by Nancy Revell
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Nancy Revell
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Epilogue
History Notes
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book
THE FIFTH NOVEL IN THE COMPELLING SHIPYARD GIRLS SERIES FROM SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR, NANCY REVELL.
Sunderland, 1942
With the war showing no sign of abating, Helen is thriving in her role as shipyard manager. But at home the return of her father brings a shocking discovery that tears her family apart.
Gloria is shouldering the burden of a terrible secret. If the truth comes out there could be dire consequences, and it will take all her resolve to resist the pressure around her.
Meanwhile Rosie is throwing herself into her work, taking on as many shifts as she can. Anything to keep her mind off the fact that she hasn’t heard from her sweetheart in months…
About the Author
Nancy Revell is the author of the Shipyard Girls series, which is set in the north-east of England during World War II.
She is a former journalist who worked for all the national newspapers, providing them with hard-hitting news stories and in-depth features, Nancy also wrote amazing and inspirational true life stories for just about every woman’s magazine in the country.
When she first started writing the Shipyard Girls series, Nancy relocated back to her hometown of Sunderland, Tyne and Wear, along with her husband, Paul, and their English bull mastiff, Rosie. They now live just a short walk away from the beautiful award-winning beaches of Roker and Seaburn, within a mile of where the books are set.
The subject is particularly close to Nancy’s heart as she comes from a long line of shipbuilders, who were well-known in the area.
Also by Nancy Revell
The Shipyard Girls
Shipyard Girls at War
Secrets of the Shipyard Girls
Shipyard Girls in Love
Why YOU love Nancy Revell
‘The girls just go from strength to strength. Absolutely brilliant, so many twists and turns. Can’t wait for the next book’
‘I can’t wait to read the next instalment of these incredible women’s lives. They’re such wonderful characters; I can’t wait to see what happens next to them all. September can’t come soon enough … Thank you, Nancy Revell’
‘A cracking saga set in the North East of England during World War 2. I LOVED it and became totally immersed and involved in the story. Can’t wait to read the next book in the series’
‘It’s absolutely brilliant. I read all one to four, I just could not put it down, I got so caught up in the lives of the characters. It’s a must read!’
‘What a brilliant read – the story is so good it keeps you wanting more … I fell in love with the girls; their stories, laughter, tears and so much more’
‘How wonderful to read about everyday women, young, middle aged, married or single all coming to work in a man’s world. The pride and courage they all showed in taking over from the men who had gone to war. A debt of gratitude is very much owed’
‘I absolutely loved this book. I come from Sunderland and knew every street, cafe, road and dock. Have already ordered the sequel’
‘This is a book that lets the reader know the way our ancestors behaved during the two world wars. With strength, honour and downright bravery … I for one salute them all and give thanks to the author Nancy Revell, for letting us as readers know mostly as it was’ *****
‘Marvellous read, couldn’t put down. Exciting, heart rendering, hope it will not be long before another one. Nancy Revell is an excellent author’
‘Everyone’s in love with the shipyard girls!’
What the reviewers are saying…
‘Well-drawn, believable characters combined with a storyline to keep you turning the page’
Woman magazine
‘The author is one to watch’
Sun
‘A riveting read is just what this is in more ways than one’
Northern Echo
‘Researched within an inch of its life; the novel is enjoyably entertaining. A perfect way to spend hours, wrapped up in the characters’ lives’
Frost magazine
‘A brilliant read!’
Take a Break magazine
‘This is a series that has gone from strength to strength … The cleverly weaved secrets and expert plotting had me hooked! 5* Genius’
Anne Bonny Book Reviews Blog
‘There is a bit of everything within its pages – drama, heartache, happiness, sadness and the odd dash of humour … I absolutely loved this heart wrenching and extremely realistic saga series. A brilliant 5 out of 5*’
Ginger Book Geek Blog
‘Nancy creates strong characters that come alive as you read’
Chellsandbooks Blog
‘All the essentials of a good saga’
Lyn Andrews, author of Liverpool Sisters
‘Heartfelt, pacy and gutsy, I adore it already and will no doubt be devouring the rest of the series with just as much enthusiasm’
Fiona Ford, author of The Spark Girl
To postmaster John Wilson and Liz Skelton at Fulwell Post Office. Thank you so much for all your continued support, enthusiasm and encouragement.
Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall
Confucius (551–479 BC)
Prologue
Guildford Registry Office
Saturday 10 January 1942
‘Will you, Rosie Eloise Thornton, take this man, Peter Archibald Miller, as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?’
Rosie looked at her lover, the only man she had ever fallen in love with. The man who might
well make her a widow longer than he would a wife, and she smiled. It was a smile full of both happiness and sadness.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, looking into Peter’s serious, deep blue eyes.
The elderly registrar pushed his gold-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose before turning his attention to the groom, who, he guessed, must be twice the age of his bride. A bride who was very attractive, despite the flecks of tiny scars he could make out underneath her make-up, and who was wearing the most vibrant red dress he’d ever seen. Nothing, however, surprised him these days.
‘And do you, Peter Archibald Miller, take this woman, Rosie Eloise Thompson, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?’ the registrar asked.
‘I do,’ Peter said, not taking his eyes off his bride – the woman who had turned his life upside down, and who had brought him a love that he had never thought existed. A woman he’d thought he had lost for ever, but who had travelled almost three hundred miles to be with him for what might turn out to be their last days together.
The registrar looked down at Peter’s hand, which was holding a simple, 18-carat-gold band, one he had bought just that morning from a jewellers a few doors down from their hotel. Peter took his cue.
‘With this ring I thee wed.’ Peter took hold of Rosie’s left hand as gently as he could and slid the gold band on to her wedding-ring finger. Her hand felt cold and he had to stop himself from rubbing it warm.
The registrar looked at Peter and Rosie, cleared his throat and declared, ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’ Peter was already bending his head to kiss his new bride as the registrar added rather belatedly, ‘You may now kiss the bride.’
Kissing her new husband back, Rosie couldn’t stop herself blushing at the public display of affection, even though it was an anticipated part of the short ceremony.
The registrar forced a cough. ‘If you can both just sign here … and here.’ He didn’t want to hurry them, but he was aware that he was running out of time. This particular couple had been squeezed in at the last minute. He looked behind the newly-weds and gave the nod to the two witnesses standing quietly to the side. They were both registry-office clerical workers and this was not the first time they had been called upon to be witnesses of late; in fact, they had been called upon dozens of times in the last year as so many special licences had been granted since the declaration of war.
Rosie put her small bouquet of white pansies down on the wooden table. Peter had insisted his wife at least have a wedding bouquet, even if it was just a modest one. After all, she had not even had the chance to go and buy herself a proper wedding dress.
Stepping forward to add their own signatures to the pastel green marriage certificate, both witnesses noted with surprise the descriptions of ‘police officer’ and ‘welder’ under the column headed ‘Rank or profession’.
Giving the ink a moment to dry, the registrar handed one of the certificates to the groom. Peter folded it up and put it in the inside pocket of the black woollen suit he always wore for work and which had been pressed for this very special occasion.
After Peter and Rosie thanked and shook hands with the man who had just made them husband and wife, Rosie picked up the wedding bouquet and walked out of the small room and into the noisy corridor. Passing a couple dressed in khaki uniforms, his standard army and hers that of the Auxiliary Territorial Service, Peter and Rosie smiled at them.
‘Congratulations!’ The young man and woman spoke at the same time and laughed, their faces full of excitement and anticipation. Rosie noticed the bride was empty-handed and gave her the small bouquet of pansies.
‘Are you sure?’ The woman’s face lit up.
Rosie nodded.
‘Oh, thank you! Thank you! They’re gorgeous!’
Rosie stepped forward and spoke to the woman quietly, so that no one else could hear. As she spoke, the young woman clutched Rosie’s hand. There were tears in both their eyes.
Just then the registrar stuck his head around the panelled door to the registry office and beckoned the couple in.
‘That’s one of the many reasons why I love you so much!’ Peter said, grabbing both their coats from the wooden stand by the main entrance and helping his new wife into her grey mac.
As soon as they stepped out into the bitingly cold but fresh afternoon, the two witnesses who had slipped away unnoticed suddenly appeared by their side.
‘Congratulations!’ they shouted, showering the newly-weds with confetti. Rosie jumped with unexpected delight and was taken aback when the young woman gave her a hug and whispered, ‘May it be long and happy!’
Hurrying down the steps and onto the wide stretch of gravelled driveway, Peter stopped and pulled Rosie close to him. As there was no one else about, they stood and kissed.
‘I love you, Mrs Miller.’ Peter pulled back a fraction to look at the woman he had fallen in love with the moment he had first clapped eyes on her.
Rosie stepped closer and told him, ‘I love you too, Mr Miller.’ She didn’t think she had ever felt so happy, so special and yet also so heavy-hearted in her entire life.
Holding hands, Rosie and Peter turned right into a side street, then right again onto a narrow pavement that led to the centre of town. Seeing they were covered in confetti, passing pedestrians smiled and made way for them.
As they neared the main entrance of their hotel, they passed a newspaper stand with the words LIVERPOOL BLITZ written in large capital letters. Peter put his arm around Rosie’s shoulders and squeezed her gently to him.
‘So, can I have the pleasure of taking my new wife out for a celebratory meal?’ he asked, hoping to draw her attention away from the headlines. He was determined that today would be a happy, carefree day. It was just going to be about the two of them. There was to be no war talk.
‘Your new wife would love to be taken out for a “celebratory meal”, dear husband.’ Rosie smiled, enjoying their role play, although she too had seen the news and said a silent prayer that her home town would not be next.
Peter and Rosie lay in their sumptuous double bed, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, having made love for the first time as a married couple. Their chatter was interspersed with the occasional silence as they both thought about the romantic whirlwind in which they had been caught these past few days.
‘I still can’t quite believe you’re here – let alone that you are now my wife!’ Peter spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘And a very kind wife, I have to add.’
Rosie knew Peter was talking about the flowers. The beautiful little bouquet of white pansies had been the only wedding frippery they had been able to indulge in as everything had had to be organised so speedily. They had got them from a little florist just a few hundred yards or so away from their hotel. It had been slim pickings, but they were pleased simply to have found a flower shop still open for business in the present climate.
‘They’d served their purpose,’ Rosie said, interlinking her fingers with his, enjoying the feel and warmth of his body next to hers. ‘I walked down the aisle – or rather the middle of the registry office – with the man I loved, in a dress I loved, holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers. The man – and the lovely red dress – I’ll keep, but the flowers, well, they would only be here now, wilting and dying. At least they gave joy to two brides instead of just the one.’
Peter pulled Rosie close and kissed her.
‘But had you kept them you could have pressed them and held on to them as the only real memento of your wedding day,’ he argued.
‘Why would I need dried flowers to remind me of today?’ Rosie pressed herself gently against her husband. ‘I’ll never forget today. Ever.’
‘What did you whisper to the young army bride when you gave her the flowers?’ Peter asked curiously.
‘I told her what the florist told me – that every flower has
a meaning and a pansy means thinking of you.’
Rosie fell silent for a moment. Turning to Peter, her face was deadly serious.
‘I want you to know that I’ll always be thinking of you. When I’m working. When I’m not working. Even when I’m sleeping, I’ll always be thinking of you.’
Peter kissed her again but worried about the fervour with which she had spoken those words. In different circumstances he couldn’t have wished to hear anything more enchanting spoken with such passion and sincerity. But with such an uncertain future, a part of him wished she didn’t feel so strongly, for if he didn’t come back it would make life so much harder for her. And God only knew, this wonderful, strong, unique woman now lying in his arms had already experienced enough hardship to last her a lifetime.
It was the early hours of the morning and although they had both drifted in and out of sleep it was as though neither of them would allow their bodies to rest, to leave each other for any amount of time – until they had to.
Indulging in a stream-of-consciousness, sleep-deprived chatter, they could not have been happier. They enjoyed the simplicity of revelling in the moment, relishing the time they had before they were forced to part.
‘I can’t believe you missed me by just a few seconds,’ Peter mumbled, sleepily.
Rosie didn’t need to ask where her new husband’s mind had wandered to. That awful day last week when Kate had turned up at the yard with his letter would be forever etched into her memory. Rosie had run the entire way from Thompson’s, across the Wearmouth Bridge and into the town centre, only to arrive at the railway station just as Peter’s train was pulling away.
It might have been too late for farewells, but Peter had caught a glimpse of Rosie as she had clattered down the steps to the platform. It had been enough to show him that she still loved him and had made him determined to see her one last time.
‘I’m still puzzled as to why Kate didn’t give me your letter the night before.’ Rosie pulled up the blanket to keep out the cold and snuggled against the warmth of Peter’s chest.
‘Well, thank goodness she did,’ Peter murmured into Rosie’s mess of blonde curls, ‘otherwise I wouldn’t have sent you that telegram, you wouldn’t have travelled here to see me, and you wouldn’t have agreed to be my wife … And more than anything, we wouldn’t have had these last few days together.’
