Victory for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  Waking in her small box room in the servants’ quarters, Pearl knew she should feel grateful she had found such a good job – one that would put money in her pocket every week, give her a roof over her head and leftovers from the kitchen. But as much as she tried to convince herself that she had fallen on her feet, the feeling of comfort she should have had was simply not there.

  As the weeks passed, Pearl’s body gradually returned to normal. The bleeding she’d had after giving birth ebbed away quite quickly, and her breasts stopped leaking and feeling sore. Her mind was not so quick to recover, though, and Pearl found herself unable to shake off the heavy cloak of depression that had wrapped itself around her.

  Of course, she made sure no one was privy to her grief or the constant ache in her heart. She kept her head down, worked hard and watched her P’s and Q’s. She tried to scratch out the six months she had spent at Ivy House, where the kindness of the nurses had penetrated her hard outer shell, and the love for the unborn baby growing in her belly had slowly eased its way into her heart.

  Most nights Pearl lay awake and quietly cried herself to sleep, reliving the moment she had given birth and the overwhelming love that had swamped her when she had held her newborn baby in her arms. She would imagine that she had her baby girl cuddled up against her chest, and when sleep finally came those fantasies would become dreams. Lovely dreams that brought Pearl such joy, but just like Cinderella, who was plunged back into her life of rags at the chimes of midnight, so Pearl was thrown back into the real world when she woke.

  Unlike Cinderella, though, there was no prince waiting in the wings, ready to come and save her. There was to be no knight in shining armour for Pearl.

  Far, far from it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Park Avenue, Roker, Sunderland

  Saturday 28 February

  ‘Helen, darling, can you come and join us in the dining room, please?’ Miriam shouted up to the top floor as she stood with both hands on the acorn-shaped newel cap that heralded the start of the ornate oak staircase.

  Walking back into the dining room, she sat down at the table, which was littered with files and ledgers. Her father was sitting at the top end, right hand resting around a tumbler of single malt, a cigar smouldering in the crystal ashtray. In front of him was a thick parchment entitled ‘The Last Will and Testament’.

  Neither father nor daughter spoke while they awaited Helen’s arrival.

  ‘Grandfather!’ Helen bustled into the room. She was dressed in a stunning deep green velvet dress that had been tailored to fit her figure perfectly. Mr Havelock pushed himself out of the high-backed dining-room chair.

  ‘Ah, my favourite granddaughter!’ He kissed Helen on the forehead.

  Helen laughed. ‘Your only granddaughter!’ She paused. ‘Actually, your only grandchild!’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Helen was hit by an unwelcome vision of her baby sister. For the briefest of seconds whether Hope would be classed as a grandchild flitted across her mind, before she dismissed the idea.

  ‘You may well be my only grandchild,’ Mr Havelock took his cigar from the ashtray and puffed on it, causing swirls of smoke to fill the room, ‘but even if I had an army of grandchildren, you, my dear, would always be my favourite.’

  Helen brushed away her grandfather’s comments with a self-deprecating wave of her hand and went to sit down.

  ‘Helen, be a dear, won’t you,’ Miriam asked, ‘and shut the door. We don’t want anyone overhearing our private business.’

  Helen got back up and walked over to the heavy dining-room door and shut it, even though she did not think it necessary. There was only Mrs Westley left in the house and she was in the kitchen, no doubt listening to the wireless, probably chuckling along to one of the comedy shows the BBC seemed so keen on airing, or that new music programme she’d been telling Helen about called Desert Island Discs.

  ‘This all looks very serious,’ Helen said, her eyes trained on the piles of documents strewn across the table.

  ‘I’m afraid it is rather serious, my dear!’ Mr Havelock took a small sip of his whisky. ‘But it is all for your benefit in the long run. Much as I hate to even think about my own mortality …’ her grandfather’s chuckle was followed by a dry cough ‘… it has to be done.’ He looked at Helen. ‘And recent events have propelled me into action.’

  ‘Well, that surprises me, Grandfather,’ Helen said, getting up and going over to the sideboard where she kept a packet of Pall Malls and a lighter. She picked up both and came back to the table. ‘I thought you had all your affairs well in order?’ Helen pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘I did, my dear, but as I said, recent events have meant I have had to do a little reshuffling and make a few amendments to my affairs.’

  Helen blew out a billow of smoke. ‘“Recent events” being?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, isn’t it obvious, Helen?’ Miriam’s patience was now at an end, having endured an hour of boring legal talk with her father and the family solicitor, who had thankfully now gone.

  ‘“Recent events”,’ she snapped, ‘being your father.’

  Helen looked at her grandfather. She saw the old man most weeks but not once had he mentioned her dad.

  ‘Because of your father’s recent infidelities,’ he said, keeping his eyes firmly on his granddaughter. ‘And because it would appear he has spawned an illegitimate child I’ve had to make sure the family money and your inheritance are safeguarded. And that has meant I have had another will drafted that makes it quite clear that your father is not to inherit a penny from the Havelock estate. I have also had to stipulate that although the bastard he has sired would not legally have any kind of rights to anything pertaining to the family, this is reflected in the will and would stand up in a court of law should any claim be made at any time in the future.’

  Helen was staring at her grandfather, not sure what to say.

  ‘In other words,’ Miriam added impatiently, ‘your father is being cut out of the will and anything else he may benefit from financially through his marriage to me. From now on he gets his wage and that’s it. And to be honest, he’s lucky to still be getting that.’

  ‘Remember, Miriam,’ Mr Havelock spoke to his daughter as though she were a petulant, spoilt child, ‘this works out well all round. The family still retains its good name, and you and my granddaughter are able to keep face and still walk around town with your heads held high. The Havelock name will not be tarnished because of your poor choice in husbands.’

  This was the first time Helen had heard her grandfather speak badly about his son-in-law. She had always thought, despite her grandfather’s innate snobbery, that he had liked her father.

  ‘I had thought …’ Mr Havelock took a puff on his cigar and looked at Miriam ‘… that as my own wife – God rest her soul – could not give me a male heir, one of my offspring might have given me a grandson.’

  Helen looked at her mother, who was giving her father an unshielded look of pure animosity.

  ‘And,’ he continued, ‘as your sister hasn’t even been able to give me any grandchildren whatsoever, I’m now in a position where I am counting my lucky stars that I have at least the one grandchild.’ He looked at Helen and smiled. ‘And one who is working in a man’s world.’ He raised his voice as though rejoicing. ‘One who is working in one of the most revered shipyards in the country … One who is climbing the managerial ladder, and who, I know, will one day be running Thompson’s. You, my granddaughter, may not have the Havelock name, but you have the Havelock blood coursing through your veins and that will have to suffice for this old man.’

  Miriam watched as he took a final swig from his whisky glass and secretly wished he would choke on it there and then.

  ‘Well, at least I’ve done something right.’ She forced a smile. ‘My dear mama and I have both failed to give you your male heir, but I’ve clearly come up trumps with the granddaughter I produced.’

  Helen looked
at her mother and then at her grandfather. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.

  Mr Havelock crushed his cigar into the ashtray and picked up his will, folded it over the once and then pushed it into the inside pocket of his Savile Row jacket. He stood up, a little unsteadily, and gestured to the mess of papers and files on the table.

  ‘If it’s not too much bother for you, Daughter dearest, would you be so kind as to put all of this into some semblance of order and arrange for it to be sent back to the house.’ Mr Havelock picked up his walking stick and leant on it heavily as he made his way slowly over to the closed dining-room door. Miriam hurried over to open it for him. She didn’t want this meeting to end on a sour note. The last thing she wanted was for him to cut her out of the will as well. The old man’s adoration of his granddaughter could well sway him into leaving the whole lot to Helen.

  ‘Well,’ Miriam said, guiding her father out into the hallway and then hurrying in front of him to open the main front door, ‘you may get your male heir yet. Your darling granddaughter here is stepping out with a young doctor – a surgeon no less – who is up at the Ryhope, saving the lives and limbs of our brave soldiers.’

  ‘Really?’ Mr Havelock looked back at Helen, who had followed her grandfather as he made his exit. ‘What’s the chap’s name?’

  ‘Oh, you won’t know him. He’s not from here.’ Helen knew her grandfather liked to be introduced to all the top doctors at the hospitals he donated money to, and he had given an awful lot to the Ryhope when it was being built last year.

  ‘Well, where’s he from? What’s the young man’s name?’

  Helen felt herself flush.

  ‘He’s from Oxford and his name’s Theodore.’

  ‘Theodore!’ He laughed and coughed at the same time. ‘Of course, where else would a Theodore hail from!’

  And with that he stepped outside, still laughing at his own joke whilst focusing his concentration on negotiating the stone steps that led down to the little pathway.

  When he reached the wrought-iron gate, he turned around.

  ‘Bring young Theodore from Oxford round to meet me,’ he commanded.

  ‘And soon!’

  Miriam waved as the car drove off, forcing a smile on her face even though she was pretty certain her father would not give either of them a backward glance. The chauffeur-driven car drove down Side Cliff Road, which led to the coastal road. It would have been quicker to turn immediately right along Roker Park Road, but Miriam knew her father always preferred the scenic route, even though it was pitch-black and the long stretches of sandy beaches were now cordoned off by ugly rolls of barbed wire. Hardly picturesque, but still, her father was a creature of habit.

  ‘God! I need a drink!’ she exclaimed aloud.

  ‘Honestly, Mum, I don’t know why you’re so disagreeable to Grandfather.’ Helen walked back into the dining room and lit herself another cigarette as her mother stomped over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large gin and added a small splash of tonic. Miriam looked at her daughter and her face softened into a pleading smile.

  ‘You don’t mind sorting out all this paperwork, do you?’

  Helen tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray and started stacking the papers into a pile.

  ‘Do you know why Aunty Margaret and Uncle Angus didn’t have children?’ Helen asked.

  Miriam sat down in the chair her father had been occupying.

  ‘My sister didn’t have any problems getting pregnant. She just couldn’t carry them. I lost count of how many miscarriages she had.’

  Helen thought of her aunt and uncle and how kind they had always been to her, particularly during her last visit when she had gone to stay at their home in the Highlands.

  ‘So, when am I going to meet this Theodore?’ Miriam asked. ‘His intentions must be serious – you’ve been seeing him long enough. How long’s it been now, almost two months?’

  Helen didn’t say anything. Theodore had made it clear he wanted to meet her father as well, and the way he had said it implied that there were other reasons – like asking for her hand in marriage.

  ‘Well, perhaps you will need to stay at home one evening, Mother, in order to meet him.’ Helen grabbed a rubber band and snapped it around the pile of papers she had shuffled into order.

  ‘Honestly, darling, you make me sound like some gadabout.’ Miriam took a sip of her drink and seemed to be relaxing now that her father had gone. She would never allow herself to drink in front of him. It was acceptable for her father to have a Scotch at any time of the day or night, but not his grown-up daughter. She had learnt a long time ago that when it came to her dear papa, it was one rule for him and another for everyone else.

  ‘Well, I want to meet him before your grandfather, who now clearly sees you as some kind of replacement male heir.’ She glared at Helen. ‘But I’m still your mother, so, if this Theodore does want to pledge his troth to you, then I want to meet him, and if I think he is suitable husband material, then we can make some excuse about your father and send him over to see your grandfather instead. If you’re going to be the old man’s son by proxy, then he can be your stand-in father.’

  And with that Miriam walked out of the dining room.

  Helen heard her shouting for Mrs Westley, saying she wanted to discuss ideas for a dinner party. The time had clearly come to bring Theodore into the fold.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ryhope Village, Sunderland

  One week later

  Saturday 7 March

  ‘No, Theodore …’ Helen pulled away and sat up straight on the little sofa that was just yards away from the blazing gas fire. ‘I think we should wait.’ Her face felt flushed and she felt too hot. She also had that familiar feeling of tightness around her chest. Normally she would have felt the need to unzip the top of her outfit, but her dress was already undone.

  Theodore’s face was also flushed but his was due to a heady mixture of unrequited passion, frustration and anger. Helen was proving a harder nut to crack than he had at first anticipated. Although, in a strange way, this had fired him on. The chase had been longer and harder than he had predicted. Time, however, was running out. This evening when they had been chatting over a drink, before he had cajoled her to come back to his flat, Helen had mentioned meeting her family. He’d thought he had more time on his hands as it didn’t appear as though her father was due back home any time soon, but now, from what Helen was saying, her grandfather had stuck his nose in.

  ‘Helen,’ Theodore traced her exposed back with his smooth, slender fingers, ‘I think you and I are more than ready … We’ve been seeing each other for a long time now.’ He turned her gently towards him so that he was looking into her deep green eyes. ‘I know your body … Not just how beautiful it is – ’ he traced the outline of her face so gently it sent a shiver down her ‘– but how this is the perfect time.’ Theodore kissed Helen and felt her respond. ‘We’re made for each other. Mind … and body.’

  Tonight he was going to take his well-earned prize. It had been a long time coming, but as his hands felt her soft, ivory skin and he touched her in a way he had learnt she liked to be touched, he knew that it was going to have been worth the wait.

  When Helen snuck home later on that night, she was as quiet as a mouse. There was no way she wanted to see her mother. She felt as though the events of the evening were plastered across her face.

  As she hurried up the carpeted stairs, being particularly careful not to cause even a floorboard to creak when she passed her mother’s bedroom, Helen felt a sudden urge to cry. She swallowed hard and tiptoed up the next flight of stairs to her own room. When she closed the door carefully behind her she exhaled. Her heart was thumping in her chest and she felt a little dizzy. She made it to the stool in front of her dressing table and sat down.

  When she looked into the mirror she saw that all her make-up had come off and there were mascara smudges around her eyes. Her cheeks looked red and she real
ised Theodore’s stubble had made its mark. As she continued to look at her reflection she saw tears pool in her eyes and then large blobs drop down onto the glass tabletop. She watched more tears roll down her face and did nothing to stop them.

  Why did she feel so ghastly? Why did she have that horrible dark feeling inside her? She had thought making love with Theodore would fill her with love and happiness. She hadn’t known what to expect but had thought it might be more pleasurable. She had enjoyed the times they had been intimate with each other; the act of making love, though, had not really felt like making love. But as Theodore had told her afterwards, these things took time to master – a comment that made her realise that Theodore had had other women before. And quite a few, by the way he was talking.

  Why did that make her feel cheap?

  She so wanted to feel special. To feel loved and cherished. Even more so as it was now more than evident that her father was totally lost to her. He had clearly either forgotten her or hated her for turning against him.

  Her mother also appeared to have reverted back to her old self these past few weeks. All she seemed bothered about was going to the Grand with her friend Amelia, drinking gin and flirting with the naval officers there. She was outwardly a respectable, happily married woman whose husband had nearly lost his life trying to help his country win the war, but behind the scenes she was whooping it up and living the life of a single woman.

  For Helen, her grandfather’s visit last week had drawn a very definite line through her father’s connection to the family. Once old Mr Havelock had gone, she’d had time to go over what had just taken place. Neither her grandfather nor her mother had shown any kind of consideration that the man they were cutting out of their lives was still her father. She did, after all, have Crawford blood running through her body as well.