by Nancy Revell
‘You have no idea! No idea what I want or don’t want! It has obviously escaped your notice, even though I would have thought it was as clear as day, that I can’t wait to get shot of this place!’ She flung an arm around her as if to demonstrate her point more succinctly. ‘Can’t wait to leave here. To start a new life somewhere different!’ Helen’s words were spoken with such passion that spittle came out of her mouth.
Theo stared at this woman and realised that he really didn’t know her at all. He’d known she was determined to move to Oxford – but not how desperate she was to do so.
‘I’m sorry.’ Theo stood up so that they were at eye level. ‘I’m so sorry. I just don’t know what else to say—’
They looked at each other for a moment. Theo knew he had done the hard part. There was no going back now, and they both knew it. Helen knew it was finished. And he knew it had never really begun.
Theo watched as Helen turned on her heel and walked like a model on the catwalk down the shale pathway and back out of the park, taking what little dignity she had left with her.
Theodore waited a few minutes before he left the park himself. All in all, he mused, it hadn’t gone at all badly. There had been no real hysterics, no awful shouting and screaming, no causing a scene in public that he’d had to smooth over. He’d actually come out of it all relatively unscathed.
As he walked to catch his bus back to Ryhope, he checked his watch. He was easily going to make it back to the flat in time for Marion’s visit.
Stepping out of the park, Helen felt her body slump. Her legs felt like jelly and she had to stop for a moment and steady herself by the small wall that ran around the park’s perimeter.
‘Are you all right, miss?’ An elderly gentleman touched her gently on the shoulder. Helen felt like collapsing into the old man’s arms and sobbing her heart out, but, of course, she didn’t.
‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ Helen said, forcing her mouth into a semblance of a smile. ‘I’m fine. Just came over a little dizzy, that’s all.’
The grey-haired man, who was dressed in a slightly shabby-looking three-piece suit and sported a lopsided dicky bow, was looking with concern at Helen over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles.
‘Come for a sit-down and a cup of sugary tea. I’m just meeting my daughter Georgina in the café up Holmeside.’
‘That’s such a kind offer,’ Helen said. ‘But I think I’m best getting myself straight home.’
The old man tipped his hat and crossed over Burdon Road, while Helen walked straight ahead and waited until it was safe to cross the wide expanse of Borough Road. As she waited for two trams to pass by, she wished, more than anything, that it was winter and there was a blackout so that no one could see her; she could simply fade into the darkness. But it was a lovely spring evening, just gone half seven, and the town was still enjoying daylight.
The road now clear, Helen hurried across to the other side, looking right as she did so, her eyes seeking out the entrance of the public house where she had first met Theo. She couldn’t stop her eyes shifting left to the large Victorian house where Gloria lived in her little basement flat. She thought about the day she had bumped into her there, and then again the other week when she had seen her in town, and for a ludicrous moment she had an urge to veer off to go and see her.
What is wrong with you! Helen immediately scolded herself. She really was losing it if she was thinking about going to see Gloria, of all people.
God, was she becoming some kind of masochist?
Helen forced herself to walk up Fawcett Street, past the town hall, where a bus and tram were unloading a few dozen passengers all done up for a night out on the tiles. Not wanting to get on any kind of public transport for fear of having to talk to anyone, Helen kept on walking. She felt as though she was wearing her heart on her sleeve, and that anyone who so much as cast a glance in her direction would see her bare-faced distress.
By the time she reached Bridge Street, she seemed to be surrounded by couples, many of them in some kind of military uniform, hurrying past her arm in arm, laughing and chatting. When she saw even more happy faces waiting expectantly at Mackie’s Corner under the big clock, Helen decided she could stand it no more and hopped on a tram. It was only half full as most people were going into town at this time, not heading home like she was. To a home, Helen thought, depressed, that seemed so cold and empty these days now her father had gone.
Still, tonight it was probably a blessing. She couldn’t face telling her mother that the dinner party was off, and that Theo had not only just dumped her, but had also been two-timing her.
Tears started to build. In the space of an hour all her hopes and dreams had been obliterated. Marrying Theo and setting up home in Oxford had been her salvation and now it was clear that dream had been a fantasy.
Passing the harbour, Helen had a brief thought of walking along the north pier until she reached the lighthouse, where she would throw herself into the slapping, frothing folds of the North Sea and simply be no more. But she knew she couldn’t do that, not because both north and south piers had been cordoned off since the start of the war, but because she knew she didn’t have it in her to take her own life. Like this old metal workhorse of a tram, she knew she would just have to keep trudging on.
Helen forced herself to get up out of her seat and make her way down the spiral staircase. When the tram stopped on the corner of Side Cliff Road, she got off. She knew what she would do when she got inside, knowing that the place would be empty. She would pour herself a large gin and tonic, take it upstairs and finally simply cry her heart out without having to worry about anyone hearing her.
As she opened the front gate, she looked at her mother’s postbox. She saw a white envelope sticking out of the opening and went to pull it out, but it had been pushed too far in to retrieve without tearing it, so she left it there.
As she put her key in the front door, Helen hated to admit to herself, but it was at times like this that she really missed her dad.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘You here for an interview?’ Alfie leant out of the window of the timekeeper’s cabin so as to be heard above the noise of the shipyard. The pretty blonde woman standing at the gate looked puzzled.
‘You here for a job?’ Alfie shouted out, pointing up to the admin building, the top of which was just visible.
‘No, no,’ Bel said, raising her sister-in-law’s lunch box in the air by way of explanation. ‘Polly Elliot – one of the women welders – forgot her lunch.’ Bel kept her explanation short as it was nigh on impossible for her to hear her own voice, never mind for anyone else.
‘Who?’ Alfie shouted back, his hand to his ear.
‘Polly,’ Bel yelled. ‘Elliot.’
The expression on Alfie face’s changed, showing he had heard. He waved Bel through the main gate with a smile.
As soon as Bel entered the yard she stopped in her tracks. The sight that greeted her took her aback. She had been brought up within walking distance of most of the town’s main shipyards, had seen them from a slightly elevated perspective whenever she’d crossed the River Wear, but she had never actually been in a shipyard.
For a few seconds she simply stood and stared. The hit on her senses had the effect of taking her breath away momentarily. The sight of so many flat-capped workers – hundreds – working mostly in groups, a smattering on their own, others standing communicating with their hands – the sign language of the shipyard. The sound of the machinery, clanking and hissing, banging and clashing, was overwhelming, but strangely enough it was also oddly musical – disjointed and chaotic, but occasionally rhythmic. And then there was the smell, a familiar one she had come to recognise as the smell of the shipyards from all the times she had washed Teddy’s overalls and, more recently, Polly’s.
As Bel started walking, looking about her, trying to find Polly and the women welders, the loud, deep blare of the klaxon sounded out the start of the lunch break. The whole yard cha
nged in an instant. It was as though someone had waved a magic wand – the noise stopped, and a calm descended.
‘Who yer looking fer, pet?’ an old man, rolling himself a cigarette as he stood at the foot of a massive crane, called out.
‘Rosie’s squad …’ Bel started towards the man. ‘The women welders.’
The man pointed over to the quayside, the half-made cigarette scissored by his blackened fingers. Bel glimpsed the top of a bright orange turban. ‘Thank you!’ She smiled at the man and walked the hundred yards over to the women. As she neared the quayside she saw Martha sitting on a large wrought-iron cleat, sandwiches in her lap, chatting to Dorothy and Angie, who had commandeered the top of a wooden workbench, legs dangling, their hobnailed boots not quite touching the ground.
‘Bel!’
Bel turned her head slightly to see Polly walking towards her.
‘You’re a star!’ Polly was looking at the lunch box her sister-in-law was holding. ‘But you shouldn’t have. I could have just grabbed something from the canteen.’
‘Not without this.’ Bel pulled Polly’s little cloth purse out of her coat pocket.
‘Eee.’ Polly shook her head. ‘I think I’m going doolally.’
Bel laughed. ‘You’ve always been doolally, Pol. Nothing new there.’
‘Bel!’ Rosie had just come back from chatting to the plater’s foreman. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I forgot my bait – as well as my purse,’ Polly said, sitting down on the stack of pallets and patting a space for Bel to join her.
Bel shook her head. ‘I’m not staying long.’
‘Bel!’ Dorothy and Angie shouted out in unison and she looked up to see the pair jumping off the bench to come and see her, followed by Martha.
‘Everything all right, Bel?’ Gloria was walking towards her, having just returned from the women’s washroom.
‘Yes, Hope’s fine,’ Bel was quick to reassure her. ‘Agnes is looking after her today. I’m just dropping off Polly’s lunch and then I’m off to meet Maisie.’
‘Ah, she said she was going out with you this afternoon,’ Rosie said. ‘You two off anywhere nice?’ Maisie was now well and truly part of the furniture at Lily’s, but she still kept her cards close to her chest, never giving too much away about her personal life.
Bel looked at the women.
‘Well …’ she hesitated. ‘Actually, we’re on a bit of a mission.’
‘Ohh, sounds interesting!’ Dorothy said as she and Angie sat down next to Polly, who was making a start on her sandwiches.
Bel felt herself blush. ‘It sounds silly saying it out loud …’ She looked at Polly.
‘They’re gonna try and find her da,’ Polly said through a mouthful of ham and pease pudding.
Bel looked at the women, whose eyes had all widened in surprise.
‘Well, good luck!’ Martha said.
‘Thanks, Martha.’ Bel looked around her self-consciously. ‘I know it’s a long shot …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Well, I think it’s nice that Maisie’s helping you,’ Gloria chirped up. ‘It’s what sisters are for.’
Everyone nodded their agreement, although Rosie thought it was rather odd for Maisie to do something when there wasn’t anything in it for her.
‘Eee, well, it’s great to see you all!’ Bel said, looking around at their surroundings. ‘And to see you all at work as well!’
‘Come on,’ Polly said, putting her sandwiches to the side. ‘I’ll walk you out.’
‘See yer later on.’ Gloria went to sit where Polly had been.
‘Yeh, ’n good luck on yer mission!’ Angie shouted out.
‘Bye, Bel!’ Dor and Martha added their farewells as Polly and Bel turned and made their way back across the yard to the main entrance.
‘That’s the platers’ shed,’ Polly pointed out as they walked along the length of what Bel thought looked like a huge metal cathedral. ‘That’s where the platers’ squad and the frame-benders shape the template designs for the ship’s hull.’ Bel caught a glimpse of thick sheets of steel and rows and rows of metal chains and hooks hanging from the high ceiling.
‘And over there,’ Polly redirected Bel’s attention as they neared the entrance, ‘is where Hannah and Olly work in the drawing office. And there,’ Polly lowered her voice in a mock-conspiratorial manner, ‘is the admin building where you know who works.’
They both looked up.
Polly took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Talk of the devil. There she is now.’
‘Where?’ Bel asked, intrigued. Even though she had never seen Helen before, she felt as though she knew her.
‘There, on the top floor, by the window. Smoking,’ Polly said, trying not to look in case Helen spotted them both gawping at her.
Bel glanced up to see Helen, her shoulder-length black hair loose in gentle curls, looking stunning in a cherry red dress pulled in at the waist by a thin white belt that perfectly complemented her curves. She was taking a drag on her cigarette and blowing it out of the half-opened window. She seemed miles away.
‘Golly me,’ Bel said as she pulled her gaze back to Polly. ‘She looks exactly like I thought she would!’
‘I know, pretty stunning, eh?’ Polly said as she tugged Bel’s arm and guided her around a heap of scrap metal. ‘Heavens knows why Tommy chose me!’
Bel threw Polly a look of reprimand. ‘She’s not a patch on you!’
‘Ah, Bel,’ Polly chuckled, ‘you’re nothing if not loyal.’
Bel turned and gave Polly a big hug.
‘I’ll see you later.’
And with that Bel left the world of the shipyard and re-entered the one where she hoped she would find what she was looking for – the man she had wanted to meet all of her life.
Her da.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Zone Occupée, France
‘Billet, s’il vous plaît.’ The ticket collector waited for Peter to hand over his train ticket before quickly clipping it.
‘Merci.’ Peter took back his ticket and put it in his leather wallet along with his false French identity card and passport, glancing up to see the inspector move on to the next passenger.
As the train cut through the flat, lush green countryside of the Loire region, Peter eased back into his seat and looked out of the window. Seeing an elderly couple tending the front garden of their modest chalet, Peter felt thankful that he had been able to make Rosie his wife and hold her in his arms one last time. It had now been fifteen weeks since he had said his final goodbyes to Rosie; sometimes it felt like just the other day, other times as if it had happened in another life.
It had hurt to have to tell her that there would be no contact, but now he was glad of it, for even if he had been able to chat to her openly, he wouldn’t have wanted to. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to tell her about what he had been taught at Wanborough Manor, that he now knew how to use a variety of weapons and explosives, as well as how to silently kill a person.
He also wouldn’t want her to know that a number of agents had already been caught, and either tortured or killed.
He had never agreed with the theory that ignorance is bliss – until now.
The three weeks he had spent at Wanborough had been intense. Then Peter and all but two of the original recruits had been sent up to the north-west of Scotland for commando training. After that it had been down to Ringway in Cheshire for basic parachute training, and then on to Beaulieu, another stately home, on Lord Montagu’s estate in the New Forest in Hampshire. There Peter had learnt all about personal security, communication in the field and how to maintain a cover story and act under police surveillance.
Two days ago, Peter had been put up in a hotel where he had spent his last night on British soil before being ferried to RAF Tempsford in Bedfordshire, a secret airbase that had been designed to look like an ordinary working farm. The SOE was using the cottage opposite as its base and it was there that Peter had received his final briefings a
nd checks before being taken to a barn on the airfield’s perimeter and issued with his firearms.
Peter’s objective was clear – once he was over enemy lines in occupied France, his task would be to head up what was called a ‘circuit’ in Paris – a small group of men, and sometimes women, who would develop a resistance force in the heart of the city. There was already a network of these circuits, or ‘réseaux’, and each one was made up of a leader, a wireless radio operator, and a courier to carry and gather information. His particular circuit had been given the name ‘White Light’.
Last night Peter had been flown across the Channel in a Whitley bomber by two pilots from 161 Squadron, hurling himself out in the dead of night and landing, as planned, in a field near the town of Mer, roughly 100 kilometres from Paris. The resistance fighters who had picked him up had thick accents, but having been forced to speak more French than English these past few months, Peter had no problems communicating.
After being taken to a safe house, then a railway station early this morning, Peter had boarded the eight o’clock train to Paris.
It was now nearly eleven o’clock and the scenic views from his carriage had been replaced by pictures of city life. As the train slowly pulled into the Gare du Nord, Peter stood up and made his unsteady way to the end of the carriage, where there were already half a dozen travellers, along with two German soldiers, waiting to disembark. Peter had seen a number of Wehrmacht uniforms, and even more swastikas, and had envisioned what the future might hold for England. It was an image that both repulsed and bolstered him. If ever there was a time to put one’s life on the line, it was now.
As Peter stepped onto the platform he was pushed along by the swarm of passengers eager to be on their way. As he looked over their heads, he saw a man dressed in a rather shabby pair of trousers and a worn waistcoat, the traditional navy blue beret on his head. He caught sight of Peter and waved at him as though he were an old friend. As Peter neared him, he threw his arms out in an embrace.
