by Nancy Revell
Peter’s mind flickered to Rosie’s old school friend Kate, and how she had ended up on the streets after her time at Nazareth House, the care home run by the nuns in town, after she too had been orphaned.
‘So where did she go?’ Peter was intrigued.
‘I spent what money had been left to us on her first year at an all-girls boarding school in Harrogate. She’s still there now.’ Rosie’s voice lifted. ‘She’s doing really well. She can swim and she can even speak French.’
Peter could have cried on hearing the love flooding into Rosie’s voice as she spoke of her little sister. But the tears he felt welling up inside were also because he was astute enough to realise just how Rosie had been able to keep her sister at the boarding school – and it wasn’t down to her wages at Thompson’s.
‘Lily’s?’ Peter asked.
Following his train of thought, Rosie simply answered, ‘Yes.’
‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’ Peter said gently. ‘Your uncle came back, didn’t he?’ Peter had done a quick calculation. If Rosie’s uncle had served a five-year sentence for the rapes he committed, that meant he must have been arrested and sent down very soon after turning up for Rosie’s parents’ funeral.
‘He did,’ Rosie said. ‘I think a part of me knew I hadn’t seen the back of him. People like him don’t just disappear. When you told me he had been in prison, it made sense. That was why I’d never been bothered by him.’
‘Until he came to find you again, after being released?’ Peter guessed.
Rosie nodded. ‘He told me I had to hand over all my wages every week otherwise he would tell every man and his dog that I was working at Lily’s.’
‘And you did, didn’t you?’ The penny was starting to drop. This evil man had once again forced Rosie into a corner. And once again Charlotte was his pawn.
‘The money we found in his bedsit. It was yours all along?’ Peter asked.
Rosie nodded. ‘How was that for irony?’ She let out a sad laugh. ‘He was blackmailing me because he was convinced he should have been given the money I inherited. Money he didn’t get when his parents disinherited him and left everything to my mother. In his warped mind, he was getting back what he thought was rightfully his, and at the same time getting revenge on his sister.’
Peter pushed a hand through his mop of greying black hair.
‘Dear God,’ he said quietly as he took hold of Rosie’s hand. ‘You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to. I would understand if you had done something …’ He let his voice trail off.
Rosie looked at Peter and smiled. It actually felt good to get everything out in the open. To talk about what had happened during that awful time last year.
‘No, I want to tell you,’ Rosie said, ‘but don’t worry, I didn’t get rid of the rotten apple, if that’s what you’re thinking. Although I wanted to! Believe you me. But I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t take another life, no matter how evil that life was. But all the same, I was pretty desperate. I was working just about every minute of every day and on top of it all, he insinuated that he knew where Charlotte was, which terrified me … No,’ Rosie took a big gulp of her tea, ‘in the end I like to believe fate gave him his comeuppance.’
She took a deep breath.
‘Raymond came to see me at the yard at the end of a shift. It was dark and there was a thick fog. The place was just about empty. He’d found out that I’d been keeping some money back – had conned his way into my bedsit and found a little box stuffed with pound notes and wage slips – boy, was he mad. Really mad.’ Rosie unconsciously touched her face and felt the small pits of the scars in her soft skin.
‘He had a knife to my throat and had my head over a live weld.’ Rosie spoke quite matter-of-factly, unaware of the look of outrage and disbelief plastered across her lover’s face.
‘He said he was going to kill me, like he’d killed my parents. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It had been him who’d knocked over and killed my mum and dad. By this time, though, I had nothing left. Not an ounce of energy to fight back. My only thought was for Charlotte. I could barely breathe through the fumes of the burning metal and all I could see was white light from the weld, and then there was his voice – his horrible, snidey, sickly-sweet voice – hissing in my ear, telling me that after he was finished with me, he was going to go and do to Charlotte what he had done to me all those years ago …’
Rosie took another deep breath. ‘And then, through the mist and the fog came my squad of welders. They’d got tired of waiting for me at the Admiral and had come to find me and tell me to get a move on!’
Tears came to Rosie’s eyes and she smiled at the memory. ‘They were all stood there – Polly, Gloria, Dorothy, Hannah and Martha. Of course, Raymond was all mouth. He let go of me and backed off.’
Rosie looked at Peter. ‘And as luck would have it, he stepped back and stood on a welding rod that hadn’t been put away. He went flying backwards …’ Rosie paused, ‘… and straight over the quayside.’
‘And a week later,’ Peter finished the story quietly, ‘his body was found at the bottom of the Wear.’
Rosie nodded.
Peter berated himself inwardly. He should have realised from the off that Raymond Gallagher had played a much more important part in Rosie’s life than she had originally let on. Someone as sadistic and evil as Raymond always tried to defile those closest to him.
Rosie stood up. She felt lighter for telling the story that had hung heavily on her the past year.
‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘you know what they say – every cloud has a silver lining and all that.’
‘It most certainly does,’ Peter agreed sadly. ‘I just wish there hadn’t been such a dark and threatening cloud over your life for so long.’
‘Well, it’s gone now, for ever,’ Rosie said. She didn’t feel sad. If anything, she felt unburdened. Relieved. She turned her head to look at her little clock on the bedside table.
‘And it’s time for you to go now,’ she said. ‘The Home Guard needs you.’
Peter stood up and pulled Rosie close, wrapping his arms around her.
‘Not for long though,’ he said between kisses. ‘I want to take you out tomorrow night. On a proper date.’ He stroked her cheeks and thought that in Rosie’s case she wore her scars well – those on the outside as well as those on the inside.
‘So, that’s a date then?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Rosie replied. ‘It is! Now go and do your duty – official or otherwise,’ she told him, a cheeky smile playing on her lips.
Chapter Six
Park Avenue, Roker, Sunderland
‘Darling, you’re back home!’ Miriam came bustling out of the dining room where she had been checking the table settings and positioning an elaborate floral display she’d had delivered that day. She had also just been yelling at the cook, Mrs Westley, to get a move on as the guests would be arriving soon and the hors d’oeuvres weren’t prepared.
‘I’ve organised a bit of a surprise party for you, darling,’ Miriam purred as she kissed Jack lightly on the lips, before taking hold of his hand and guiding him into the large reception room at the front of their grand Victorian end-of-terrace home overlooking Roker Park.
‘You know … a party to celebrate your return,’ Miriam explained, as she went over to the drinks cabinet. ‘Oh, darling, you look so confused. Here, let’s get you a drink before the company arrives.’ Miriam carefully poured a large measure of single malt into a thick crystal whisky glass. Jack knew his wife had already had a drink herself as he could smell mints on her breath.
‘You know, Jack, you don’t have to work overtime,’ Miriam chided. ‘It is Saturday, after all. And you were meant to be easing yourself back. It might have been nice for us to spend some time together.’
As she spoke Miriam was walking around the room, giving the place one last inspection, fluffing up cushions and moving ornaments into position. She checked the top of the large
marble mantelpiece. She felt a stab of annoyance when her perfectly manicured finger collected a smudge of dust. The little cleaning girl would get what for when she came in tomorrow.
‘Anyway, how was work today, darling?’ Miriam asked.
Jack opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. His mind was all over the place.
Should he admit that he hadn’t actually been at work today?
Or simply lie and say that work had been fine?
Thankfully, the doorbell went before he had time to reply.
Miriam gave a little jump.
‘Oh, blast, I bet you that’s the Bellamys – they always arrive early.’
And with that she was gone, leaving Jack in peace and glad that he’d managed to evade the question about work.
He sighed and took a large glug of his whisky. This was not going to be easy. That much he knew. Just speaking to Miriam had made his brain go into overdrive. She appeared to be all sweetness and light, yet what he had learnt today told him that his wife was quite the opposite. If he was to believe what Gloria and Arthur had told him, and he saw no reason not to, then he had been conned by Miriam since coming out of his coma. She had fed him a load of lies, painted a completely false picture of their marriage.
Jack heard the front door open and the loud greetings of the guests he either didn’t know or knew but couldn’t remember. He hated parties. And he particularly hated dinner parties. Miriam had told him that he had loved entertaining, which had surprised him. In light of what he had learnt today, it would seem this was another lie that was being used to construct Miriam’s new version of their life together.
Jack took another gulp of whisky. This evening, though, he was glad that the house would be full of people and that Miriam would be too busy with their guests to pay too much attention to him. He felt as though the confusion going on inside his head was there for all to see, as clear as day. The party would, at least, act as a temporary shield.
After all, how could he hold any kind of superficial conversation when all he could think about was what had happened today?
My God, he had a child – another daughter! And a lover!
‘Jack, old boy! How are you doing?’ Jack looked at the rotund man and his equally rotund wife as they bustled into the reception room. He knew they were Mr and Mrs Bellamy, not because he had any recollection of them, but because Miriam had jokingly referred to them as ‘Tweedledum and Tweedledee’.
As Jack shook hands with the couple he’d been told he had known ‘for donkey’s years’, it occurred to him that since coming out of his coma, he had been blindly led by Miriam. He had trusted her, had believed every word that came out of her mouth. And why wouldn’t he have? But now that he knew she had lied about so many important things, there wouldn’t be another word uttered by her that he didn’t question. He would have to rely on his intuition. Something he should have done before now.
‘How’s Crown’s?’ Mr Bellamy asked.
‘Busy,’ Jack said, as Mrs Bellamy was gently guided away by Miriam to mix their drinks.
‘I hear you’re just about to lay down a frigate. What’s her name?’ Mr Bellamy asked.
‘Ettrick. HMS Ettrick,’ Jack said. If he could just talk about shipbuilding all night, he would be happy. And if he could just work around the clock, he would be happier still.
Shortly before they all sat down for their first course, Helen joined the party, looking stunning as always, and as her mother expected.
As usual, though, Miriam made sure she found fault with her daughter’s appearance.
‘I thought you might have worn your other dress,’ she whispered quietly into her daughter’s ear as the guests started to take their places at the long, oval-shaped dining table.
‘You know, the one with the pussy-bow collar.’ She smiled at her daughter as she spoke, as if they were exchanging pleasantries. ‘I’ve told you before, this one makes you look too wide on the hips.’
Miriam took another sip of her gin and tonic before adding, ‘I think your Aunt Margaret and Uncle Angus have been feeding you too much haggis and those potato pancakes they’re so fond of up there. It’s a good job you didn’t stay any longer, otherwise you’d have needed a whole new wardrobe.’
As Helen listened to her mother’s criticism the chirpy mood she had been in dissolved, leaving her feeling deflated. Try as she might to ignore her mother’s usual putdowns, she couldn’t let them simply go over her head. Instead, she found herself subconsciously pulling at her dress, which, when she had been getting ready for the party and looking at herself in the mirror, she had thought showed off her hourglass figure perfectly. Now, however, it felt as though it was too small. Too tight.
Helen, of course, didn’t look any different from when she had left for the break with her aunty and uncle, but Miriam was determined to make sure she didn’t get above herself. Well, that was how she rationalised denigrating her daughter so. If Miriam was honest, though, she would admit to being jealous of her daughter, of her stunning looks, her shapely figure and the way everyone admired her – men and women, young and old.
‘What awful weather we’ve had today.’ One of the guests was making small talk as they all settled down around the table and a harried-looking Mrs Westley started to bring in the first course. ‘Like a tornado, then all of a sudden it just cleared up.’
As the elderly guest continued to prattle on, Jack thought of how he and Arthur had battled to the church, getting soaked to the skin in the process. At the time he’d simply been going there to speak to Gloria and had no idea that Arthur was, in fact, taking him to attend his own daughter’s christening.
As the chatter swirled around him, Jack caught snatches of conversation, some discussing the latest broadcasts by the BBC, some bemoaning the hardships of rationing – not that he would have thought anybody around this table did without. He knew through his work by the docks that the black market was thriving; if you had the money, you could get just about anything you wanted. And most people around this table had the money.
‘And do you like Jack’s new wedding ring?’ Miriam was asking one of her guests, a middle-aged woman who had her hair styled into victory rolls that looked as though they had been glued into place. ‘Jack lost his ring somewhere between the middle of the North Atlantic and the Sunderland Royal. I personally think it may have gone walkabouts when he was in his coma.’
Jack felt himself bristle. This wasn’t the first time Miriam had insinuated that one of the medics who had looked after him had stolen his ring. If they had, they would have been welcome to it – they’d saved his life, after all.
By the end of the three-course meal, Jack felt weary, his energy now completely depleted.
‘So then, Father …’ It was Helen’s voice. She had sat down in the chair next to him, which had been left vacant when one of the guests had excused himself. ‘Where did you get to today?’
All of a sudden, Jack felt wide awake. He had not thought anyone, other than those who worked at Crown’s, would be aware of his absenteeism. Jack looked at his daughter’s pretty face and was relieved that it looked more curious than accusatory.
‘How did you know I wasn’t at work?’ Jack automatically countered her question with another as his mind scrabbled around, forcing itself to recall that it had been Polly who had gone to the yard, saying she would be vague and make out that something had come up that prevented him from returning to work.
‘Well …’ Helen looked across at her mother, thinking that she was now well on her way to being more than just a little tipsy and that she would have to try to get shot of the guests soon to save the family any embarrassment. ‘I went there to warn you about your surprise party,’ she said, lowering her voice and adding sarcastically, ‘knowing how much you love this kind of do.’
Jack nodded and smiled. Helen had been such a support. He and Miriam must have done something right to produce such a loving and caring daughter.
‘And that’s when I bumped in
to Polly. She said you’d got held up. I tried to ask her what it was, but she scurried off before I had a chance to ask.’
Jack looked at Helen and hated himself for having to deceive her.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I spent the afternoon with Arthur.’ Jack argued with himself that he wasn’t really lying, just telling a half-truth. ‘He came to see me at the yard and we ended up chatting about old times. Or rather, Arthur chatted about old times and I listened, hoping that perhaps I might remember something.’
Normally a mention of Arthur would have caused Helen to think of Tommy and her failure to make him hers, but instead of thinking of the love she had lost, she felt hopeful that Arthur might in fact help to restore her father’s memory. If anyone could, she knew it would be the old man. He had played such an important role in her father’s life, and they had always stayed close.
‘And did you?’ Helen asked hopefully.
‘Did I what?’ Jack asked.
‘Remember anything?’ Helen repeated with a slight gasp of exasperation. Her mother’s voice was getting louder and sounded more slurred.
‘Actually,’ Jack said, ‘I did recall something.’
Helen’s eyes widened.
‘It was an image of Arthur when he was working at Thompson’s, all kitted out in his diver’s suit and massive copper helmet.’
‘Well, that’s brilliant news, Dad,’ she said, giving him a big hug. ‘Your lovely consultant Mr Gilbert said you might start remembering things and if you did, it would more likely be “remote memories” that your brain, for some reason, finds more easily accessible than more recent events.’
Mr Matthew Gilbert, whom Helen had developed a little crush on despite his marital status, had said that although there was no simple cure for what he referred to as ‘retrograde amnesia’, he couldn’t stress the importance of ‘jogging’ the victim’s memory enough. And that exposing a person to anything related to his past would often speed up any chance of him getting his memory back.
