by Nancy Revell
‘Aye,’ Pearl said, ‘’n men like him get away with it. Men with money ’n power.’
‘But that’s just not right, Ma!’ Bel leant across the table, trying to keep her voice down, but it was hard. She was angry.
‘Aye, ’n as yer well knar, Isabelle, life’s not fair. And it’s no use getting yer knickers in a knot about it now, ’cos there’s nothing you can dee about it. Yer can’t change what happened.’
Realising her daughter needed placating, she added, ‘And look at the auld man, he’s got one foot in the grave – he won’t be up to any of that now.’
‘Yes, but that’s not the point, Ma!’ Bel was incredulous. ‘He’s got away with it his whole life! His whole life!’ Bel took a deep breath. ‘Everyone treats him like he’s a saint! You should have seen him today. Chatting to the Princess Royal. God, I felt like grabbing hold of the microphone and telling everyone there exactly what he’s like. What he’s done!’
‘Aye, ’n what good would that have done yer?’ Pearl snapped. ‘Yer’d have humiliated yerself ’n been seen as some madwoman. Would have been carted off to the local loony bin.’ Suddenly, an image of Henrietta in her room at the asylum sprang to mind. Lately, she was never far away from her thoughts.
‘Yeah, like his wife,’ Bel said, as though reading her ma’s thoughts, ‘your Mistress Henrietta – no wonder she went mad, being married to someone like him. Enough to send anyone round the bend.’
Bel bit down on her lip. What her ma had said was true, though. Who would believe her, even if she did tell the world about the real Mr Havelock? She took a large gulp of her port and lemon.
Pearl looked at her daughter. ‘It’s a bit early fer yer, isn’t it?’
Bel let out a loud, joyless laugh. ‘Words fail me.’
Pearl glanced over at Bill, who returned her look of concern.
‘Why don’t you want him to get his comeuppance?’ Bel demanded.
Pearl turned her head and lifted her glass at Bill.
‘Because, Isabelle,’ she said, looking her daughter in the eye, ‘it’s all water under the bridge now. There’s nothing to be achieved. Sometimes it’s best to just let well alone.’
‘You two ladies all right?’
It was Bill with Pearl’s whisky.
‘Aye, right as rain,’ Pearl said, her tone belying her words. She took the drink from him.
Bill picked up the two empty glasses.
‘Same again?’ He pointed at Bel’s drink.
She shook her head.
‘No thanks, Bill,’ she said. ‘Ma here thinks it’s a bit early for me.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
One week later
Wednesday 7 July
‘At last, the workers return!’ Agnes shouted through from the scullery.
‘Sit yerselves down,’ she said, coming back into the kitchen and reaching to take the kettle off the hob. ‘I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’
‘No, you won’t, Agnes. I’m going to make us a nice cup of tea,’ Bel said, beating her to it and picking up the kettle.
Polly flumped down in the armchair. ‘Eee, I never knew doing next to nothing all day could be so exhausting.’
‘Did I just hear there was a brew going spare?’ Pearl asked as she came bustling in from the backyard, bringing with her a waft of cigarette smoke.
‘Shouldn’t you be helping Bill open up?’ Bel looked at the clock on the mantelpiece above the range.
‘Aye, I should,’ Pearl said, ‘but I wanted a quick word with Agnes first.’
‘She’ll be after something,’ Bel said to Agnes, who had gone back into the scullery and was chopping up bacon rind and tearing up stale bread for the dogs’ supper. Tramp and Pup were already waiting in anticipation.
Pearl glanced at her daughter and then at Agnes.
‘I was wondering if perhaps yer might be able to lend us one of yer dresses.’ Pearl shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not yer best one – perhaps that faded blue one yer wear occasionally.’
Agnes, Bel and Polly all looked at Pearl with looks of stupefaction on their faces.
‘Ma, when have you ever wanted to wear a dress that drops below the knee, never mind anything that Agnes might wear?’ Bel shot a look at her mother-in-law. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Agnes said, still looking at Pearl. ‘Although I have to agree with yer daughter, Pearl. I’m a little surprised yer’d want to wear anything of mine.’
‘’Bout time I started dressing my age,’ Pearl said.
The expressions on their faces said they weren’t convinced.
‘And I might be going out for the day with Bill,’ she added.
Now all three faces were a mix of surprised smiles.
‘But dinnit yer be getting the wrong idea,’ Pearl said. ‘It’s not what yer think.’
‘So, what is it?’ Bel asked.
Agnes put down the bowl of food for the dogs and wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Just because we practically live on top of each other,’ she said, looking at Bel, ‘doesn’t mean to say we have to know all of each other’s business, does it?’
‘I couldn’t have said that better myself,’ said Pearl, giving her daughter a victorious smile as she followed Agnes out of the kitchen.
‘Yer boys all right?’
Gloria thought Jack sounded tired. She knew that all the shipyards on the Clyde were also working at full pelt.
‘Yes, they both sounded in good spirits,’ she said. ‘Bobby wrote a full page about how the Short Sunderland had sunk a U-boat just off the west coast of France.’ The RAF flying-boat patrol bomber had been developed and constructed by Short’s shipyard in the town. ‘All quiet there?’ she asked.
‘Aye,’ said Jack, ‘not that there’s much left to bomb.’ Like his hometown, Jack’s place of exile was also a prime target for Hitler’s Luftwaffe due to it being Britain’s main entry point for Allied merchant and military shipping.
‘Have you got Hope there?’ Jack asked.
Gloria took a deep breath.
‘I have. Helen’s got her. They’re just waiting outside.’ Gloria hesitated. ‘I wanted to tell yer something first.’
‘Oh, aye, sounds ominous.’
Gloria heard a male voice shout out Jack’s name.
‘I’ll be there in a minute!’ he shouted back.
‘Sorry, Glor, go on,’ Jack said.
‘We’ve decided to tell them,’ Gloria said, her ear pressed to the phone.
‘What? About Miriam? About what she knars?’ Jack said, his voice anxious.
‘Yes, we’ve not got much choice,’ Gloria said, making a face at Hope, who had her arms and legs wrapped around Helen. ‘They know something’s amiss. I think they’ve had their suspicions for a while.’
‘Are yer sure? It’s going to be hard fer them if they dinnit knar about their mams already. Especially Martha.’
‘Well, we’re gonna keep shtum about Martha’s mam. It should be enough telling them about Angie’s and Dorothy’s. They’re pretty hardy. It’ll be a shock, but they’ll deal with it.’
‘They’ll not have a choice,’ Jack said.
There was silence. An angry silence.
‘Those poor girls,’ Jack said. ‘They’ve done nothing wrong. They’re working like dogs in that yard ’n now they’ve been drawn into something that’s nowt to do with them.’
He sighed heavily.
‘They’re taking the brunt for us.’
‘Well, like I say, Jack, we’ve no choice. Hannah went to see Helen the other day to plead your case to come back to the yard. She and Olly had written a list she had compiled with Dor and Angie of the reasons why it was better for everyone if yer came back.’
Gloria allowed herself a sad laugh.
‘She’d even divided up the list into two – one for you coming back to Thompson’s and the other if you returned to Crown’s.’
Jack sighed again, this one long and weary.
‘Anyway, Helen’s sto
od here with Hope.’ She pushed open the heavy door to the phone box. ‘Come and say hello to Daddy, sweetie.’ Helen handed her Hope, who made a grab for the phone.
‘Daddy!’ she said.
Helen shook her head. Her little sister was going to think the bloody phone was called ‘Daddy’.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tuesday 13 July
‘It’s all looking good,’ Dr Billingham said, sitting himself down behind his desk and making some notes.
Polly breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Thank goodness,’ she said, smoothing her hand over her bump. ‘I’ll be glad when this one’s out.’
‘And you can tell your mother there’s still only the one heartbeat.’
Polly smiled.
Dr Billingham turned his attention to the calendar laid out on his desk. His desk, like his appearance, was immaculate. ‘Not long now. You’re due in the middle of September, so just another eight weeks to go.’ He looked up at Polly. ‘Trust me, it’ll fly by.’
‘And you’ll take the stitch out before?’
‘I will indeed.’
There was a tap on the door and Polly looked round to see Dr Billingham’s secretary coming into the room with a tea tray.
‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson, just pop it on the table. I’ll manage the rest,’ Dr Billingham said.
Polly smiled at the secretary as she put down the tray.
‘Don’t forget, you’ve got an appointment at half eleven,’ Mrs Wilson said, her words clipped.
Dr Billingham nodded solemnly. ‘I won’t, Mrs Wilson. Mrs Watts will have had enough of me well before then and I will ask her to leave my door open in expectation of my next appointment.’
Mrs Wilson scowled and left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘So,’ Dr Billingham said, as he poured their tea, ‘have you heard from Petty Officer Watts since I saw you last?’
Polly’s face lit up as it always did whenever Tommy was mentioned. ‘Yes, he’s well. Alive. Nagging me to take it easy.’
‘Awful news coming from there last week,’ Dr Billingham said, getting up and handing Polly her tea.
‘The plane crash?’ Polly said. She smiled her thanks.
‘Something odd going on there. A B-24 crashing into the sea just minutes after take-off …’
Polly and the women had read about the crash, which had been reported in most of the national newspapers. The plane had been carrying the prime minister of the Polish government-in-exile, General Władysław Sikorski, and like Dr Billingham had just said, there had been no apparent reason why the plane had crashed, killing all those on board apart from the pilot, who’d had a miraculous escape.
‘Makes me wonder if there was subterfuge involved,’ Dr Billingham mused.
‘I think Tommy might have been part of the salvage operation,’ Polly confided. Tommy had to be careful with what he wrote in his letters, but he had mentioned that his unit had been involved in the clear-up afterwards.
‘He says hello, as usual,’ Polly added, taking a sip of her tea, ‘and as always thanks you for keeping a good eye on me.’
Dr Billingham dismissed this with a wave of his hand.
‘I get paid for it, don’t I?’
His comment sent a wave of unease through Polly. Since Bel had told her the secret of her paternity, she had felt uncomfortable that it was Mr Havelock footing the bill.
‘And how’s Mary? Have you heard any news from her?’ Polly had seen the recruitment slogans on posters: Join the Wrens today and free a man to join the Fleet.
‘She’s doing well. Very well. Never better,’ Dr Billingham said, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting one. ‘Working hard in the capital. Putting that expensive education of hers to good use. Did I tell you she can speak three languages?’
Polly nodded. He had. Several times. It must be lovely, Polly thought, to have a father who doted on you. It was times like this that she missed having a dad.
‘So, they’ve not drafted her to one of the stations on the coast?’ Polly asked. Dr Billingham had told her that Mary was going to use her linguistic skills to intercept and translate enemy signals.
‘No, not yet. But soon. Very soon. And then she’ll be home before we know it. Safe and sound.’
Dr Billingham always said the same thing when he talked about his daughter. It was obvious he was anxious to see her. Polly wasn’t sure how often the Wrens were given leave. She’d love to meet her.
There was a rat-a-tat-tat on the door and Mrs Wilson appeared.
‘You’ve a call,’ she said. ‘Shall I say you’ll ring back?’
Polly finished her tea and stood up.
‘No, please don’t. I’ve got to get off. Back to the office.’ She pulled a face before looking at Mrs Wilson and adding quickly, ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with working in an office.’
Dr Billingham laughed and waved her off.
‘Same time. Two weeks. And do as that husband of yours is telling you. Take it easy.’
Polly would have liked to have told him that she couldn’t do anything else. Filing was not exactly hard work. She’d never thought she would say it, but she missed physical hard work: the aching limbs at the end of a day of welding, and the heavy sleep that came with it.
Polly smiled her goodbyes to Mrs Wilson, who reciprocated with a stern nod.
Just as she walked out into the corridor, Polly heard the secretary shout through to Dr Billingham’s office.
‘It’s Mr Havelock. I’m putting him through now.’
Mr Havelock was sitting in his office with the door closed. He didn’t want anyone listening in on his conversation. The maid was in today and Agatha seemed to be on the prowl.
He shuffled in his chair, vexed – angry. He’d just come back from a break in Scotland to hear the news that had undone all the rest and relaxation of the past ten days.
Why Eddy hadn’t told him before he’d left for his stay with Margaret and Angus, he did not know.
He snorted through his nose, thinking of Eddy’s apologies, backed up by Agatha’s claims that they hadn’t wanted to tell him before he left for fear of spoiling his holiday.
Terrified, more like, that I’d have cancelled the break and stayed put.
‘Richard … Charles.’ Mr Havelock did not like to waste time or energy on greetings, unlike Dr Billingham, who always asked him how he was whenever they spoke.
‘Actually, I’m not good. Not good at all …’
Mr Havelock clenched his fists.
God, the man could prattle on.
Impatience got the better of him and he spoke over him.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, old chap – it’s that damned Gentlemen’s Club.’
Another pause.
‘Yes, the one I was meant to be getting us both memberships for. Your bonus for looking after the Watts girl.’
Mr Havelock fingered the business card, tapping the corners on the desktop.
‘The Ashbrooke Gentlemen’s Club.’
Dr Billingham tried to say something along the lines that it really didn’t matter, but only got the first few words out.
‘That’s not the point, Richard!’
Dr Billingham managed to ask why membership had been refused.
‘Bloody good question. Why?’ Spittle hit the receiver. ‘It would seem the club is so popular that they have no room for any more members.’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘Have you ever heard the like!’
Dr Billingham managed to speak quickly and suggested that perhaps they were unaware of who he was.
‘That was exactly my initial thought,’ Mr Havelock snapped, rotating his glass tumbler, ‘so I got Eddy to call and make sure they were in possession of all the facts. I thought the place might be run by foreigners. Perhaps some of these bloody refugees they keep letting into the country.’
If Mr Havelock could have seen Dr Billingham, he would have observed his lips tighten and his cheeks redden.
‘Which might w
ell be the case there!’ He continued his rant. ‘The woman Eddy spoke to sounded French. Of course, he made it quite clear to her who I was and she seemed to be well aware of who I was, but she said she was still terribly sorry, “très désolée”, but they were now totally oversubscribed and would call the moment there was a vacancy – a vacancy!’ Mr Havelock let out a noise that showed his disgust and disbelief.
Dr Billingham thought about advising him to try to stay calm for the sake of his blood pressure and not to put himself at risk of a stroke, but didn’t. Instead, he tried to reassure him that really, it was not a problem, they could go to the Gentlemen’s Club on the corner of Mowbray Road. Even though, if he was honest, he had no real interest in going to any kind of Gentlemen’s Club. Not that he would say so. Charles wanted him to be his companion, so he would be one – even if it had been wrapped up to look like it was Charles who was doing him the kindness.
As Dr Billingham continued to listen to Charles’s diatribe, he felt sorry for this Frenchwoman and her Gentlemen’s Club. She clearly hadn’t realised that she had just made a huge mistake, for which she would pay – dearly.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Albion, Ryhope
Monday 19 July
‘So, John, please tell me what’s been happening in your world. In the real world.’ Dr Eris sighed theatrically and took a sip of her wine. ‘I do love my work, but living and working in the same place does not bode well for a healthy mind. I worry I’ll become institutionalised.’
‘I can’t see that ever happening.’ Dr Parker smiled and took a quick sup of his beer. ‘Although it has to be said, the asylum really is more like a hamlet than a hospital.’
‘Ooh, I like that description – a hamlet.’ She looked at the man she was now officially courting. His mop of blond hair, sparkling brown eyes – that smile. He really was rather perfect – in all ways. ‘You did the sensible thing and took lodgings in the village.’
‘Perhaps,’ Dr Parker said. ‘Not that I’m there much. And not that I had much option. The Ryhope’s barely got enough room to accommodate the patients, never mind the staff as well.’
