by Nancy Revell
Bel nodded her understanding. She had thought more than a few times that it had been inevitable she would fall in love with Joe after Teddy was killed. It was like their souls were the same.
‘And then,’ Agnes continued, ‘all of a sudden, there yer were, looking like a little chimney sweep, eyes red raw and puffy because yer’d been crying so much, and it was as though, in a strange way, I’d got my wish.’
Bel was sitting stock-still, taking in every word Agnes was saying. This was the first time they’d ever talked properly about the past and how it was that she had become a part of the family.
‘I could see,’ Agnes said, her eyes staring at the range as though it were a porthole to the past, ‘that Polly was lonely, but also that she was trying to be like them so she could be a part of their gang. But she was hankering after the impossible. She was becoming more and more boyish and maybe because of that she wasn’t making any friends at school.’
Agnes brought her attention back to Bel.
‘So, yer see, it’s me that should be thanking you. Because when yer turned up looking like a little street urchin from a Dickens novel, it might have looked to the outside world that Agnes Elliot had a heart of gold and had taken the poor Hardwick child in, but in reality I needed yer as much as you needed me.’
Agnes looked at Bel and could see tears welling in her eyes.
‘We all needed yer. I did. Pol did. The boys did. Yer might have felt that I was doing all the giving, but I wasn’t. Anything I gave I got back in bucket loads.’
A solitary tear trickled down Agnes’s face and she wiped it away.
Bel had given up wiping her own away. Her face was wet now, and she didn’t care.
‘You know, Agnes,’ she said, her vision blurred, ‘I think that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
‘Come in come in!’ barked Mr Havelock.
‘Ah, Bob, good to see you, old chap! Come in! Sit down!’
Bob looked at Charles and thought he seemed in very good spirits – certainly in a better mood than last time he’d been there.
He parked himself on the chair in front of the large oak desk and got out his notebook.
The old man was going to be in an even better mood when he heard what he had found out about the three women he was so interested in. It had ended up being quite an enjoyable job – drinking until the early hours and playing cards. It hadn’t even mattered that the tart behind the bar wouldn’t play ball; the bloke he’d milked for information had been easy prey. And the information he’d siphoned from him that night had fuelled his investigation, which had, in turn, taken him down some very interesting avenues and led to some very interesting discoveries.
Yes, he was definitely going to be in Mr Charles Havelock’s good books by the time he left today.
He might even wangle a Christmas bonus out of the old man – the ammunition he was about to provide him with certainly deserved one.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Joplings, High Street West, Sunderland
Christmas Eve
Bel was surprised to see that Santa had a real beard. She knew this because of the yellowing of the whiskers around his mouth; his belly was also real, as the buttons on his red Father Christmas outfit were so strained they looked ready to ping off.
Lucille had tight hold of her mammy’s hand. They had been waiting in the queue for a long time to see Santa Claus and she had been able to inspect him from tip to toe. He was exactly what she’d expected. Just like in the pictures in the books from the library.
‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ Santa Claus slapped both hands down on his knees and leant forward to look at the next child waiting in the never-ending queue. It was eleven o’clock and he was gasping for a cuppa.
‘And who do we have here?’ he asked, his tone rhythmic. He had ‘jolly’ down to perfection. He stuck out a big, gnarly hand.
‘Lucille,’ she replied, tentatively taking hold of his hand.
‘Lucille!’ the old man said. ‘Now isn’t that the bonniest of names?’ He looked from the little girl up to the woman who was obviously her mother. They were both blonde. Both had the same heart-shaped faces. Both stunners.
‘And has Lucille been a good girl this year?’ Father Christmas creased his brow at the bright-eyed little girl and her mam, who, he thought, looked a bit jaded – then again what mother didn’t these days. Especially the day before Christmas. They were all going to have some explaining to do in the morning as to why Santa hadn’t been able to bring their children what they wanted.
Santa slapped his leg. ‘Come on, take a pew and tell Mr Claus what you want.’ He gently lifted Lucille up and perched her on his leg so that her feet were dangling just short of the ground.
‘Now, whisper in my ear what it is you want from Santa this year.’ He turned the side of his head towards Lucille’s angelic face.
Lifting her hand and cupping it to Santa’s ear, Lucille whispered her Christmas wish.
Bel couldn’t hear what Lucille said, but she saw that whatever it was it had made Santa smile. She caught his eye and gave him a quizzical look.
Santa laughed.
‘This little girl says she wants a baby sister or brother – preferably both,’ he said, raising his eyebrows at Bel, then looking back down at Lucille. ‘And is your daddy at home?’
Lucille shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘No, he’s buried in a place called Africa.’ She took her time over the pronunciation. Her mammy had shown her on a map where it was.
The smile left Santa’s face and he looked up at Bel.
‘But I have another daddy,’ Lucille suddenly piped up, gazing up into Santa’s milky blue eyes.
‘Ah!’ Santa said, the beginnings of a smile returning.
‘They were brothers.’ Lucille had decided she liked Santa and he wasn’t as frightening as she had first thought.
‘Twins,’ she added.
The old man worked hard not to show his surprise, or judgement.
‘Well then,’ Santa said, ‘I’m sure you’ll get what you want, Lucille.’
Bel felt her anger resurface. She had been trying to keep it weighed down – it was Christmas after all, time to be happy and carefree, not moody and resentful.
‘Sometimes, Santa,’ Bel said, glowering at the old man, ‘sometimes we don’t always get what we want, do we?’
Santa gave Bel an apologetic look. He understood. Who would want to bring any more children into this world at this time?
Lucille looked from her mammy to Santa.
‘But Baby Jesus was given as a gift at Christmas!’ she said adamantly.
Realising he had to back-pedal and fast, Santa looked at the little girl on his lap and asked, ‘Tell me, Lucille, what else do you want?’
‘Don’t want anything else!’ Lucille declared, hopping off Santa’s knee.
She looked up at Father Christmas and gave him a wide smile.
‘That’s all I want, thank you.’
When Lucille burst through the front door, she ran down the hallway and into the kitchen, where she found Artie in his Moses basket in front of the range. The dogs were in their own basket but were keeping an eye on the baby. Lucille dropped down next to her cousin and smothered him in kisses. She then started telling him all about Santa Claus. Artie gurgled and reached up to the smiley face beaming down at him.
‘How was it?’ Polly asked. She was putting out a plate of sandwiches next to the pot of tea on the kitchen table, being careful not to move the central display: a candle surrounded by holly and tinsel. Lucille had made it at school, along with the paper chains that were hanging around the mirror above the mantelpiece.
Bel looked at Polly and then at her daughter.
‘Lucille told Santa,’ she said quietly, ‘that she wants a brother or a sister, ideally one of each.’ Her face was sombre. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was desperate for another child, her daughter was too.
Polly grimac
ed. They had all pooled together to get Lucille some toys as well as some chocolate – a rarity these days. Polly hoped the bar of Cadbury’s they had managed to acquire, and the toys – both the ones bought and the ones made by Joe – would take Lucille’s mind off her growing demands for Mammy to have another baby.
‘You all prepared for the christening?’ Bel asked.
‘More or less,’ Polly said, pouring their tea. ‘I just need to pop Artie into his gown before we leave.’
‘And how’re you feeling?’ Bel knew that her own need for a child equalled Polly’s need for Tommy to come back home.
‘I’m all right,’ she said, fishing a letter out of the pinny she was wearing over her best dress. ‘A letter came this morning.’
‘Perfectly timed,’ Bel said.
Polly gave it to her.
‘It’s to Artie,’ she said, ‘telling him how much he would love to have been here, but that he will be thinking about him all day.’
Bel supped her tea and read the letter.
She wiped tears from her eyes.
God, if she wasn’t feeling like snapping people’s heads off, she was trying to stop herself sobbing her eyes out.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Driving past St Ignatius Church, Helen saw there was already a crowd outside, chatting, smoking, jigging from one foot to the other and clapping their hands to keep warm. She’d had to drive slowly because of black ice. She was keeping her fingers crossed that it didn’t snow; she really disliked driving in bad weather, although by the looks of the dark, expectant clouds, she didn’t think crossing anything would have much effect. The skies were ready to dump their load. The weather forecasters, for once, looked as though they were going to be right. They were in for a white Christmas.
Helen had left work the moment the klaxon sounded out. She had handed the reins over to Marie-Anne, who had been more than happy to exchange the christening for being head honcho for the afternoon. Helen had nipped home, where she had managed to avoid seeing her mother, who’d been too busy bossing about Mrs Westley, the cook, to notice her daughter’s presence in the house.
Miriam had decided to throw a Christmas Eve party, which meant Mrs Westley had to somehow concoct a peacetime feast out of wartime rations. Helen had congratulated herself for her stealth as she couldn’t face the venom that would have come out of her mother’s mouth if she’d found out Helen was to be a godmother to Polly and Tommy’s baby. She didn’t need reminding that she had once – not that long ago – tried to split them up.
Parking around the corner from the church, she got out of her beloved sports car – and rejoiced, not for the first time, in the independence of being able to drive. Why hadn’t she learnt sooner? Once she’d grabbed her handbag and gas mask, she slammed the door shut. Getting out her lipstick and compact, she added a fresh layer of Victory Red before adjusting her long wool coat, pulling the belt tight to show off her figure. It was out of force of habit, but she also wanted to look as stunning as possible – more stunning than Dr Eris, at any rate. Walking in her high heels like a model in a fashion show, she turned the corner and as she sashayed her way towards the crowd, conversations stopped as those attending the christening could not help but stare at the Hollywood beauty heading towards them.
‘Helen!’
Matthew stepped forward to greet her, giving her a kiss on both cheeks.
‘You look ravishing, as always.’
‘Thank you, Matthew.’ Helen smiled and then looked behind him to see Dr Parker and Dr Eris. She took a deep breath. Normally, she would have given John a kiss on both cheeks, but she stopped herself. It wasn’t appropriate now that he was with Claire – and even less so when she was standing right next to him and had a tight hold of his hand.
‘Hi, Claire, it’s lovely you’ve both made it.’ Helen sounded the epitome of politeness. An outsider would never have guessed that she meant anything else. ‘How are you? I haven’t seen you for ages.’ She paused. ‘Last time we spoke was outside the asylum, the day after that awful air raid.’
‘That’s right,’ Dr Eris said, as though thinking hard to remember the occasion. ‘Gosh, was it really that long ago?’
‘It was – May,’ said Helen. She couldn’t help but look down at Claire’s left hand. She felt a wave of relief at seeing it devoid of any kind of jewellery. Still, she had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before there was some, certainly if Claire had her way.
Helen looked up to see John’s brown eyes on her. They held each other’s gaze for a split second before he looked away. It was fleeting glance, but it threw Helen.
‘Shall we go in?’ Helen looked down at her watch. It was five minutes to two. People had already started to put out cigarettes and stub out cigars before meandering into the church.
Walking into the nave, Helen saw that a few Christmas decorations had been put up, and on either side of the altar there were two displays of white and red chrysanthemums, which had been quite artfully mixed with branches of holly and other green foliage. The church looked pretty, but not half as spectacular as it had at Polly and Tommy’s wedding. Thanks to her and John’s gift of two very grandiose floral displays, as well as the beautifully decorated Christmas tree her Mother had unknowingly gifted, the place had looked spectacular.
Looking towards the altar, she saw Polly holding baby Artie. She could just see his ivory christening gown showing through the thick shawl he was wrapped up in. Thank goodness he wasn’t crying. There was nothing worse than church acoustics for a squalling baby. She smiled as she walked up the aisle. Next to Polly was Agnes, looking very much the proud grandmother, and then Dr Billingham. Why Polly had to ask him to be Artie’s godfather, she had no idea. She had hoped never to set eyes on the man again after her miscarriage, but it looked like he would be around to haunt her for a good while yet. Strange that he and Polly got on so well.
Just as she reached everyone, the Reverend Winsey suddenly appeared behind them and they all turned and moved aside.
‘Everyone set?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ Polly said, looking down at Artie, who seemed quite happy with all the attention he had been getting and was smiling up at her.
The vicar put his arm out to show it was time for everyone to take their seats and stop chattering around the font.
Helen looked to the left and saw that Bel and Joe were already seated. Major Black was in his wheelchair, with Lucille standing next to him. She was gripping the armrest with both hands, her head heavy on his shoulder. She already looked bored. The Major and Joe were both in their regimental uniforms. Helen knew that Polly had asked Joe to be a godfather, but he had declined, saying it would be hypocritical.
Bel, as always, looked very classy and very pretty in a little black dress Helen had not seen her in before. She was also wearing quite an unusual fascinator, which Helen guessed had been made by Kate – headwear was becoming another one of her signatures.
Looking towards the back of the church, she saw Dorothy and Angie hurrying in at the last minute. Honestly, they looked as though they were just about to hit the town, not attend a church service. Goodness knew what they looked like when they had their weekly jaunts to the Ritz.
‘Thank God for that,’ Angie said; her breathing was heavy from having to half walk, half jog from the flat to the church.
‘Made it in time – just,’ Dorothy said, relieved.
‘We wouldn’t have been dashing if yer hadn’t got me to change my dress at the last minute.’ Angie tugged a little self-consciously at the red dress Dorothy had convinced her to wear.
‘It’s Christmas Eve!’ Dorothy gasped. ‘If you can’t get done up to the nines at Christmas, when can you?’
Angie was just about to walk up the aisle to sit near the front when Dorothy pulled her back.
‘Let’s stay here,’ she said, stepping into one of the ornately carved wooden pews and sitting down.
‘Why?’ Angie asked, surprised her friend didn’t want to be as near to
the action as possible.
‘I want to be able to chat without anyone huffing and puffing at us, like they did at Polly’s wedding,’ Dorothy explained.
Angie looked towards the front of the church. The vicar was gesturing that Polly and her clan should take their seats.
‘All right,’ Angie conceded. ‘Good job I’ve got good eyesight. Do yer not wanna sit by the aisle?’
Dorothy shook her head and patted the hard wooden seat next to her.
‘No, I don’t,’ she said.
Angie stared at her friend. She always insisted on sitting at the end.
‘Come on, Ange, park it – they’re about to start.’
Dr Parker, Dr Eris and Matthew settled in the pew behind the Elliots.
‘Drink at the Tatham afterwards?’ As soon as the words were out of Dr Parker’s mouth, he regretted them. Was he a glutton for punishment? Watching Helen getting all cosy and lovey-dovey with her new man. Or was it because he just wanted to see Helen? Because he missed her?
‘Well, I can certainly ask Helen,’ Matthew said. He glanced at Dr Eris and could see a distinct lack of enthusiasm on her face. ‘But knowing Helen, she’ll want to go back to the yard before the end of the shift, especially with everyone having Christmas Day off.’ He certainly hoped so. He didn’t want Dr Parker realising he’d made a huge mistake and chosen the wrong woman.
Dr Parker moved along the pew to allow Helen to take her seat next to him. As godparents they had to be near the aisle, ready for when they were needed.
‘We are gathered here today …’ Reverend Winsey’s voice boomed out, along with a stream of icy breath. The roof might have been mended but the church was just as cold as it always was.
Dr Eris leant into Dr Parker and took his hand. She would have to think of some excuse not to go for a drink, or at least to keep it short and sweet. She did not want John spending any more time with that woman than he absolutely had to. And as much as Matthew was making a good show of acting as if he was with Helen, she wasn’t so sure. As a psychologist, and a good one at that, she had become pretty astute at reading people’s body language – and her guess was that Helen and Matthew were not an item, much as Matthew clearly wanted them to be.
