by Nancy Revell
‘This is from Daddy,’ she explained.
Artie gurgled by way of reply.
Polly looked out of the window and up at the blue sky. She had to squint as the sun was out. The weather was almost identical to Christmas Day last year. The day she and Tommy had married.
She looked back down at the letter.
‘“Merry Christmas!”’ Polly made a happy face at Artie, which he returned. ‘“Or as they say here in Gibraltar: Feliz Navidad!”’
Polly looked at Artie.
‘Oh, there now, Daddy’s learning Spanish. He can teach you when he comes back.’
If he comes back.
‘“It’s as hot here as I know it will be cold back home.
How I wish I was frozen stiff with the two people I love more than anything else in the world. But because I can’t be, I want you both to know that I will be thinking of you every minute of today. And that I love you both so very much. With all my love, Tommy/Daddy.”’
Polly wiped a solitary tear from her eye, just catching it before it dropped onto the letter. She would not cry. She had resolved that today was going to be a happy one. She had much to celebrate, not only the letter from Tommy, which reassured her he was alive and well, but today was their first wedding anniversary – and their baby boy’s first Christmas.
*
Helen had tried to enjoy a lie-in – it was Christmas after all – but couldn’t. Her body clock was set. It wasn’t going to budge, so she gave up on sleep and wandered downstairs to make herself a cup of tea and a piece of toast. At least the house was quiet, and her mother was still sleeping off what she guessed would be a hangover from hell. She’d snuck in when the party was just getting into the swing last night and had successfully avoided having to be in any way a part of it. It was bad enough having to see John and Claire joined at the hip for most of the day, without then being subjected to an evening of her mother’s friends’ inane chatter.
Padding into the kitchen, she was surprised to see it so clean and tidy. Poor Mrs Westley must have been up all hours getting the place back to normal.
Helen put the kettle on.
Today was going to be hard work. A laborious Christmas dinner with her mother and grandfather. The irony of having to spend Christmas Day with the two people she disliked more than anyone else she knew – and those two people being her family – did not escape her.
She thought of John.
How she would have loved to have popped to Ryhope to see him after he’d finished his shift. Now that she had her own transport, she could have just nipped there after her mother had made her excuses and swanned off to the Grand.
She could have done – were it not for Claire.
She and John might have cemented their friendship, but there were still boundaries to abide by.
*
Dr Parker had been up early and was on the ward for rounds at eight o’clock sharp. He was glad. He’d not slept brilliantly after yesterday’s christening.
If he was honest, he’d wanted to stay a little longer at the pub, but Claire had said, politely of course, that she’d had enough.
He understood that a smoky, working-class pub in the east end was not Claire’s idea of a fun Christmas Eve on a rare day off, so he’d suggested they nip into the Palatine for a drink and to listen to some carolling before they jumped on a bus back to Ryhope. It had been incredibly festive, and he’d tried to stir up that carefree joyousness you were meant to have at this time of year, but he’d failed. Not that he’d let it show.
He’d been surprised to see Angie and Quentin in the restaurant. They’d looked so happy, gazing at each other in a way that made it glaringly obvious they were hopelessly in love. It had made him doubt his feelings for Claire, which was stupid. Angie and Quentin were younger. They were different people.
As he unhooked one of his patient’s charts from the bottom of his bed, he forced a smile and wished him the obligatory ‘Merry Christmas’. Not that this young man would think there was much to be merry about. He’d just had an amputation from the knee after gangrene had set in. He’d been lucky it hadn’t spread; not that the young lad nodding back off into a morphine-induced sleep would see it that way.
Dr Parker moved on to the next bed.
At least he was in good company here in not having the greatest of desires to celebrate Christmas. How could he partake in the frivolity of the festive season when there were hundreds of other doctors and surgeons – never mind thousands of nurses – on the front line, putting their lives at risk to save others?
He hadn’t told Claire, but he had put in another request to be sent to whichever battlefield needed him the most.
He had decided to keep on appealing their refusals to let him go until he wore them down.
That was his Christmas wish.
‘I’ll see yer all later in the pub!’ Pearl popped her head into the kitchen. Joe was playing a game of dominoes with Lucille, Polly was feeding Artie, and Bel was helping Agnes clear up the breakfast dishes in the scullery.
‘It’s a bit early to be opening up,’ Bel said, drying her hands and looking at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Lots to do,’ Pearl said, ‘it being Christmas ’n all.’
‘We’ll bring back two plates yer can warm up later,’ Agnes said.
‘Aye, ta, Agnes, that’ll be nice.’
‘So, you’re going to be working behind the bar all day?’ Bel asked.
‘No rest for the wicked,’ Pearl said. ‘Besides, we’re one of the few pubs to get a licence, so we’re expecting to be full to bursting.’
‘Nana, Nana!’ Lucille had pushed herself onto her feet and was offering her grandmother one of her pear drops.
‘Ah, no thanks, pet, yer auld nana’s sweet enough.’ She patted her on the head. ‘See yer all later then.’
She turned and left, coughing her way down the hallway and out of the front door.
When she saw that the snow was still thick and looked as though it had no intention of melting despite the sunny skies, she cursed. Pulling her coat around her, she trudged down Tatham Street, going in the opposite direction to the pub.
Fifteen minutes later she reached her destination – a small terraced cottage off Villette Road. She hadn’t expected to be knocking on their door so soon, but after the Havelock girl’s ‘present’ to Isabelle last night, she’d known she had to act fast.
It had surprised her that the couple hadn’t moved. They’d stayed put these past thirty-odd years, which had made it easier for Pearl to track them down.
It wasn’t until she was sitting in their front lounge, bare of any kind of Christmas decoration, that they explained how if they moved away it would be as though they were leaving their daughter behind. And they couldn’t – wouldn’t – do that.
As Pearl drank her tea, she could see they were counting the days until they could leave for good and join the daughter they missed so much.
After stepping back out into the snow-covered streets, Pearl carried on up Villette Road, turning right onto Ryhope Road. Some revellers high on Christmas spirit pulled over in a car and asked her if she wanted a lift. Normally, she would have jumped in, but she couldn’t stand the sight of their happy faces, not after the conversation she’d just had. She needed to acclimatise herself and so she waved them on. After twenty minutes of scrunching through fresh snow, though, she wished she’d accepted their offer and put up with their smiley faces.
Turning left into West Lawn, she arrived, finally, at her second port of call.
*
‘Here you are.’ Rosie handed a blanket to yet another beggar. She hadn’t realised there were quite so many homeless people in the town.
‘Ta, pet,’ said the old man, who didn’t look as though he’d had a wash since Christmas last. If then.
Rosie watched as Charlotte gave him some food and Kate crouched down and put some money in his hand. She stayed talking to him for a little while. Rosie caught the odd word. She was telling
him where he could find shelter – it was the nearest Salvation Army hostel. The old man nodded and gave her a toothless smile, but it was clear he had no intention of leaving his spot under the railway arches.
Rosie looked at Charlotte. Her little sister’s face was full of concern. This was certainly a Christmas she would remember.
*
When Lily opened the front door to find Pearl standing on the step, her first thought was that she wished she’d told Maisie to tell her to use the back entrance. Ushering her in, she did a quick check, but thankfully there wasn’t anyone else about. She was glad Pearl had come, though. After her phone call to Maisie last night from the pub, they’d heard that Pearl feared a Christmas Day surprise that was in no way a good one. Not for any of them.
Chapter Fifty-Four
By the time everyone was settled in Vera’s café, the windows were steamed up and the air was warm and full of chatter. Charlotte, Hannah and Olly had arranged the tables so that they made one long rectangle down the length of the cafeteria. Kate had commented that it reminded her of the famous oil painting of The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci.
While Kate had put her finishing touches to the table decorations, Charlotte had disappeared into the kitchen to make the gravy, which was becoming her forte having mastered the skill during her time working with Muriel in the canteen at Thompson’s. Having spent the morning with the town’s down-and-outs, Charlotte was feeling grateful. There was nothing like the misfortune of others to make you count your blessings.
Rosie, on the other hand, had been left a little down following their morning’s trudge through the snow to areas of the town she had no wish to revisit, for she had kept seeing Peter’s face in all the poor souls to whom she had handed blankets. The same questions kept looping round and round in her head. Had Peter’s true identity been revealed? Was he languishing in some prisoner-of-war camp?
Or worse still, had he had his last supper?
She tried to join in the Christmas spirit, but found it hard.
Gloria was also trying her best to join in the festivities, for her little girl’s sake if no one else’s. Watching her now, with her short, bobbed jet-black hair, she was the spit of her dad. In some ways it was a huge comfort that Hope was the image of the man she loved, the man she craved to be with; in other ways, it caused her tremendous heartache.
After everyone had settled in their seats, Vera started to serve up. Rina and Charlotte brought out the plates while Agnes took hot tea to those who enjoyed a cuppa with their meal and Lily offered the other revellers a choice of wine or port.
George had brought a bottle of single malt, which he held up to see who wanted to partake. The only nods and raised glass tumblers came from those sitting nearest to him – Major Black and Joe.
Mr Pickering was sitting next to his daughter, Georgina, who was sitting next to her new mentor, Mr Clement. Next to him were his wife and three children. As they all looked down at their steaming plates piled high with food, they agreed it had been a great idea for everyone to pool their resources and rations as there was no way they could have individually replicated what was now making their mouths water. Georgina and Mrs Clement agreed whole-heartedly, admitting that their skills in the kitchen were somewhat lacking.
Mr Clement and Mr Pickering exchanged looks and didn’t argue the point.
As Charlotte and Rina put the last plates down in front of Albert, Beryl, Iris and Audrey, Vera followed, carrying three plates, one balanced on her forearm in true silver-service style.
Charlotte sat down next to Lily, her face lighting up when she saw that she’d poured her half a glass of wine. Looking nervously over at Rosie, who was sitting opposite, she was glad to see she seemed a million miles away. She took a large gulp before her sister had time to return to planet Earth and stop her.
Seeing that the two cooks were now settled in their places, and that both women were reaching for their glasses of port, Lily stood up with her wine glass in her hand.
Bel checked her handbag was still by her feet. Its contents were weighing heavily on her mind. If she were competing with Rosie and Gloria for the ability to put on a happy face when feeling anything but, Bel would win first prize hands down. As she laughed and joked with Polly and divided her attention between Artie and Hope, no one would have guessed the myriad of thoughts that kept racing around in her head. Watching Hope toddling around the room, occasionally screaming with excitement, made her think of Helen. There was no denying that the two were related. She knew Helen had been a real daddy’s girl. Hope would be, too, if she ever got to spend any time with her father.
Helen had told Bel that as a rule the family didn’t tend to sit down to their Christmas dinner until two o’clock and then it was a long-drawn-out affair, with aperitifs, as well as a starter. Thinking of Mr Havelock lording it in his huge house, eating canapés and admiring his huge, wonderfully decorated Christmas tree, Bel felt the familiar surge of anger. Vera had managed to get hold of what could only be described as a midget fir tree. An ancient midget fir tree at that. It wasn’t even green any more. Most of the needles had dropped off and the few measly decorations were hanging off skinny brown branches that looked more like twigs.
‘A toast!’
Bel looked up to see Lily, looking spectacular as always in a green velvet dress.
‘To a very Merry Christmas,’ Lily declared. ‘Bon appétit!’
They all raised their glasses and teacups.
‘Merry Christmas!’
Angie was watching everyone at the table as they tucked in. She put food in her mouth and chewed but didn’t taste a morsel. She was floating on a cloud. It was as though she was untouchable. As though the serenity she felt was impenetrable.
So, this was what it felt like to be in love.
After that first kiss, they had stayed with each other until the moment Quentin’s car had arrived at the front door to pick him up.
Angie yawned, forgetting to put her hand over her mouth.
Dorothy nudged her.
‘Wakey, wakey, lovebird!’
Angie smiled at Dorothy, not minding the rather robust shove – or being called a ‘lovebird’.
Dorothy looked at Gloria and rolled her eyes. They all knew, of course, that Angie and Quentin had finally got it together. Dorothy had exclaimed more than once this afternoon, ‘At last! It’s only taken them an entire year!’
Angie hadn’t minded. She didn’t feel like she would ever mind anything ever again.
‘My Christmas wish is for you never to change,’ he’d said.
Angie knew she would never forget those words, spoken as they’d sat, their arms wrapped around each other, on Quentin’s settee. Angie, of course, had laughed loudly, and Quentin had looked at her and said with serious eyes, ‘I mean that. You’re perfect the way you are – and I love you for precisely the person you are now.’
They had shared the happiest, saddest goodbye, Angie standing at the top of the stone steps to the flat, Quentin’s cardigan wrapped around her, his slippers on her feet.
Quentin had gone to get in the car, had stopped and turned, and then ran back up the steps to kiss her for about the hundredth time that night, before promising he would be back as soon as he could. And she had watched as the car had pulled away, wheels spinning a little in the icy snow, waiting until the red lights disappeared around the corner.
Only then did she realise that it had been on these steps that they had first met.
And with that came another realisation – it had been there that she had first fallen in love with Quentin.
And it had taken her all this time to realise it.
Toby jumped off the train and hurried out of the station, keeping his fingers crossed there’d still be a few taxis about, even though it was Christmas Day. He’d got delayed in Scotland, but thankfully the trains had all been running on time. No air raids to cause disruption due to an agreement that today there would be no German bombers clouding their skies, just as
Berlin would have a respite from a week of raids by the Allies.
Walking out of the main entrance and into daylight, he stopped dead – he’d never thought of this part of town as particularly pretty, but today it was like a scene from a Christmas card. Brilliant white snow lay everywhere; even the bomb site where the town’s department store had once stood looked almost picturesque.
Seeing a lone taxi idling by the side of the road, he hurried over and jumped in.
‘The salubrious establishment known as Vera’s on High Street East, old chap!’
The driver forced a smile, hoping the posh accent meant a generous tip.
‘Toby!’ Dorothy’s screech managed to sound out above the noise of loud chatter filling the café.
Everyone turned to look as Toby stamped snow off his boots. He looked at his audience and gave them a salute, then took off his cap. Dorothy thought he looked the handsomest man on the planet in his smart army uniform. Clambering out of her seat, she straightened her figure-hugging dress and tottered over to greet him. Toby’s smile was as wide as his embrace. Scooping her up in his arms, he lifted her so that her toes were only just able to touch the linoleum flooring and gave her a big smacker on the lips.
‘Give me a moment,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve just got to have a quick word with Rosie.’
Rosie watched as Toby came into the café. Her heart was pounding. Had he heard anything? Dorothy had been unsure if he was going to be able to make it today. During their Christmas dinner, Rosie wasn’t sure who had been looking at the door the most – her or Dorothy.
Something told her that if he made it here today, he’d have news. Perhaps because last Christmas he’d come armed with a letter.
God, she hated this!
Wanting – not wanting Toby to turn up. Wanting – not wanting to hear something. Nothing was better than something, as nothing meant nothing – but something might mean news that he was dead.
Dead.
