Shipyard Girls in Love

by Nancy Revell

  Polly looked at Bel and saw how carefully she was trying not to make a noise, and then across at Hope, who looked in a deep, blissful sleep.

  ‘God,’ Polly dropped her voice to a near whisper and sat down at the kitchen table, ‘you wouldn’t believe what happened today.’ She carefully put her holdall and gas mask on the floor and took off her boots.

  Bel looked at Polly with interest. ‘Really? Looks like it’s been a bit of a funny day all round.’ She went over to the stove, moved the kettle back on to the hob and then checked on Hope.

  ‘I think I’ll move her into the back room so she doesn’t get disturbed and wake up. I’ve had a hell of a day with her. She’s been so upset and just won’t settle. I’ve only just got her off.’

  Bel disappeared into the little back bedroom that could probably be better described as a walk-in cupboard. It had been Polly’s bedroom, but since the household reshuffle she had moved into what had been Bel’s room.

  ‘Right,’ Bel bustled back into the kitchen and sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs, ‘tell me all!’

  As Polly began to relate the awful events of the day, Bel’s face changed. ‘That man needs to be strung up! He’s not right in the head – can’t be, doing that.’

  ‘I know. I just thank God Gloria’s all right. I don’t think anyone can believe she got away with so few injuries.’

  ‘Mm, she’s probably got some kind of innate self-defence mechanism now, after all the years having to put up with all of this.’

  Polly nodded in agreement.

  ‘Did you get a look at him?’ Bel asked.

  ‘Who? Vinnie?’

  Bel nodded.

  ‘Actually, I did catch a quick look at him as he was being hauled out of the yard.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Bel asked.

  ‘Quite tall,’ Polly said, thoughtfully, ‘broad …’

  ‘What colour hair did he have?’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t bald, but he wasn’t far off either. A few wisps of light brown hair. I didn’t really get a good look at his face, though.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Bel said. ‘I knew there was something off about them.’

  Polly looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? Who’re you talking about?’

  Now it was Bel’s turn to regale Polly with the odd events of her day. How she’d had a strange couple bump into her as she was walking into town with Hope in the pram. There had been something about them – something not good – and they’d stunk of booze.

  ‘Oh, they were all over Hope like a rash. I swear they would have tried to hold her if I’d let them. Normally blokes stand there bored to tears while their missus oohs and aahs, but not this one. Something inside of me told me I had to get away from them as soon as I could. I practically ran into town. Poor Hope screamed all the way.’

  ‘Eee, honestly, Bel, I can’t believe it! The man’s got a screw loose. And more than one! And getting his fancy bit involved like that? She sounds just like Gloria’s described her. A right hard cow. It makes sense, though – why Vinnie’s realised Hope’s not his. Polly started to get up.

  ‘Right. I better get myself out of these scruffy overalls and cleaned up. I’m meeting the girls up at the hospital for visiting hours,’ a look of mortification suddenly appeared on her face. ‘Gosh, Bel, I’m so sorry – I haven’t asked you if you’re all right about having Hope for the night? If it’s any bother I can have her in the room with me?’ Polly was sincere in her offer, even though she was not the best with babies.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Bel couldn’t reassure her quickly enough. ‘It’s no bother at all. You know how I feel about Hope. Don’t tell Gloria, but I sometimes feel she’s half mine!’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Mum!’

  The chauffeur-driven car had just brought Helen home after she’d fled the Royal twenty minutes earlier. She was now standing in the hallway, both hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath. Her heart felt as though it was going to explode.

  ‘Mother!’ she shouted again, louder this time, making her head throb even more than it was already. She sounded desperate and her breathing was heavy, as if she couldn’t quite get enough air into her lungs.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong, pet?’ Mrs Westley’s voice could be heard before she was seen coming out of the breakfast room where she had been polishing the silver cutlery and having a general tidy-up. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Helen. As always she looked stunning, in her deep olive-green tailored skirt and cream cashmere cardigan, but her face told another story. The poor girl looked in bits. She had rivulets of watery black tears spilling down her face, and she was bent forward as if she either had a stitch or was about to throw up.

  ‘Come here,’ Mrs Westley said, automatically going to Helen and putting her arms around her. The cook had been with the family since Helen was a baby, and although Mrs Crawford had always stressed there should be no fraternising with the ‘help’, Helen had spent much of her childhood when she wasn’t at school at the kitchen table, doodling or chatting away to Mrs Westley as she baked, cooked and cleaned.

  As the cook felt Helen’s whole body juddering, letting loose great, heaving sobs, she was genuinely worried. She had never seen ‘young Helen’, as she called her, so upset. So heartbroken. If Helen had been courting, she would have presumed it was ‘boy trouble’, but Mrs Westley knew that wasn’t the case. There were only two loves in her life – her father and the shipyard.

  ‘There, there, pet.’ She gave Helen a gentle cuddle. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.’

  Her words only seemed to make Helen cry more, though. ‘It is “that bad”,’ she mumbled into the starched cotton fabric of Mrs Westley’s apron top.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Mrs Westley said, ‘it’ll come out with the wash. It always does.’ They were words of reassurance she still offered up to her own children, even though they were now adults.

  Standing there, in the wide, grandiose hallway, feeling Helen’s arms wrapped round her girth so tightly it was as if she was afraid she would collapse if she let go, the cook was taken aback by just how distraught Helen was. Helen might have been brought up with a silver spoon in her mouth and been spoilt rotten, but she’d never been a ‘cry baby’.

  Mrs Westley continued to cuddle her charge and mutter reassurances that all would turn out all right, but it was as though the more comfort she gave, the more overwrought Helen became. Even if she had wanted to tell the cook what it was that was causing her so much grief, her words would have been incomprehensible.

  ‘Come on, petal,’ she said, bending down and talking to the top of Helen’s head. ‘Let’s go and sit down in the kitchen and get you a nice cuppa.’ She gave her a big squeeze and rubbed her back. ‘I’ve just taken a batch of your favourite gingerbread biscuits out of the oven.’

  Hearing the large front-porch door slam shut, Mrs Westley turned to see Miriam walking into the hallway.

  ‘Helen!’ Miriam’s voice was high-pitched and full of reproof at seeing her daughter sobbing in Mrs Westley’s arms. ‘What are you doing?! Pull yourself together. That’s no way to be going on!’ Miriam poured scorn on her daughter. ‘And stand up straight!’

  Helen did as she was told while Miriam put her handbag and gas mask down on the little oval-shaped console and quickly checked herself in the mirror hanging above it. She turned away from her reflection and her eyes narrowed as she looked at her daughter. Miriam couldn’t believe what she had come back to. She’d just had a lovely afternoon at the Grand with her best friend, Amelia. They had allowed themselves a little afternoon tipple and taken a few nibbles out of some salmon and cucumber sandwiches, but the highlight of their little tête-à-tête had been the attention they’d received from some of the Admiralty billeted at the hotel. It had made up for all the wretched pies and puddings she was having to pretend to enjoy eating in the kitchen with Jack of an evening. Now, though, it looked like her perfectly good mood was about to be ruined. Wh
at an embarrassment to see her daughter in such a state. It was a good job it was just Mrs Westley who was witness to Helen’s hysterics.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Westley. I’ll take it from here.’ Miriam made it clear that the cook should make herself scarce. ‘Helen,’ she glowered at her daughter, ‘I’ll speak to you in the dining room.’

  As Helen looked at her mother she wished more than anything in the world she could run to her and seek solace. But hearing her mother’s clipped words and the disapproval written all across her face, she knew no kind of comfort would be forthcoming. It never had been. Nor likely ever would be.

  Helen had accepted many years ago that her mum would never be like other mothers she knew. She had learnt as she had grown older that she existed purely to boost her mother’s standing in society, so that she could bask in a kind of reflected glory. If Helen was beautiful, or successful, or made a good marriage, it was her mother who was revered.

  Helen walked past her mother, wiping the tears from her face.

  Miriam followed her daughter into the large dining room and went straight for the mahogany drinks cabinet. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ she snapped as she sloshed a good measure of gin into her crystal tumbler, adding just a splash of tonic.

  Helen pulled out one of the heavy upright oak chairs that were positioned around the dining table in the centre of the room and slumped into it. The shock of what she had seen – the gravity of the terrible secret just revealed to her at the Royal – had sapped all the energy from her. Helen opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she just looked at her mother.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Helen!’ Miriam stood upright, drink in hand, staring at her daughter. ‘Stop looking so gormless and spit it out,’ she barked. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  She had never seen her daughter so upset. Helen was no softie. She’d taught her as a child that tears would never get her anywhere. Even when Tommy Watts had proposed to that common welder girl, she had not been this upset. Angry, perhaps. Frustrated at not getting what she wanted. But there had not been any tears.

  Miriam had a rare stab of concern. ‘No one we know has died? Have they?’

  What else would affect her daughter so much?

  ‘It’s Dad,’ Helen said simply, still staring straight ahead into space, her mind replaying the heinous scene she had witnessed just half an hour previously. Her brain was still taking its time to process not only what she had seen at the hospital, but the far-reaching implications of what she had unknowingly stumbled across.

  ‘What do you mean, “It’s Dad”?’ Now Miriam was starting to feel anxious. Logically she knew that if anything had happened to Jack in the yard she would have been the first to have been informed, or at the very least someone from Crown’s would have accompanied Helen back to the house as the bearer of bad news.

  Helen managed to shift her gaze so that she was now taking in the vision of her mother as she stood there just a few feet away. Her face was hard, her eyes angry, and her tone one of pure irritation. Helen watched as her mother’s lips moved and her brow furrowed questioningly, but she didn’t hear the words. It was as though the volume control of her life had suddenly dropped to zero. All she could hear were her own thoughts buffeting their way into her consciousness. Forcing her to accept the terrible, heartbreaking truth:

  Her father was having an affair.

  With Gloria.

  Who had just had a baby.

  A baby who had not been fathered by her husband.

  Which could only mean one thing …

  Helen suddenly felt a short, sharp slap across her face. Miriam had crossed the room and struck her daughter to snap her out of her trance. She was now standing there, looking down at her.

  ‘Stop staring like some imbecile!’

  Helen’s hand went to her stinging cheek. She looked up at her mother – her cold, harsh, unloving mother – and at that precise moment all the shock, sadness and heartache she was feeling were replaced by another deep hurt. A hurt that her mother could not do the one thing she had ever wanted of her. And that was to give her some love. To comfort her. To ease her pain.

  It was then that the need to give back some of that hurt ploughed to the fore.

  Helen looked at her mother and her eyes shone with her need for retribution. A need to strike back at this woman who stood before her.

  ‘It’s about Father.’ Helen spoke the words coldly. There was not a hint of any kind of emotion.

  Miriam took a slight step back, a little unnerved by both her daughter’s look and the tone of her voice.

  ‘Well, is he all right?’ Miriam countered. The last thing she needed now was any more drama. The past few months had been a complete nightmare, not knowing whether Jack would live or die, or if she’d be landed with a retard of a husband for the rest of her life.

  ‘Oh, Dad’s fine, Mother,’ Helen said. Her eyes had gone hard and were now free from any more tears. Her words were no longer laced with child-like sobs, but with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  ‘More than fine,’ she added, pushing her chair back and standing up. She was taller than her mother by just an inch or so.

  ‘Well then, why the waterworks?’ Miriam demanded, puzzled now, but still a little concerned by her daughter’s increasingly bizarre behaviour.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute. And then I’ll tell you everything … But if I were you, I’d get myself another drink …’ she paused ‘… and I’d make it a big one.’

  When Helen returned to the dining room she found her mother staring at herself in the large mirror above the mantelpiece. In keeping with the blackout regulations, the lush, crimson velvet curtains had been drawn, whilst the Tiffany lamp on the side table had been switched on.

  Picking up a heavy glass ashtray from the sideboard, Helen walked back to the dining table and sat down. This time her back was straight and Miriam noticed, as her daughter lit a cigarette, that she had wiped away the mascara that had smudged down her face.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d taken up smoking?’ Miriam said.

  As she watched Helen exhale, she thought how much smoking suited her daughter. It gave her an air of sophistication. She had tried it herself many moons ago, but it had only made her feel sick and so she had given up trying.

  ‘Well, Mother, it would seem that there are a number of things you don’t know,’ Helen said, tapping the end of her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Many more things. Far more interesting things than me “taking up” smoking.’

  Helen sat for a moment without saying anything. She had managed to pull herself together out in the hallway. She had heard Mrs Westley moving around and the clash of pans and cutlery in the kitchen, so she wasn’t worried that the cook would hear what she was about to disclose to her mother.

  ‘Spit it out then,’ Miriam said, taking a slightly nervous sip of her gin and tonic. Her daughter had a disturbing look about her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it made her uneasy.

  ‘You might want to sit down, Mother,’ Helen suggested. She needed to hurt her mother as much as her mother had hurt her. Helen had come here straight from the hospital and had craved nothing more than comfort. For someone to listen to her as she poured her heart out. For someone simply to be there as she let loose the onslaught of thoughts and feelings that had been spinning around inside her, making her feel dizzy and nauseous.

  Her father.

  An affair.

  A bastard.

  A sister.

  Her sister!

  But her mother, as usual, was unable, or simply didn’t want, to give her only child any kind of love or understanding. As usual it had been Mrs Westley who had given her a maternal cuddle, just as it had been Mrs Westley to whom she had gone as a child when she had fallen over or hurt herself.

  ‘I’m fine standing, Helen,’ Miriam said, annoyance clearly evident in her voice. ‘Just tell me what you’ve got to say. I’m sure my legs will be perfectly capable of supporti
ng me, whatever this shocking news is.’

  Helen took another drag and let out a plume of smoke. Well, now it was payback time. If her mother broke down, she would enjoy being the one to tell her to ‘pick yourself up’ and ‘get a grip’.

  ‘Mother …’ Helen paused. ‘I’m afraid your husband – my father – has been having … no, sorry, is still very much having … an affair.’

  Miriam looked at her daughter as if she was totally insane.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? Of course your father’s not having any kind of affair.’ She almost laughed it off as she went back to the drinks cabinet and added a touch more tonic water. She had been rather overgenerous with the gin.

  ‘Oh, but he is, Mater,’ Helen said, her eyes scrutinising her mother, waiting to see her reaction when she realised that what her daughter was telling her was true.

  ‘And the reason I know he is having an affair is that I have seen it with my own eyes. Just today. In the last hour. Which was the reason for “the waterworks”.’

  Miriam put her drink on the table.

  ‘What do you mean you saw it with your own eyes? Where? What did you see?’ she demanded, her cool exterior starting to crumble.

  ‘I saw Dad. Together with another woman. Kissing her. They were obviously very much in love. It was rather touching actually.’ Helen had to force the words out, and it cut deep to have to say them.

  ‘But, really, that is by the by,’ Helen continued, looking at her mother’s stunned face.

  Now who was looking gormless?

  ‘Perhaps,’ Helen said slowly, ‘you should really be asking “With whom is my husband having an affair?”’ Helen was speaking in her best King’s English, the way she had been taught in her elocution lessons.

  Miriam had her hand, claw-like, on the back of the tall dining-room chair and was leaning across to her daughter, who, she observed, was being infuriatingly calm, smoking her cigarette.