Victory for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  Well, she was in for one hell of a shock.

  Her mother might have successfully managed to brush the scandal of her husband’s infidelity, his mistress and their baby under the carpet, but my goodness, she was going to find it nigh on impossible to keep this latest diabolical turn of events under wraps.

  ‘Mother.’ Helen stood up and put her cigarette out in the ashtray in the middle of the glass coffee table. ‘There’s something else … Something I don’t believe you know about. Something no one else knows as I only just got to know myself this afternoon.’

  Miriam, who had stood up at the same time as her daughter, had wandered over to the mirror and was checking her make-up, forcing a few stray hairs back into place.

  On hearing what her daughter said next, Miriam swung round.

  Her face contorted into disbelief.

  Her hands automatically going to her mouth to stop herself from screaming the place down.

  ‘I’m pregnant mother!’

  ‘You’re what!’ Miriam whispered, dropping her hands to her side, her eyes glued to her daughter. A part of her was desperately holding on to the hope that this was some kind of cruel, sick joke. There was a moment’s silence when, as if perfectly timed, the gramophone that had been playing quietly in the background suddenly stopped; the clunk of the arm could be heard returning to its resting place.

  ‘I’m pregnant, Mother,’ Helen repeated. There was no emotion in her voice. This was the second unpalatable truth that Helen had been forced to verbalise in the past ten minutes.

  ‘You stupid, stupid girl!’ Miriam stormed over to her daughter and slapped her hard across the face.

  Helen’s hand automatically went to her stinging cheek. She could feel it burning red, but the rest of her body felt oddly cold. She should have known that this would be her mother’s reaction. If she had thought about it before rushing in here, jumping in with both feet forward, she could have saved herself the hurt and humiliation that were already weighing her down.

  Who was she kidding, coming here, thinking that her mother would help her? Would shoulder her burden? Would tell her everything was going to be all right?

  Of course, she was idiotic. Idiotic to expect anything different from her mother.

  ‘My God! The shame of it!’ Miriam was now stomping across the room. She turned and stomped back again. She glared at her daughter.

  ‘You’re going to ruin my life!’ She spat the words out. ‘Just as I had finally got my life back! Finally got everything sorted! God, the trouble I went to in order to clear up the mess created by your bloody father and his tart! And now you!’ Miriam suddenly let out an evil laugh that was untouched by any kind of mirth.

  ‘Ha! You two. What do they say? Like mother, like daughter? I don’t think so. More like, like father, like daughter! He’s had a bastard with a married woman, and now you’re about to have a bastard with a married man! A married man that doesn’t even want you!’ Another slightly hysterical laugh.

  ‘Well, you couldn’t have made it up, could you? Mm?’ Miriam took a dramatic swig of her drink, before slamming it down on the table.

  ‘Two bastards! That’s all I need! Two bloody bastards in the one family!’

  The fourth mention of the word ‘bastard’ was too much for Helen.

  This time it was her turn to swing her arm back and give her mother a hard, stinging slap across her face.

  It stopped the vitriol dripping out of her mother’s mouth long enough for Helen to pick up her handbag and gas mask, turn on her heels and walk out of the room.

  Feeling a strange kind of calm come over her, head held high, Helen made her way through the open lounge bar, down the two flights of stairs, and across the main foyer.

  This time, though, she waited until the porter reached the heavy glass-panelled front door first and opened it for her.

  As Helen stepped out of the Grand and looked up to the aqua blue skies above, she let go of the desperate need that had driven her here. The need for support, the need to be cared for – the need of a mother’s unconditional love. If there had ever been a time when she’d needed this, it was now. But it hadn’t been there, and it never would be. Accepting this harsh, hurtful truth, though, brought with it a peculiar feeling of liberation. And with that liberation came a sense of strength. The strength to look reality in the eye and not shy away.

  Standing there on the pavement outside the Grand, Helen felt lighter, free of the constraints she had felt she had been wearing these past few months.

  As Helen turned and looked down the long stretch of road that led back to the town centre, she knew the time had also come for her to face up to something else, or rather, to someone else.

  Someone she had been running away from for a while now.

  The time had come for her to accept her life – a life that she might well feel she’d had foisted upon her, but it was a life she could no longer ignore.

  Still hobbling a little due to her injured ankle, Helen started walking towards the town centre. As she cut through West Wear Street and then Bedford Street, crossing over High Street West – this time making sure she looked before crossing – it was as though she was seeing her surroundings for the first time – the trees, the public houses, the little boutiques, the cobbled streets – and at that moment she felt as though she was viewing the world around her with great clarity.

  She was finally giving in to the yearning she had been feeling these past six months. She had tried to outrun it, but now realised she had been wrong to do so. What she should have done from the start was to turn around and embrace it.

  Walking down Frederick Street and turning left onto Borough Road, Helen finally reached her destination. Carefully making her way down the small flight of stone steps to the basement apartment, she heard the faint sound of the wireless and the comforting smell of home cooking.

  Taking a deep breath, Helen raised her hand and knocked on the door.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Having got Hope down for the night, Gloria was just putting a bowl of stew that Agnes had kindly given her into the oven to warm up, when she heard a knock on the door. At this time the only person she could guess it might be was her neighbour, old Mr Brown, so when Gloria went to open the door and found Helen standing there, you could have knocked her over with a feather.

  ‘Helen!’ She took a step back, not quite believing her eyes.

  ‘Hello, Gloria.’ Helen’s voice was a little frosty, but not antagonistic. ‘Can I come in?’

  Gloria immediately stepped back and opened the door wide, showing Helen that she was welcome. ‘Of course, come in!’ She watched in slight disbelief as Helen walked over the threshold and into her home.

  Shutting the door behind her unexpected guest, Gloria suddenly felt at a loss for words. She looked at Helen – her lover’s daughter, the woman who had saved her from being beaten to a pulp, the woman who had told her that she should not even acknowledge her should she see her on the street – and she had no idea why she was here.

  There was, however, something different about Helen. Something about her had changed, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  ‘I’ve come to see my sister.’ Helen just came straight out and said it.

  Gloria didn’t think it was possible to be even more shocked than she already was. She was speechless, and instead simply nodded and went to get Hope from the back bedroom.

  Returning a few moments later, carrying her daughter, who was clutching a pastel pink crocheted blanket, Gloria smiled.

  ‘Hope, say hello to your big sister.’

  As she spoke, Gloria handed over her daughter.

  Helen reached out and took Hope, holding her for a moment, before slowly walking over to the sofa and carefully sitting down. Not for one moment did she take her eyes off her little sister.

  As Gloria stood quietly and took in the sight of Helen and Hope together on the sofa in the front room of her modest little home, she thought how well Helen looked,
much better than she had for a long time now. Her complexion looked rosy, and she had her curves back, as well as her bosom.

  And that’s when she realised what was different.

  ‘How far along are you?’ she asked gently.

  Helen immediately looked up; tears had filled her startling emerald-green eyes and were threatening to spill over.

  ‘How did you know?’

  Gloria smiled, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘The doctor reckons only a couple of months,’ Helen said, looking up at Gloria for just a brief moment before her eyes were drawn back down to Hope, who was grasping at her sister’s thick raven hair, demanding attention.

  There was another brief quietness between the two women. Gloria hesitated before she spoke again, knowing that the words that came out of her mouth next were important.

  ‘Everything’ll be all right, you know. You’ll manage,’ she told Helen, trying to sound as reassuring as possible, whilst all the time trying to hide her shock.

  ‘Your dad loves you, you know. He’ll be there for you … And I will be too … If that’s what you want.’ There was so much Gloria wanted to say to this troubled young girl, but instead she said, simply:

  ‘Sometimes life takes an unexpected turn, but you’ll deal with it. You’re strong. And you’re brave. Very brave.’

  Helen’s head was bowed and Gloria could see that her body had started to judder slightly. Gloria walked over to the settee and sat down next to her.

  She looked at her baby girl’s little face, full of glee and laughter as Helen’s tears splodged onto her, which in turn caused Helen’s muffled sobs to turn into a half-laugh, half-cry.

  ‘I think she likes you,’ Gloria said, trying her hardest to keep the tears from her own eyes.

  ‘I think I like her too,’ Helen said, her tears now falling freely down her face, causing Hope to giggle even more.

  And the two women and the baby all cried and laughed and cried some more.

  Epilogue

  On the last day of the month of June 1942, two women in Sunderland stepped out of their front doors on their way to work at one of the town’s biggest shipyards – J.L. Thompson & Sons. It was just a quarter to seven in the morning, but the sun was already up and proving that this day, like the one before, was going to be hot and sweaty.

  Both women were just in time to catch their respective postwomen making their early-morning deliveries.

  The older of the two postwomen, who had been working for the GPO for some time, was turning into number 34 Tatham Street when she bumped into a young woman hurrying out the front door. The pretty girl was wearing a colourful headscarf and denim overalls, and had a boxed gas mask slung over her shoulder along with a haversack.

  If an outsider was watching the women, they would rightly presume they knew each other by the ease of their greeting. The younger woman was about to go on her way when the postwoman stopped her and handed her an envelope, on which the young woman’s name and the address were typed.

  The postwoman lingered for a short moment, which was unusual for her as she was not one to idle. She touched the young girl’s arm gently before going on her way.

  The young woman tore open the envelope and stood, stock-still, as she read the few paragraphs that had been typed onto the single sheet of paper.

  If anyone had been watching they would have observed that she stood and read it for longer than was needed.

  For a moment it looked as though the young woman was going to turn and go back into the house from which she had just come, but she didn’t.

  Instead she reached into the top pocket of her overalls and pulled out what appeared to be a ring and put it on her left hand. As she did so, the small sheet of paper she had just received in the post floated freely to the ground, and a short blast of air swept it under an oncoming tram.

  The young woman didn’t make any attempt to chase after the piece of paper that had escaped her grasp, but instead stepped onto the pavement and joined the throng of workers who were all heading towards the shipyards that lined the banks of the Wear.

  If anyone had looked at the face of the woman with the ruby engagement ring on her finger, they would have seen tears rolling down her cheeks unchecked.

  But nobody noticed, so nobody asked if she was all right, and she walked in her hobnailed boots to the ferry that would take her to her place of work.

  A place of work where people would notice that she had been crying, and would ask her why, and who would comfort her – just as the young man who had given her the ruby engagement ring knew they would.

  The other postwoman, who was delivering in an area of town officially classed as Ashbrooke, was dithering a little as she had never been down the little stretch of houses known as Brookside Gardens.

  The postwoman held in her grasp a letter for number 4 and as luck would have it, the person living in that house was just coming out of her front door.

  The postwoman thought the blonde, overall-clad woman who was now striding down the wide, gravelled pathway looked very determined.

  The woman worker slowed down at the sight of the postwoman, who was waving the letter in the air as though it was a flag. She stopped, smiled politely and took the envelope before thanking her and going on her way, walking on until she reached the little gate. It was only then that she stopped in order to open the small white envelope.

  She stood and stared at the envelope as though it were a gift from the gods above, and, with hands that had started to shake, she slowly and carefully prised it open.

  For a moment it looked as though there was nothing inside.

  But then the woman turned her hand so that her palm was facing the blue skies above and she shook out the fragile contents.

  From afar it would have looked as though butterflies were escaping from the restrictive confines of the thick white envelope, but anyone standing nearby would have seen that what had fluttered so gently into the woman’s upturned hand were actually petals – very dry and fragile petals, but petals all the same.

  And those who knew their flora would have seen that these ivory-coloured petals were from a cluster of pansies.

  And as the petals fell into the woman’s hand she started to cry – only her tears were borne of true joy and happiness.

  And as she cried unabashed tears of love, she raised her hands to the morning sun and blew the dried petals gently into the air, and whispered in the wind:

  ‘I’m thinking of you, too, Peter.’

  Dear Reader

  If you have been with the shipyard girls from the start of the series you will now have accompanied them over a two-year period from August 1940 to June 1942, and you will have been with them through all their various highs and lows.

  I hope you will continue to join them as they battle on and help each other cope with everything life throws at them – both in their personal lives and because of the tumultuous times in which they live.

  All of the books in the Shipyard Girls series focus on the women’s ability to triumph over adversity. Sometimes that triumph is simply to keep going.

  I hope if you are experiencing hardships, or any kind of tragedy, or you are just simply having a tough time at the moment, that you too can see there is light at the end of the tunnel, and that you are able to keep going until you reach the light.

  Until next time.

  With love,

  History Notes

  Out of the seven hundred women who worked in the Sunderland shipyards during WWII, a number of those – like Angie before she joined Rosie’s squad of women welders – worked as crane drivers.

  Here is one such woman – Miss Eileen Reay.

  This photograph was used in one of the very few articles I have been able to find which tells us of the brave and inspirational women who worked in the country’s shipyards during wartime. The article ‘Women on the Wear’ can be found on the BBC website and was written by contributor Angela Stevenson.

  Acknowledgements
>
  A special thanks to the Sunderland Antiquarian Society – in particular Linda King, Norm Kirtlan, and Philip Curtis – for providing the wonderful background image used on the cover of Victory for the Shipyard Girls.

  Thank you also to all the lovely staff at Waterstones in Sunderland, researcher Meg Hartford, Jackie Caffrey, of Nostalgic Memories of Sunderland in Writing, Beverley Ann Hopper, of The Book Lovers, journalist Katy Wheeler at the Sunderland Echo, and Suzanne Brown and fellow members of the Sunderland Soroptimists. As well as ‘Team Nancy’ at Arrow, publishing director Emily Griffin, editor Cassandra Di Bello, my wonderful literary agent Diana Beaumont, and, of course, my parents, Audrey and Syd Walton, and husband, Paul.

  Thank you.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781473553637

  Version 1.0

  Published by Arrow Books 2018

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Nancy Revell 2018

  Cover photograph © Silas Manhood

  Cover background © Getty

  Nancy Revell has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Arrow Books

  Arrow Books