Victory for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  When the door swung open, Pearl’s eyes widened in surprise. Thinking a house this grand would surely have a butler, she was surprised to see what could only be the mistress standing in the doorway; no servant would be allowed to wear such outrageous clothing.

  Pearl couldn’t tear her eyes away from the woman now standing in front of her. Her huge skirt and tightly fitted bodice were a mass of crimsons and purples, and made up of what looked like a variety of different fabrics. A knot of rich reddish brown hair was piled chaotically up on the woman’s head, thick strands hanging loose around her narrow neck. But it was the woman’s heart-shaped face that really captivated Pearl. A face that looked unreal, mask-like, due to the garish make-up she was wearing – a thick layer of powder, generously applied cherry lipstick, a smudge of rouge on each cheek, and a dab of cobalt blue on her eyelids.

  She reminded Pearl of one of those Russian dolls she had seen in a shop window in London. She had watched, fascinated, as the owner had taken the colourful wooden ornament from the shelf and opened it up to show a customer that there was another one inside, exactly the same, only smaller. Pearl had stood transfixed, her nose almost touching the windowpane until the shopkeeper had become aware of her gawping and pulled down the roller blind.

  ‘Oh my!’ The Russian-doll woman spoke first. She too could not hide her fascination at the curiosity in front of her. ‘It’s the little match girl!’

  The woman stared at Pearl standing rooted to the spot on the top step.

  ‘Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne!’

  ‘Sorry, miss?’ Pearl finally managed to speak.

  ‘The little match girl!’ the Russian-doll woman repeated, as if that explained everything. Pearl was still none the wiser. She could only think that the lady thought she was selling matches, but what would make her think that, she did not know. Pearl’s confusion must have been apparent on her face as the mistress of the house smiled at her and beckoned her to come in. Pearl hesitated.

  ‘Come in! Come in!’ the woman cajoled.

  Pearl bent down and grabbed the cloth bag that contained what few possessions she had and stepped over the polished brass threshold.

  ‘You must be freezing stood out there! We don’t want you suffering the same fate as the poor little match girl, do we?’ Seeing the continued blank look on Pearl’s face, the woman put her hands on her hips and sighed. ‘When dear old Hans wrote his story, he must have had a picture of you in his mind,’ she said.

  Pearl had no idea what the strange lady was talking about and was just opening her mouth to repeat her set little speech enquiring as to whether or not the mistress’s household might need another maid or the like, when she saw a man who she guessed was the butler come charging down the long, polished parquet hallway.

  ‘Ma’am, what have I said about answering the front door!’

  Pearl stared at the man, stunned that he was speaking to the mistress of the house in such a reprimanding manner.

  ‘And to strangers of all people!’ He looked down at Pearl and could barely hide the shock that she had let such an undesirable through the front door.

  ‘What’s your business, girl?’ he demanded, his hands held firmly behind his back, his face a scowl.

  ‘Now, now, Heathcliff, don’t frighten the poor thing. What do you think she’s going to do? Go on a rampage and murder us all? Look at her, there’s barely a picking on her. I was just telling her that she must have been Hans Christian Andersen’s inspiration when he wrote “Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne”.’

  Pearl looked at the manservant and then back to the mistress. They were talking about her as though she were blind, deaf and dumb. They stood in silence for a moment, before the mistress turned to Pearl and extended her heavily jewelled hand.

  ‘My dear, my name is Henrietta. Well, actually, if I’m to be totally honest Henrietta is my middle name, but I refuse to be called by my first name. It’s far too boring. So, little match girl, pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  Pearl heard Heathcliff sigh heavily.

  Pearl extended her own hand and returned the handshake.

  ‘I’m Pearl, miss.’

  ‘Oh, what a wonderful name!’ Henrietta exclaimed, clapping her hands together, but not so forcibly as to make any sound. ‘So, Pearl, what is the reason for your visit?’

  Heathcliff coughed and Henrietta cast him a look of reproof.

  ‘I wanted to ask if yer needed a maid or cleaner. Or owt?’ Pearl had been put off track and had forgotten to trot out her practised and more refined spiel.

  ‘Well,’ Henrietta said, smoothing down the outer layers of her huge, swaying skirt. ‘It just so happens we do. Follow me, Pearl.’

  The unlikely trio walked in a line down the stairs and into the warmth of the huge kitchen. Introductions were made to the rest of the staff, who were sitting round a long wooden table enjoying a pot of tea.

  ‘So, ma’am, what exactly is the position that you say needs filling?’ Heathcliff asked. It was a genuine question, for as far as he was concerned there was no position to be filled. They had just replaced the last girl who had got herself in the family way and they already had more staff than they needed.

  Henrietta put a finger to her lips and looked around the kitchen as if trying to locate something she had misplaced, before perking up:

  ‘Scullery maid! Pearl shall be our new scullery maid!’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wednesday 25 February

  When Helen hurried out the front door she quickly looked at her watch. It had gone seven already. She would normally have been at work by now. She had been out with Theodore last night and hadn’t got back until late. She felt rough. A mixture of too little sleep and too much brandy, too many cigarettes and too little food.

  As she went down the four stone steps that led to the entrance gate, Helen stopped mid-flight and looked to her right, where there was a brand-new postbox. She was surprised she hadn’t noticed it last night when she had come back home. Still, it had been dark, and she had to admit to having been a tad blurry-eyed.

  Helen shook her head in slight disbelief at her mother’s solution to what she saw as a problem with their mail. Their usual postie had been called up and replaced by a woman, much to her mother’s chagrin. ‘You’d think she was stuffing a chicken the way she rams post through our letter box!’ had been her main complaint, but her mother had also been disgruntled by their mail not being delivered at the same time every day, as it used to be. Helen had tried to point out that there was, in fact, a war on, and the GPO was lucky to be running at all.

  Helen couldn’t give two figs if there was any post or not. It had become quite clear that her father was not going to bother putting pen to paper. She knew he wasn’t the most proficient letter writer, but he might at least have sent a postcard? It was clearly the case, as her mother had so succinctly put it, that her father now had ‘another family’.

  ‘It’s abundantly obvious,’ she said one evening when they had both been in, a rarity these days, ‘that if he can’t have his other woman and their bastard, he isn’t going to bother with his own legitimate daughter.’

  Helen had at first thought her mother was speaking out of bitterness and hurt, and that her father would never forsake her. But it looked as though her mother was right. The proof being the post – or rather the lack of it.

  Every time she thought of her father she was hit by the most awful guilt, and she would go through the same mental argument to convince herself she had nothing to feel guilty for.

  He was the one who had chosen another woman over her mother.

  He was the one who had had another child.

  But then another voice inside her head would argue that it was her fault he had been banished from the town.

  What would have happened if she had confronted her father first? She had been the one to keep quiet and let her mother take control of the situation. God, she had hardly spoken to her father since that day at the hospital, p
retending she was either too busy working or out socialising. And he had been so kind to her, telling her not to burn the candle at both ends.

  The voices in her head argued.

  And the more they argued, the more her chest tightened and the more she felt as though her world was closing in on her and there was no escape.

  But there was an escape, wasn’t there?

  Theodore.

  Lovely Theodore was her safety net. Her sanctuary. When she was with him, she didn’t have the tight chest or the feeling that her world was collapsing. She just heard nice words, felt his soft, gentle hands on her body. He made everything all right again.

  ‘Morning, Miss Crawford!’ Nicholas tipped his cap and opened the car door for Helen. ‘Thompson’s, miss?’

  Helen nodded and took another look at her watch. She would make it there well before half past. God, why did she fret so? She was allowed to be a little late every now and again. Like Theodore kept telling her, she had to let her hair down more. ‘Live a little!’ was how he put it. Helen guessed the seriousness of his job had given him a different outlook on life. Operating on the war-wounded, she guessed, would make you that way. She was thankful her job dealt with steel and not skin.

  Over the past few weeks they had become increasingly intimate and Helen felt herself finding it harder and harder to say no at the time she knew she should be saying no. But Theodore could be very persuasive, and the more he talked about life in Oxford and how she would love it there, the more Helen began to see it as her future home. Her new life.

  She had suggested he meet her mother, but he thought it might be better to meet both her parents together. And what could she say? That her father was unlikely to cross the county boundary ever again?

  The problem was, if he was going to ask for her hand in marriage, she would have to think of something.

  ‘Here we are, miss.’ Nicholas was opening the door and in doing so snapped Helen out of her reverie.

  She got out of her car and hurried through the main gates, just before another wave of workers disembarked from the ferry and started striding up the embankment for the start of the shift.

  Rosie was standing at the main entrance of the admin building. She had already been up to the offices in the hope of seeing Helen about ordering in some new welding equipment, but when she’d got there she had been surprised to find the place empty. It must have been the first time Helen hadn’t been at her desk by seven o’clock sharp. Rosie knew Jack had been Helen’s work mentor when she had first started working at Thompson’s, just like he had been Rosie’s. His words of advice over the years had certainly helped them both navigate the male-dominated world of the shipyard. If you wanted to get on, you had to work harder and longer hours than everyone else – and more so if you were a woman. Rosie wondered if Helen’s recent tardiness was because of this new fella Gloria had seen her with.

  ‘Ah, Helen. Morning,’ Rosie said, standing up straight.

  ‘Good morning, Rosie.’ Helen’s tone was far from friendly. ‘Or should I call you Mrs Miller now that you are a married woman?’ This was the second time Helen had made reference to her relatively new marital status.

  ‘No, no, Rosie’s just fine.’ It was six weeks since her nuptials to Peter, and the initial flurry of excitement over her unexpected marriage had now settled down, thank goodness. Rosie was particularly pleased not to have to field any more questions about what many thought had been a shotgun wedding. Those rumours had subsided as it became clear Rosie’s waistline showed no signs of expanding.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re waiting to see me?’ Helen asked as she pulled open the front door.

  ‘Yes, it was just about ordering in some more equipment.’ Rosie didn’t make any movement to show she was keen on following Helen into the building.

  ‘Well, come in then!’ Helen demanded, keeping the door from slamming shut in Rosie’s face. ‘We can’t talk about it out here, can we?’

  Rosie reluctantly followed Helen through the entrance and trudged up the stairs to her office. Shrugging off her coat, Helen fished out her cigarettes from her Schiaparelli handbag and looked around for her lighter. Watching her, Rosie thought she looked as though she had lost a bit of weight, which had diminished her normally noticeable bosom.

  ‘Right,’ Helen said, lighting up her cigarette. ‘What was it you needed?’

  After Rosie had talked Helen through her rather lengthy order – which amounted to just about everything: new protective glass for their helmets, a selection of rods, a new welding machine and some electric wiring for a couple of the machines that were on their last legs – the two women then talked through some issues with SS Brutus, as well as some spot-welding that had to be done on a collier that had just been dragged into the dry dock.

  By the time Rosie left, the klaxon had already sounded and all of the office workers were at their desks.

  Hurrying down the stairs and back out into the yard, Rosie sucked in the fresh air. Helen had more or less chain-smoked during their meeting and Rosie could hardly breathe. Still, at least that was done. Dealing with Helen was never the most pleasant of tasks. As Rosie approached her squad, she was glad to see that Gloria had taken charge and got them started on the funnel that had just been lifted into position.

  Picking up her mask and pulling on her thick leather gloves, Rosie was glad to be back in her own working environment. Since Gloria had told her she suspected that Helen knew about her relationship with Jack and baby Hope, Rosie had felt even more awkward around Helen than normal. It must be awful knowing that the father you have hero-worshipped all of your life has been having an affair with a woman from work. If Helen had been a more likeable person, Rosie might perhaps have felt a little more sympathy for her.

  At ten o’clock Rosie tapped them all on their shoulders and made the sign of a T. The day was relatively mild so they sat on a metal girder and drank their tea out of their tin cups. Most of the other workers also took their break at this time so the noise was bearable and they were able to hear each other speak.

  ‘Guess who we saw last night?’ Dorothy looked at Gloria and then at Rosie.

  Dorothy, Angie, Polly, Martha, Hannah and Olly had all gone to the Cora picture house last night to see the latest film, Ships with Wings. For once it hadn’t been Dorothy who had been keen to see the film, but Polly, as a number of scenes had been set and shot on the Ark Royal, which had been sunk off the coast of Gibraltar.

  ‘Who?’ Gloria asked, taking a sip of her steaming tea.

  ‘No, you’ve got to guess!’ Angie piped up.

  ‘Humphrey Bogart!’ Gloria joked.

  ‘No!’ Dorothy was clearly bursting at the seams to tell them.

  ‘I thought he was in the film?’ Gloria was enjoying winding them up.

  ‘No, he wasn’t, Glor. That was Leslie Banks! And I didn’t mean who was in the movie.’

  ‘She meant a real live person!’ Angie chipped in.

  Polly and Martha chuckled, knowing Dorothy and Angie had been chomping at the bit to tell them. They had tried to persuade Gloria and Rosie to see the film but both had declined. Rosie had her usual commitments at Lily’s and Gloria had Hope to look after.

  ‘Go on then,’ Gloria said, ‘spit it out. Who did you see?’

  ‘Helen!’

  ‘The duchess!’

  Dorothy and Angie spoke in unison.

  ‘Well, isn’t the girl allowed to go out of an evening?’ Gloria asked.

  They had all got used to their workmate defending Helen.

  ‘Agreed, Glor, but that’s not the goss, is it?’

  ‘Honestly, Dorothy,’ Rosie piped up, ‘you make a mountain out of a molehill you do.’

  ‘So, go on then,’ Gloria was now genuinely intrigued. ‘What is the real “goss”?’

  ‘Drunk as a kitty cat!’ Angie declared before taking a big slurp of tea.

  Gloria looked at Polly and Martha for confirmation.

  ‘I don’t know if I’d go that
far,’ Polly answered Gloria’s unspoken question.

  ‘But,’ Martha added, ‘she did look a bit tipsy. Even Hannah thought she was.’

  Gloria gave Rosie a look that spoke of her concern.

  ‘Well, I saw her this morning, so she can’t have been that bad,’ Rosie reassured her friend quietly.

  ‘Angie might be putting it a bit too harshly,’ Dorothy said, ‘but she was clearly a few sheets to the wind. But what surprised us all,’ she looked at Polly, Martha and Angie, who all nodded, knowing what she was going to say, ‘was the pub we saw her coming out of.’

  ‘Where?’ Now it was Rosie’s and Gloria’s turn to speak in unison.

  ‘The Wheatsheaf!’ Dorothy declared.

  ‘Well,’ Rosie conceded, ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was her scene.’

  ‘Us neither, miss!’ Angie agreed.

  ‘Was she with a bloke?’ Gloria asked.

  ‘Aye, looked a right toff,’ Angie said.

  ‘Yeah, you could tell he was moneyed by what he had on,’ Dorothy chipped in.

  ‘And by his manner,’ Polly added.

  ‘Dear me, right lot of Sherlock Holmeses we have here!’ Gloria said, but she still had a look of concern about her.

  Any more conversation was ended by the pneumatic drills from the gang of riveters they were working alongside. Rosie tossed the dregs of her tea onto the ground and stood up, showing them all that it was nose back to the grindstone.

  When the horn sounded out the start of the lunch break, Martha asked if they would accompany her to the canteen. They all happily agreed. Dorothy and Angie were particularly keen as they wanted to ask Muriel if she had heard any more about the ‘overpaid’ and ‘oversexed’ American GIs, and if they were going to get themselves ‘over here’. The first batch had already arrived in Belfast a few weeks back, but there was still no word as to whether they’d be coming across to the north-east and, more specifically, to Sunderland.

  As Martha, Polly, Dorothy and Angie hurried on ahead, full of chatter about last night’s film, Gloria hung back to speak to Rosie, who had been checking one of the welding machines.