A Christmas Wish for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  By the time he arrived at Ryhope station, Dr Parker had made up his mind. This really was it. No more ridiculous fantasies about making Helen his, or about Helen wanting him. He’d had enough.

  It was time to leave this boyish crush behind and get on with being an adult. A man. A man who had a real relationship with a real woman.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘Congratulations, my dear!’ Dr Billingham said as he walked through the door that had been left open by the nurse who had just left. He came over to the bed and peered down at baby Arthur, who was fast asleep, having had a hearty feed.

  ‘You have a perfect little boy there. Perfectly gorgeous and perfectly healthy.’ Dr Billingham had given both mother and baby a good checking over after their admittance.

  ‘Your husband is going to be a very proud father – talking of which, do you want my secretary to send a telegram to Petty Officer Watts to tell him the good news?’

  Polly’s face lit up. She had been thinking of Tommy constantly, wishing he was there, imagining he was there, talking to him in her head, telling him all about their little creation and how perfect he was.

  ‘Oh, yes, please! That would be wonderful! Thank you! Thank you for everything, Dr Billingham.’

  ‘Righty-ho, I’ll get on the case,’ Dr Billingham said, turning to leave.

  ‘Before you go …’ Polly leant forward and made to hand Arthur over. ‘Do you want to hold him – say a proper hello?’

  ‘Why not, eh?’ Dr Billingham took the swaddled baby.

  Polly looked up at the man who had been there for her these past six months. She watched him staring down at little Arthur and thought she saw a shard of sadness.

  ‘Hopefully your Mary will meet someone soon, get married and give you a lovely little grandson or granddaughter to carry on the Billingham line.’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t that’ve been nice,’ he said, taking a last look and handing Arthur back.

  ‘There’s still time,’ Polly said, wanting to cheer him up. ‘She’s still young. Hardly an old maid.’

  Dr Billingham put his hands on his hips. Took a deep breath.

  ‘Right, best get that telegram off.’ He glanced down at Arthur. ‘Try and get some sleep. You’ll be needing it!’

  And with that he was gone.

  Bel was sitting on the side of Polly’s bed, holding baby Arthur in her arms. He was wrapped up in a white blanket that Agnes had brought up to the hospital. Tears were running down her face. She cuddled him gently and he reached up to touch her face.

  Polly looked at her sister-in-law. Her eyes were wet too. How she wished for the day when their roles at this moment were reversed.

  ‘I’m crying because I’m happy, you know,’ Bel said, her words coming out a little choked.

  Polly mouthed ‘I know.’ She was crying again; she hadn’t really stopped since Arthur had come into the world.

  As they both cried and gazed at the very robust-looking baby boy who was gurgling away to himself and staring up at his aunty Bel with love and awe, Agnes bustled back into the room. She had a cup of tea.

  ‘Ah, thanks, Ma,’ Polly said.

  ‘Pfft!’ She nestled herself down in the armchair by the bed and took a sip. ‘I need this after all the stress ’n worry yer’ve caused yer auld ma today.’ She took another sip. ‘Yer’ve added another ten years.’ Another sip. She looked at her daughter and her daughter-in-law. Bel always looked such a natural with babies. ‘Well, that’s one lucky little lad there.’

  Bel laughed and stood up.

  ‘One lucky and very heavy little lad,’ she said, handing Arthur back to Polly. ‘No wonder you were so big.’ Bel laughed lightly. ‘Ten pounds and two ounces!’

  ‘But, thank goodness, not twins, eh?’ Polly said, taking the baby and looking at her ma.

  ‘I was sure we were going to have twins in the family,’ Agnes said, shaking her head. ‘Not often I’m wrong.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It was clear within days of little Arthur being taken home that he was a happy, contented baby. Perhaps his impatience to enter the world had been because he knew what awaited him: limitless amounts of love and cuddles – smiling, cooing faces, soft voices singing lullabies and giant hands stroking his warm cheeks. Like all babies, he cried when he was startled, hungry or tired, but he was always quickly placated. He wasn’t, though, overly keen on sleep. Joe joked it was hardly surprising – who would want to sleep with all that fuss being foisted on him?

  Lucille and Hope thought little Arthur – or Artie, as they had renamed him – was the best thing ever to come into their lives. Their toys were cast aside in favour of their new playmate, and although Artie couldn’t do an awful lot to start with, he still moved when prodded and poked, and made funny expressions and noises. Best of all, he didn’t scream and cry all the time like some of the babies that came to Aggie’s nursery.

  Agnes lost count of the number of times she told Polly how fortunate she was to have such a happy newborn. He was a healthy, well child, a diagnosis confirmed by Dr Billingham, who popped in every now and again. He didn’t have to, but Polly was glad he did, and told him so.

  The only time Artie’s little face was guaranteed to crumple up in upset and anger was whenever Polly tried to give him the bottle instead of the breast. He cried and cried until he was once again nuzzled up against the soft mounds of his mammy’s boobs. As a result, Polly had to renege on her promise to return to work within weeks of giving birth.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to Helen when she took Artie back to the place of his birth a month after his dramatic entrance into the world. ‘I feel like I’ve gone back on my word.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Helen as she walked around her office, ‘this little one needs his mother at home more than we need you here.’ She looked down at baby Artie as she swayed him gently. ‘Isn’t that right, little one? Your godmother thinks Mummy should give you her undivided attention until at least the end of the year.’

  She looked up to see Polly’s reaction.

  ‘That’s what Ma says,’ Polly admitted.

  ‘Good, we’re all agreed,’ Helen said, handing Arthur back. ‘He’s heavy, isn’t he?’

  Polly laughed. ‘Tell me about it. I’ll probably come back to work with stronger arms than when I left.’

  ‘Tommy all right?’ Helen asked as they made their way out of her office to introduce Artie to the admin workers.

  ‘Yes, he’s writing lots—’ Polly stopped herself. ‘Or I should say, he’s making me write lots, telling him every little detail about his son.’

  ‘Let’s hope he gets home soon,’ Helen said as they walked into the open-plan office, where they were immediately hit by a chorus of oohs and aahs.

  As the weeks passed by and the trees started to relinquish their leaves, Polly would often look at the miracle she had grown inside her and believe that anything was possible. Every night she would sit in the chair that Artie’s great-grandfather had commandeered during his time living with the Elliots, and just like the old man, Polly would listen to the news on the BBC Home Service. There was jubilation the length and breadth of the country when reports of Italy’s capitulation came across the airwaves, and later when Allied forces reached Naples. Rome would come next, and from there Berlin. At least this was what was hoped. At home, Sunderland had not seen a single air raid since May – which was also true for most of the country. Hitler’s firepower was needed elsewhere.

  Hearing the sounds of the riveters’ fusillades under the dull northern sky day after day, week after week, you could almost hear the collective will of the shipyard workers – men and women – knowing that what they were building was a vital weapon if the war was to be won. Every rivet driven felt like a punch against the enemy. A victorious punch.

  Rosie held off taking on another welder, believing the women needed to feel free to talk about their secrets. If another woman joined their squad, they would have to watch their tongues. Now, more than ev
er, she felt they needed to be able to talk whenever they wanted to. Her squad had always been close, but after everyone’s secrets had been revealed, they had become more protective of each other.

  Every Monday morning, following their dutiful Sunday trips to see their respective families, the squad would ask Angie and Dorothy how it had gone. Hannah had done some research into the laws governing bigamy and the possible jail sentences should someone be found guilty, but had decided not to tell Dorothy. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

  She often wished the bliss of ignorance for herself, but it was not to be. Her aunty Rina had told her that they had to face up to the reality of what was happening in Europe – and ensure that as many people as possible knew about it. When Hannah heard that the commander of the SS, Heinrich Himmler, had ordered the Romani people to be put ‘on the same level as Jews’ and placed in concentration camps, she told the women, as well as Basil and those she worked with in the drawing office – just as she did when news filtered through that the Nazis had liquidated the Janowska concentration camp in western Ukraine, murdering thousands of Jews after a failed uprising.

  Knowing the truth about Jack’s long absence, the women tried not to hold it against Helen that she had been the one to tell her mother about Gloria’s affair with Jack, but Dorothy and Angie in particular found it hard. Gloria reminded them of how Helen had changed since that time, how she had clobbered Vinnie with a shovel when he had been beating her half to death, and how she had risked her life to save Hope’s – but there was still an underlying resentment.

  Gloria tried not to show how much she missed Jack, but now the truth was out, it was hard. She started to phone Jack more regularly, always with Hope, but a part of her wondered if it only made her miss him even more.

  Love continued to blossom for Dorothy and Toby, and although their chances to be together were infrequent and brief, it made for a more intense affair. Like so many other couples, they spent more time thinking and talking about each other than actually being together. The women enjoyed teasing Dorothy and there was regular banter about the not too distant sound of wedding bells, followed by Gloria’s stern warning and finger-wagging that Dorothy should do everything in the right order – marriage first, children second. Her comments were, naturally, accompanied by Dorothy’s outrage and theatrics.

  Angie and Quentin also only managed to see each other a few times after their ‘date that wasn’t a date’ at the Palatine, but they now spoke regularly on the phone. Dorothy joked that Angie’s ‘lover boy’ must have a sixth sense as he always seemed to call whenever they were at Mrs Kwiatkowski’s. Angie gave Dorothy the evil eye, saying that ‘her friend Quentin’ was probably just using his nous, rather than any extra sense he might possess, and was phoning when he knew there was a good chance they’d be there – after work.

  The march towards winter saw Mr Havelock fall ill with chronic bronchitis. Refusing to go to hospital, he was given round-the-clock nursing at home. As he made a slow recovery, he had time to stew over various aspects of his life. Top of his list was the Ashbrooke Gentlemen’s Club. His time convalescing did nothing to assuage his fury at being refused membership, or his determination to find out more and make whoever was responsible pay.

  Pearl, in the meantime, was also continuing her quest to find out more – helped by Bill. Every fortnight, she would slip into Agnes’s faded blue dress, put her hair into a bun and spend more time putting on make-up so that it looked natural than she normally did plastering it on. She was still nervous each time she approached the entrance to the asylum, but she knew it would be worth it. It felt as though every visit was bringing her a step closer to the truth.

  Henrietta seemed to be getting more coherent and, thankfully, was keeping the visits a secret. She appeared to enjoy the whole subterfuge – just as Pearl appeared to enjoy her time with Bill and their luncheons in the Railway Inn, not that she would admit it.

  In contrast, Bel’s unhappiness and resentment seemed to be growing steadily, like an infection left untreated. It was made still worse when Polly told her about the women’s secrets and how Miriam was using them to keep Jack in Scotland.

  ‘Like father, like daughter,’ Bel said, outraged. ‘Nasty, wicked … manipulating people. Using the misfortune of others to get what they want.’

  Hearing about Martha’s, Dorothy’s and Angie’s mothers had shocked Bel, but she was also infuriated that her friends, too, would be in the firing line if their mams’ secrets were ever trumpeted about by Miriam.

  ‘But you know what really makes my blood boil,’ Bel said, ‘is that it’s Hope that’s really suffering! She’s the one who is being made to grow up without a father. There’s plenty of children having to grow up without their dads thanks to this war, but Hope having to suffer Jack’s absence because Miriam doesn’t want to face up to the fact her marriage has ended – or rather that she doesn’t want anyone to know …’ Bel’s voice trailed off and she shook her head in disbelief.

  Polly thought that it was so like her sister-in-law to think of the child in the middle of the maelstrom above all else.

  She was relieved, though, that after the birth of little Artie, she and Bel had regained some of the closeness she felt they had lost.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Bel told her one evening when they had been up late chatting on their own. ‘I just found it really hard when you were pregnant. I couldn’t help it,’ she confessed.

  The two hugged.

  ‘I really wouldn’t know what I’d do without you,’ Polly told her, ‘you’re my best friend in the whole wide world.’

  Bel laughed. It had been their saying when they were young.

  Agnes was also massively relieved to see that Bel’s pain at not falling pregnant had not worsened with her grandson’s arrival, which instead seemed to have given her daughter-in-law comfort – a gentle balm for an invisible wound.

  Work kept Bel busy, and she continued to go to launches with Helen, regardless of whether Mr Havelock and Miriam would be there. They had a clear run for a while due to Mr Havelock’s illness, during which time Bel lay awake at night and prayed that his lungs would pack in, or fill with fluid and choke him to death. She knew it was wrong, but she didn’t care. And so she continued to say her prayers.

  She admitted to Helen how she felt and was surprised when she laughed it off. That was what she liked about Helen. She was pretty unshockable. It helped enormously, of course, that Helen hated her grandfather and her mother almost as much as Bel did – but not quite.

  They talked about the hold Miriam had over Gloria and Jack – and bonded over their outrage that Hope was being so cruelly separated from a loving and caring father.

  Bel noticed that Helen never spoke much about Dr Parker. Occasionally, she would say something, or he’d come into the conversation, and she saw the grief at a lost love in Helen’s deep green eyes. He still occasionally popped in to see her at work if he was over the north side of the Wear, and they still spoke very occasionally on the phone – when he remembered to call her back – but it was clear he was now serious about Dr Eris.

  Of course, Helen was not short of admirers. Matthew was now a regular figure in her life, although Bel was unsure whether that was because of work, or because he orchestrated it. Either way, Helen didn’t seem to mind.

  When autumn started to creep into winter before its designated time, no one seemed to care too much, or complain. As long as there were no more bombs being dropped from the night skies, the townsfolk were happy to endure whatever Mother Nature wanted to chuck at them.

  And as they edged towards December, with the bombing of Berlin and the British Eighth Army’s advance into Italy, as well as the Soviet forces’ advance on the Eastern Front, it seemed that victory could be just around the corner.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Havelock Residence, Glen Path, Sunderland

  Friday 3 December

  ‘Come in!’ Mr Havelock barked.

  Eddy opened the door to th
e office and took one step into what he and Agatha called the ‘inner sanctum’.

  ‘Your visitor has arrived,’ Eddy announced, putting his hands behind his back and standing ramrod straight. There was no slouching in the Havelock residency.

  ‘Well, show him in!’ Another bark. The master of the house was not in a good humour today.

  Eddy disappeared for a minute before opening the door wide.

  ‘Mr Robert Thurley,’ he announced, moving aside to allow the ex-detective-cum-private-eye to enter the room.

  ‘Please, call me Bob,’ he said, glancing at Eddy and then ahead at Mr Havelock.

  Eddy saw the thunderous look on his master’s face and made a hasty retreat. Whoever this Bob was, he was glad he wasn’t standing in his shoes at this moment. He hurried down to the kitchen; he reckoned he’d just have time for a cuppa and a piece of rhubarb pie the cook had baked.

  ‘Did you use the tradesmen’s entrance round the back?’ Mr Havelock demanded. He remained seated behind his desk.

  ‘Yes, yes, I most certainly did, sir,’ Bob said, taking a few steps further into the office, stopping by the chair in front of Mr Havelock’s huge oak desk.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, sit down!’ Mr Havelock waved his hand impatiently at the chair. ‘I don’t want you hovering over me for the duration.’

  Bob lowered his considerable bulk onto the seat, adjusting his tie as he did so, something he did when he was unsure of himself.

  ‘I hope you’ve got some good news for me.’ Mr Havelock poured himself a whisky but didn’t offer the same to his guest, who would have very much appreciated one. A large one.

  ‘It might well be construed as good news,’ Bob said, pulling out a large, grubby-looking handkerchief and wiping his forehead. ‘It’s certainly news.’