Polly wondered if Bel’s true paternity was troubling her. She wasn’t sure. She just knew something was going on and her sister-in-law wasn’t confiding in her like she normally did – like she had done ever since they were small.

  Pearl had also noticed a change in Bel. Since overhearing her conversation with Agnes that evening back in May, she had been keeping a close eye on her and she didn’t like what she saw.