A Christmas Wish for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  Saw that she felt the same.

  He bent his head and kissed her.

  Gently at first, and then with a passion he had been forced to hold back for so long.

  And she kissed him back with an ardour that she, too, had been forced to hold back for so very long.

  Watching Angie and Quentin stop and then kiss, Dorothy sucked in air and grabbed Mrs Kwiatkowski’s arm.

  ‘Oh. My. God. How romantic is that?’ she said, not taking her eyes off her friend and the man she could now officially call Angie’s ‘beau’.

  ‘Don’t look, it’s rude,’ Mrs Kwiatkowski said, freeing herself of Dorothy’s grip and stepping away from the window.

  They had both been peeking through the blackout curtains in Mrs Kwiatkowski’s living room. They were in complete darkness, out of fear that a glimpse of light would make it through any small gaps while they spied on the two lovebirds. They had been standing there for a quarter of an hour, afraid they would miss them coming home, and had only just been able to make the pair out in the darkness as other Christmas revellers hurried past them.

  Dorothy sighed and reluctantly relinquished her viewing point as Quentin and Angie began to stroll, their arms wrapped around each other, towards the flat.

  ‘You know, Mrs Kwiatkowski,’ Dorothy looked at the dark outline of her neighbour as she felt her way across the room towards the light switch, ‘I don’t think we could have hoped for a better result.’

  Mrs Kwiatkowski switched on the light. She was smiling.

  ‘For once, Dorothy, I agree with you.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Brookside Gardens

  ‘It’s a shame Tommy couldn’t be there today, isn’t it?’ Charlotte asked. She was standing in front of the fire. Rosie was behind her, trying to recreate the ‘updo’ that her sister’s idol had been wearing at the christening.

  ‘Well, that’s war for you,’ Rosie said.

  ‘She must miss him, mustn’t she?’ Charlotte said, taking a sidelong glance into the mirror above the mantelpiece. Her sister was doing a surprisingly good job.

  ‘Yes, I think she misses him an awful lot,’ Rosie said, taking a hairpin from the mantelpiece and pushing it carefully into the French knot. ‘Not that she’ll let it show.’

  ‘Like you,’ Charlotte said, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and looking at the photograph of Peter on the mantelpiece.

  Rosie didn’t say anything. For some reason today had been hard for her. Throughout the whole ceremony she’d kept thinking about Peter; kept seeing a vision of him smiling as he walked towards her, his mac flapping open as it always did, his grey-blue eyes sparkling as he brushed back his greying hair. If someone had asked her about the christening, she doubted she’d have been able to tell them much.

  ‘You must really miss Peter,’ Charlotte persevered.

  Rosie patted her handiwork and turned Charlotte round by the shoulders so she could see herself in the mirror.

  ‘I do miss him,’ she said. ‘Now, what do you think of my skills as a coiffeur?’

  Charlotte looked at herself, turning her head to one side and then the other. Rosie picked up the hand mirror from the coffee table and positioned it so that her sister could see what it looked like from behind.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ Charlotte said. ‘Nearly as good as Vivian.’

  Rosie smiled. ‘Let’s hope I can recreate it tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Rosie.’ Charlotte looked at her sister. ‘If I make us a hot chocolate, will you tell me about Peter?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘Why do you want to know about Peter?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘I don’t know – I’m curious, I guess.’

  Rosie looked at her little sister who was no longer little. She had shot up and was now the same height as her. She had turned fifteen in the summer, and looking at her with her grown-up hairstyle, she was clearly becoming a young woman.

  ‘All right,’ Rosie acquiesced. ‘You make yourself a hot chocolate – I’ll have a cup of tea – and I’ll do you a swap. I’ll tell you what you want to know about Peter if you tell me about the group of boys that hang around the school when the bell goes.’

  Charlotte coloured. ‘Nothing much to tell.’

  They headed into the kitchen.

  Rosie sat down at the little kitchen table as Charlotte poured a cup of milk into the saucepan and lit the hob.

  ‘So, tell me everything – from the start,’ Charlotte said, filling the kettle.

  Rosie pulled her dressing gown around her and sat back in her chair.

  ‘It’s rather long and complicated,’ she said.

  Charlotte’s face lit up.

  ‘All the better. A Christmas Eve story,’ she said, getting the tray ready and putting out a plate of biscuits. ‘A Christmas Eve love story.’

  One with a happy ending, Rosie prayed.

  As Charlotte finished making the drinks, Rosie told her sister a little of Peter’s background – how he was a widower whose wife had died of cancer some years previously.

  ‘So, he’s not got any children?’ Charlotte asked. It had never occurred to her to enquire before.

  Rosie shook her head.

  Moving into the sitting room, they settled down on the settee with their hot drinks and biscuits and Rosie started to tell Charlotte a sanitised version of her rather tumultuous relationship, skimming over their initial meeting when Peter had come to tell her about their uncle’s death – this story was about love, not hate.

  ‘A few months later we bumped into each other,’ Rosie said. ‘I’d just got off the ferry and was on my way home – Peter was working with the Dock Police just a little further along the quayside.’ The chemistry between them had been undeniable – not that Rosie told her sister that.

  ‘After that we started to meet up for a cup of tea at Vera’s. Got to know each other,’ Rosie said.

  Charlotte knew a little about their café courtship, thanks to Vera.

  ‘So …’ Charlotte paused, unsure how to phrase her next question. ‘It must have been difficult for you to tell Peter about everything – especially Lily’s – with him working for the police and everything …?’

  Rosie took a biscuit and bit into it, giving herself time to think.

  ‘It was difficult when he first found out, and we didn’t see each other for a while.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘We just needed time to think,’ Rosie said. ‘But, in the end, we realised we loved each other and wanted to be together – regardless.’

  ‘So how was it you got back together?’ Charlotte asked.

  Rosie suddenly laughed, realising why Peter was on her mind so much today.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ she said, ‘he was waiting for me after I’d been to a christening. Hope’s christening.’

  ‘So, you made up?’ Charlotte asked.

  Rosie felt the rush of love and excitement she’d had on seeing Peter waiting for her outside the flat – how they had kissed and, later, made love.

  ‘We did,’ she said.

  As Rosie continued to answer Charlotte’s questions, she realised she was enjoying talking about Peter. It seemed to bring back the happiness of that time. One of the happiest in her life. She rarely talked about Peter, perhaps because she thought about him so much. But chatting about him to her sister seemed to bring him closer. Brought the three of them closer, closer to the dream she had always had – of being a family.

  A dream that would come true – if he made it back.

  She just had to hope and keep on hoping.

  ‘I can’t wait until I fall madly in love,’ Charlotte sighed on hearing how her sister had rushed to the station to catch a train to Guildford to see Peter one last time before he left for the war.

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of time for that,’ Rosie said. ‘And I haven’t forgotten about the boys at school –’ she looked at the clock and saw it was nearly midnight ‘– who I will grill you about tomorrow.’
>
  She put both their empty cups and the crumb-strewn plate on the tray and picked it up.

  ‘Come on, let’s get ourselves to bed, otherwise Santa won’t come.’

  Charlotte laughed.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ve got everything I want anyway,’ she said.

  Rosie felt a lump in her throat.

  With those few words her little sister had just given her the best Christmas present she could ever have wished for, apart from good news about Peter.

  *

  Bel lay awake in bed with Joe snoring gently next to her. He’d been out like a light the moment his head hit the pillow. It had been a busy day. He’d been out with the Home Guard, then helped with the christening and afterwards had gone into town to get the tree, which he had insisted on loading into and then unloading from the delivery truck. She wished he wasn’t so stubborn when it came to his leg. He tried to behave as though there was nothing wrong with it and suffered the consequences afterwards. He’d said goodnight to an excited Lucille and had crashed out himself not long afterwards. Pain was exhausting.

  Thinking about their rather scabby tree, with its even scabbier decorations, Bel thought about the lush green one that had been delivered to the Havelock house, which led her to think of all the privileges Charles Havelock had enjoyed his whole life. She’d wager he had never known the constant gnaw of hunger, or the feel of a brutal northern winter biting into your very bones. That he had always been given the best medical care; any slight twinge looked at, cared for, paid for.

  She thought about all the people she knew.

  All the hardships they’d had to endure.

  She thought about Kate and the miserable life she’d had. About Rosie and her constant fight to keep her sister safe. And Agnes, bringing up her children while grieving for her husband. Her mind wandered to Hannah, worried sick about her parents. And to the women welders and all their secrets that came with a price. And then she thought of the power Miriam had wielded over them all for almost two years.

  And at the heart of it was poor little Hope – an innocent in all of it.

  Suffering the punishment of others by being forced to grow up without her father.

  Bel thought about the report Helen had given her. She thought about its damning contents. Contents that could possibly be incriminating – or which at the very least had the potential to ruin Mr Charles Havelock and his lily-white reputation.

  And the more she thought about the report – her gift from Helen – the more she knew what she had to do.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Christmas Day

  Pearl, along with most of the town’s children, had lain awake most of the night – only she had no interest in snatching a glimpse of Santa. Her mind was churning over and over. Isabelle had been ready to pop for a few weeks, and now that the Havelock girl had given her that damned report, it wouldn’t be long before the geyser blew. Not long at all.

  As soon as she heard Lucille’s excited cries that Santa had been, Pearl got up and made herself ready. She sat at her dresser and put on her make-up. She felt like one of those tribal Indians putting on war paint. Today, she sensed, was going to be a Christmas to remember for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Nana! Nana!’ Lucille shouted out on seeing Pearl walk through into the kitchen-cum-living-room. The two dogs were in an equal state of excitement and were wrestling with a growing mound of newspaper that had been used as wrapping paper. Agnes was in the scullery, and Bel and Joe were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, having watched their daughter open her presents with glee. They both had smiles on their faces.

  Lucille held a plastic doll up to her grandma as though it were a trophy she had just won.

  ‘That’s a grand dolly,’ Pearl said. ‘Better than a bag of coal, eh?’ She turned her attention to Bel. ‘Can I have a word?’ She nodded towards the yard. ‘Out back.’

  Bel’s smile dropped. ‘And Merry Christmas to you too, Ma.’

  Joe got up and kissed Pearl on the cheek. ‘Merry Christmas, Pearl.’ He’d warmed a little towards his mother-in-law of late. She was making an effort. Bill was clearly a good influence on her.

  ‘Thanks, Joe, yer a good ’un.’ She pulled a face and cocked her head at her daughter. ‘Too good for this ’un.’

  Bel shook her head. ‘Come on then,’ she said, grabbing her cardigan. ‘I’m guessing you’ve got your fags?’

  Pearl held them up.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Agnes,’ she said, opening the back door. ‘Bet yer glad yer not having to fanny on feeding us lot today?’

  ‘My second year!’ Agnes laughed, wiping her hands on her pinny. ‘Think I could get used to this being-cooked-for malarkey.’ Last year they had all been at the Grand, enjoying a wedding breakfast that had made them momentarily forget they were at war.

  Pearl stepped out into the yard and was startled by the brightness of the snow. It had been snowing on and off since yesterday afternoon and was now a few inches thick. She lit a cigarette while Bel followed her out, pulling her cardigan around her and folding her arms.

  ‘Is it about the report I gave you?’ Bel asked.

  Pearl had given Bel the report back after reading it, but they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it. By the time Pearl had finished her shift last night, Bel and Joe had already gone to bed.

  ‘Aye, in a roundabout way,’ Pearl said, blowing smoke up into the sky. It was just starting to get light.

  ‘Yer knar, when I had Maisie ’n gave her up, I thought I’d done the right thing,’ she said, before taking another drag. ‘But now I’m older, I dinnit think it was. I think it would have been better if I’d kept her, knowing what I know now.’

  Bel wondered what Pearl did know. Maisie had always been vague about her upbringing.

  ‘When you came along …’ Pearl flicked ash into the virgin snow ‘… I couldn’t do it again – give another bairn up. So, I kept yer.’

  She looked at Bel.

  ‘But now I think I should have given yer up.’

  Bel stared at her mother.

  ‘Do you?’ Bel was surprised.

  ‘I dee, Isabelle. Let’s face it, yer life couldn’t have been much worse than it was with yer auld ma. I walked out of that house after what he did ’n my life just went to pot.’ Pearl took another long drag. They both stood in silence for a moment. ‘Yer saving grace was her indoors.’ Pearl turned her head towards the house.

  Bel stood there, oblivious to the cold and wet that had started to creep through her shoes from the carpet of snow. She had hated her ma for most of her life. It was only recently that she’d let go of the anger, or rather, had transferred it to the person it should always have been aimed at – Charles Havelock.

  ‘I mightn’t have been much cop as a mam,’ Pearl said, ‘but I know yer, Isabelle. Knar exactly what’s going on in that head of yers sometimes.’

  Bel was still staring at her ma.

  ‘So, I want yer to promise me something, Isabelle,’ said Pearl.

  ‘What’s that, Ma?’

  ‘I want yer to tell me if yer gonna dee owt,’ Pearl said simply. She didn’t need to go into any more detail. Her daughter knew exactly what she meant.

  Bel was quiet. Her mother had never made her promise anything in her life. Not even as a child.

  She nodded.

  ‘I want yer to say it,’ Pearl demanded.

  Bel stared at Pearl. She had never heard her ma sound so serious.

  ‘I promise,’ she said.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  Pearl chucked her cigarette butt into the snow.

  ‘Now, let’s gan inside before we both turn blue.’

  *

  Kate, Charlotte, and Rosie were standing by the front door at Lily’s. They all had large wicker baskets in their hands. They were well wrapped up with hats, scarves and gloves. Charlotte’s and Rosie’s cheeks were already red after the walk from Brookside Gardens to West Lawn. It was a beautiful winter’s day – the
re was snow underfoot and the sun was high in the sky, although it was still bitterly cold.

  Stepping out onto the front step, Charlotte took one last look at the tall Christmas tree, which had been beautifully decorated, at the end of the hallway. Lily really did have style.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ Kate asked.

  Rosie and Charlotte nodded.

  ‘Be careful, mes chères,’ Lily called out, bustling down the stairs. She was still in her dressing gown, having enjoyed the most wonderful lie-in.

  Kate frowned at Lily. ‘Why do we have to be careful? Being homeless doesn’t make you any more dangerous than the next person.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Kate,’ Lily said, giving her a hug, and then Charlotte. ‘And Merry Christmas!’ She sang the words. ‘Or as they say in France …’ She looked at Charlotte.

  ‘Joyeux Noël!’ they both chorused.

  ‘Hold your horses!’

  It was George making his way down the stairs with the help of his walking stick. He, too, was still in his dressing gown.

  ‘Just a few coins,’ he said, pulling out a leather pouch from the pocket of his green paisley robe. He gave it to Kate.

  ‘They just need some frankincense and myrrh now,’ Lily quipped under her breath.

  As Kate, Rosie and Charlotte made their way down the pathway to the little wooden front gate, Maisie and Vivian appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ they shouted out. They too had contributed to the contents of the baskets; it had been a trade-off for not going out with Kate and her two helpers.

  *

  While Kate, Rosie and Charlotte walked into town and around the places Kate knew well, where those with no home and no money sought shelter, Polly was sitting on her bed, looking down at Artie in his crib. He was wide awake and had just been given a couple of toys from Santa that he was only moderately interested in. He was looking up at his mammy, who was holding something in her hands that was making a slight crinkling sound as she straightened it out on her lap.

  ‘“Dear Polly and Artie,”’ Polly began, looking again at Artie, pleased to see she had his attention.