by Nancy Revell
For her firstborn had been created by love – whereas her second had been spawned through violence and hate.
Bel felt tears prick her eyes.
Tears for herself, but also tears for her ma.
She felt nauseous at the thought; at the realisation. She wished more than anything that she could take that knowledge back. But it was too late. There was no going back. She had pushed and pushed, forced her ma’s hand, and finally got what she wanted.
Now she wished, more than anything in the world, that she had simply left well enough alone. Done as Agnes had said – let sleeping dogs lie.
Bel turned to look at her ma. Her eyes were dry, but they looked bloodshot, and they showed a deep sadness it hurt Bel to see.
‘Come on, Ma,’ Bel said. ‘Let’s go home, eh?’
‘Aye, let’s go home, Isabelle,’ Pearl agreed. A sense of relief washed through her body, followed by an incredible tiredness. She had been running away from the memory of Charles and what he had done to her for so long now. Seeing him today, in the flesh, had brought her to a sudden standstill. And now all she wanted to do was rest.
As they both trudged away from the Havelock mansion, Bel’s mind was spilling over with a cascade of questions she wanted to ask her ma, but she knew this wasn’t the time.
As they turned into The Cedars, the early-evening sun started to shine through the avenue of trees, guiding their way back home, causing Bel’s eyes to water more than they were already.
What she had just learnt had struck at the very core of her being, and she knew the shock waves of that revelation would continue to reverberate for a long time yet – perhaps for ever.
There was, however, one comfort that she would take out of all this darkness – and that was the knowledge that her ma did love her.
Perhaps not like other mothers loved their daughters – but her ma had loved her in her own way. She had loved her enough to keep her when she was a baby; she had not given her up and had her adopted out or left her on the steps of the local orphanage like many women would have done.
Her ma had brought her up as well as she could, but most of all she had tried her hardest to protect her from the truth.
And in keeping that truth from her – a terrible truth she was still trying to keep from her even now – her ma had given her something that she had always yearned for, always wanted – craved – but never felt she had ever had. Until now.
A mother’s love.
Chapter Forty-Eight
As Polly sat down at the kitchen table she poured herself a cup of tea. The house was quiet. Even Tramp and Pup were gently snoring in their basket by the range. Apart from Joe, who was out on some kind of all-night exercise with the Home Guard, and Pearl, of course, who wouldn’t be back until after last orders, everyone else was in bed.
Normally, this would be the time that she and Bel would have a natter and a catch-up, but this evening when Bel had come back from her walk with her ma she had said she was really tired, and that it had been ‘one of those days’ and she just wanted to get Lucille ready for bed and hit the sack herself.
Tired out from her trip into town with her aunty Maisie, and happy with the doll she had been treated to from Saxons, Lucille had offered up no resistance when Bel had told her it was time for bed and that tonight she was going to be allowed to sleep in her ‘mammy and daddy’s bed’.
It struck Polly that this was the first time that Bel had referred to Joe as ‘daddy’. She wondered if her acquiescence was due to tiredness – she certainly looked shattered – or if something had occurred on her walk that had led to her change of heart. Whatever the reason, Polly was glad Bel had given Joe his much-deserved title of Lucille’s ‘daddy’. Joe might not be the little girl’s biological father, but he was her da in all the ways that mattered. Polly might be biased, but she thought Joe was the best daddy any child could ask for. Had something happened this evening that had made Bel realise this too?
As Polly took a sip of her tea, she reached into the pocket of her dressing gown and pulled out Tommy’s letter – the last letter he had written to her and one she had reread too many times. The rustling of the paper caused Tramp to open one eye to see where the noise was coming from.
Polly straightened the paper out on the top of the table, which was covered with an old oilcloth. As she read the words that she now knew off by heart, she gave free rein to her tears, knowing she wouldn’t be disturbed.
I just want you to know how proud I am of you.
A big salty teardrop suddenly landed on the letter and punctuated the end of the sentence. Polly panicked in case Tommy’s words to her would be erased. She scrabbled around in her other pocket for a hankie. Finding one, she carefully blotted the letter and then dabbed her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the tears.
She imagined Tommy writing these very words, telling her how he was always boasting to his mates that his fiancée was building ships that are saving our backsides and how they would, in turn, poke fun at him, saying that he was telling porkies and that my Polly was just a figment of my imagination. She still felt a pull when she read his words: … it doesn’t matter to me whether they believe me or not. I know you are real. And I know you are mine!
Polly thought of the afternoon when they had all been chatting at work and she had thought for the briefest of moments that perhaps the reason she hadn’t received a letter from Tommy for such a long time was because he had fallen in love with another woman. How could she even have considered such a thing? She felt as though she had betrayed him just by thinking about it. But it was now over five months since his last letter and her hope was fading fast. So much so that a part of her would actually be willing to make the trade. For him to have found another sweetheart rather than be ‘killed in action’.
Polly felt Tramp push against her bare leg and she automatically put her hand down to stroke her head. She looked down to see the dog’s eyes staring up at her, demanding that her owner offer up reassurance that she was all right.
Looking back at the creased letter, now watermarked but still legible, Polly continued to stroke Tramp while her free hand traced Tommy’s words:
… I just need you to look after yourself and make sure you get to the nearest air raid shelter as soon as the sirens start up.
It’s good to hear that Arthur’s doing well and keeping Agnes well stocked up on fruit and veg – and fish, of course! I know I’ve said this a few times before but I am so eternally grateful to your mam for taking Arthur under her roof. She really is the best. Tell her I’m missing her gorgeous stews and dumplings!
There was just something about the words … Was he making sure her ma knew how much he appreciated all she had done for his granddad in case he never got to tell her himself?
Talking of your ma, I know she will hate me for writing this and a part of me thinks I should tell you to do the complete opposite – but keep building them ships! And keep sending them out into that great North Sea.
I am so very proud of you and you must keep doing what you have always wanted to do (even before this war).
You are a shipbuilder! Just like your brothers, and your dad, and his dad before him.
I can’t stress just how very proud I am of you.
When Polly had first read Tommy’s letter she had been so chuffed. His words confirmed that she really was a part of the war effort, that she really was making a difference. Even if she was just a very small cog in a very big wheel, she was a cog all the same. Lately, though, when she reread the letter, she had done so through different eyes. Of course, she still saw the love there, and the fact that he was genuinely proud of the work she was doing, but she now read something else – it was as though he needed to say this to her … As though he was worried that this might be his last letter.
‘Stop it!’ Polly told herself. ‘Stop this now!’ Her words woke up Pup, who pulled himself out of his basket, padded over to the table and pushed himself between Tramp and Polly’s leg.
There had to be
a reason for her not getting Tommy’s letters. There just had to be! They mightn’t be able to get post out of Gibraltar, or the ship or aeroplane in which his letter was being transported had, God forbid, not made it back to British shores. She repeated the mantra: No news is good news.
Polly sat for a few moments before taking a deep breath.
Just because his letters weren’t finding their way to her, that didn’t mean her words of love weren’t going to find him.
Polly pushed herself out of her chair. Walking over to the dresser and pulling out the top drawer, she got a sheet of airmail paper and a pen. She then went and sat back down at the table, folded up Tommy’s letter, and shoved it back into her pocket.
As was her way before she put pen to paper and wrote to her fiancé, Polly closed her eyes and imagined that the man she loved was sitting right next to her, smiling and listening to her as she wrote and told him all her news.
As Tramp and Pup curled up at her feet under the table, Polly opened her eyes and said out loud:
‘Time for me and you, Tommy.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘Was Bel all right after her “walk” yesterday?’ Gloria asked as they hurried down to the ferry along with the early-morning mass of workers. Gloria had guessed the reason for the mother-and-daughter outing, knowing that Bel had been on at Pearl to come clean about who her father was for some time now. But seeing Bel this morning after dropping off Hope, she wondered if perhaps Bel might now be wishing she had left this particular stone unturned.
‘Do you think Pearl told her who her dad is – or was?’ Gloria raised her voice slightly to be heard above the squawks of the seagulls excited by a couple of trawlers arriving at the fish quay.
They both nudged their way on to the waiting ferry.
‘I think so,’ Polly said, handing over her penny fare to Stan, ‘but to be honest, I’m not quite sure.’ She followed Gloria as she pushed her way through a gaggle of men so that they could reach the railings on the side of the boat. It was Gloria and Polly’s favourite spot as they liked to stand and look out at the river.
‘It was hard to tell when they both came back,’ Polly mused. ‘They seemed all right. They weren’t sniping at each other like they normally do, which was highly unusual considering they’d been in each other’s company for at least an hour or so. Probably a record for them two.’ Polly looked at Gloria, who was listening but looking across the river. ‘But I could tell Bel didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t push it.’
Gloria turned to look at Polly, a question on her furrowed brow.
‘She’s like that sometimes,’ Polly explained. ‘Always been like that – even when we were little. If Bel’s got something on her mind, she tends to stew on it for a while.’
Gloria listened. She knew Bel had depths that she liked to keep covered up.
‘She’ll chat about it,’ Polly added, ‘when she’s had time to work things out in her head.’
Chapter Fifty
Two weeks later
Monday 22 June
Helen shut the door to the doctor’s consultation room quietly behind her. As she had already paid her five shillings beforehand, she made her way straight to the front door. She guessed she must have been the last appointment of the day as the little waiting room was empty and the secretary already had her coat on and was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her headscarf.
As Helen closed the heavy oak door behind her, she again did so carefully, making sure it didn’t slam. She felt a need to keep all noise to a minimum as the rushing sound in her head was so loud and overwhelming.
Walking past St Thomas’s Church and turning left onto Fawcett Street, Helen saw the number 12 bus waiting, its engine running. It was jam-packed with shoppers and workers all heading home for their tea. As soon as Helen stepped on board, it pulled away. Paying her fare, and then squeezing herself into the only spare seat she could find, Helen stared out of the window, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye. She had no desire to draw attention to herself. If she could have one wish at this moment it would be to be invisible, or, better still, to simply disappear off the face of the earth. It would be a solution to all her problems. This, she thought to herself, as the bus trundled up Toward Road, must be what it feels like to be in purgatory. Living in your own personal hell, without the relief of death anywhere on the horizon.
Twenty minutes later the bus drew to a stop on the Stockton Road, within a stone’s throw of the Ryhope Hospital. Waiting until the rest of the passengers had disembarked, Helen shuffled out of her seat, quickly walked down the aisle and got off. Pulling out her cigarettes and lighting one, she watched as those she had been travelling with hurried off in various directions. Behind her the bus pulled away, leaving the air thick with exhaust fumes. Walking over to a bench on the periphery of the hospital grounds, Helen sat down and smoked her cigarette. Then she smoked another.
Knowing what she had to do, she took a deep breath, got up and walked up the slightly winding pathway to the main entrance of the hospital and let the revolving door deposit her into the large foyer.
Having never been in this hospital before, Helen felt disorientated and looked around before setting her sights on the small reception area.
‘Good afternoon,’ Helen greeted the woman positioned behind the counter. ‘I’m here to see Mr Theodore Harvey-Smith.’
The receptionist, a well-made-up woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, gave Helen a look like the summons, before demanding, ‘Have you an appointment with Mr Harvey-Smith?’
Normally Helen would have enjoyed pulling this mutton-dressed-as-lamb receptionist down a peg or two, but today she simply ignored the question and told her straight: ‘Tell him Miss Helen Crawford is here to see him. Mr Havelock’s granddaughter.’ Helen watched as the receptionist’s mouth tightened and she picked up the receiver of the black Bakelite phone. She was not able to hear what was being said as the woman was speaking quickly and quietly, but when she finished talking she put the phone down and turned to Helen. ‘Mr Harvey-Smith cannot be located at this moment. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat and wait until we can find out where he is?’
Helen glared at the receptionist. Not deigning to give her an answer, she turned on her heels and walked over to the large wooden board where all the names of the different departments and wards had been written. Finding ‘Surgery’ and an arrow pointing to the left, Helen hitched her handbag and boxed gas mask onto her shoulder and started down the long, white corridor. It had no windows and was infused with the distinctive smell of disinfectant, a smell that never failed to remind Helen of her father and the many weeks he had been in the Royal. And, just like the Royal, the place was teeming with people – doctors in white coats, stethoscopes hanging around their necks, nurses in blue uniforms walking faster than most people could jog, visitors looking confused and scared, and the odd patient either hobbling on crutches or being pushed in a wheelchair. The only difference was that in this hospital all the patients were young, they were all male, and they were all soldiers.
After a hundred yards or so, Helen came to more signs, with more headings – and more arrows. When she came to yet another set of signs she began to feel as though she was in some kind of oversized rabbit warren, and with no windows showing the outside world, she was hit by an increasing sense of being hemmed in. Trapped. She looked around, hoping to see someone she could ask, but everyone seemed to be walking so quickly. Busy, too busy to stop and give her directions. She looked down the list of departments and wards, but the words all seemed to merge into one. She stared down the corridor that branched off to her left and then down the corridor that led to her right. She had no idea which one to go down. Her breathing grew laboured again and she began to feel the familiar tightness in her chest. A few seconds later the panic set in, bringing with it tears of helplessness.
‘Helen?’ The voice seemed to come out of nowhere.
‘Helen? Are you all right?’
&nbs
p; It took her a moment to focus on the face in front of her. The young, slightly pale face was not handsome, or ugly, and was framed by a thatch of straw-blond hair.
‘Helen, it’s me, Dr Parker. Are you all right? Do you want me to find you a seat?’
Unable to speak, Helen stared at the young doctor.
‘Here, come and sit down for a moment.’
Helen found herself being ushered into a room that was small and had a desk and two chairs – but most importantly there was a window. Seeing daylight and a glimpse of the hospital grounds helped bring Helen back to reality. She looked up at Dr Parker, who was half perched on the front of the desk, a concerned look on his face.
‘Gosh, I don’t know what came over me then.’ Her voice sounded raspy and not like her own.
‘Have you come to visit someone?’ Dr Parker asked.
‘No, no … I mean, yes.’ Helen paused. ‘I’ve come to see Theo … Theodore Harvey-Smith.’
Dr Parker looked at Helen. He had seen various sides to Mr Crawford’s daughter. He had seen her tired, weary, worried and upset. He had seen her happy, relieved, thankful, and later on, when Mr Crawford had been discharged and he had bumped into Helen at various charity dos, he had seen the confident, Hollywood-starlet Helen – with the attitude to match.
He had never, however, seen her like this. And he would wager he knew exactly who was responsible for putting her in such a state.
‘Theodore?’
Helen nodded, took out her cigarettes and lit one.
Dr Parker handed her an ashtray.
‘Theodore’s gone, Helen. He’s been sent back down south. I believe they were in dire need of surgeons at the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford. And as that is his home town, where he belongs, and of course where his family is, he was a prime candidate. Besides, I don’t think he ever saw being here as long-term.’
Helen felt bewildered. She had not thought for even one moment that he wouldn’t be there.
