Shipyard Girls in Love

by Nancy Revell

  ‘I can’t really say much more than that. I’m so sorry.’ Peter dropped his voice so the couple next to them couldn’t hear their conversation, not that they looked at all interested in anyone else as they were happily whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.

  ‘All I can say is that …’ Peter spoke quietly, ‘… is that they need people with various skills and who have experience in certain areas.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Rosie’s expression was a mix of confusion and shock. ‘I thought you were needed here with the Borough Police?’

  Peter squeezed her hand gently. ‘They can manage without me.’

  ‘And the Home Guard?’ Rosie was starting to sound desperate. ‘You’ve said yourself they need more men with some kind of policing or military experience?’

  ‘That was the case to start with. But the Home Guard is now much stronger than it was. There’s a lot of young blood there – miners, shipyard workers, farmers. They’re young and keen and physically fit. They don’t need me.’

  ‘But I need you!’ Rosie said. The words were out before she knew it.

  ‘Rosie,’ Peter couldn’t help but smile in spite of the seriousness of the situation, ‘I don’t think you’ve ever needed anyone in your life. You’re the least needy person I’ve ever known!’

  Rosie wanted to scream, I do need you! She needed him to make her feel the way he had made her feel this past month. She needed him because he made her happy.

  ‘Where’s this “organisation” based?’ Rosie snapped.

  ‘It’s dotted all over really. Toby’s up in Scotland, but I think they want me down in Guildford.’

  Rosie didn’t know anything about Guildford. Nor was she entirely sure where it was in the country, other than hundreds of miles down south.

  ‘Guildford?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter where I’m going,’ Peter said. ‘I’m not sure how long I’ll even be there. I’ll spend a few weeks there to start with, then I’ll probably have to go to London, but I’m not sure where I’ll be placed after that. The main point is …’ Peter took a deep breath.

  Rosie’s mind was working nineteen to the dozen. She could feel the energy drain out of her. ‘They’re not sending you overseas, are they?’ She was staring at him, demanding more answers.

  Peter paused.

  ‘Yes, it’s likely.’

  ‘When?’ Rosie demanded. ‘When do you go?’

  ‘Things are happening quicker than I’d expected, so probably quite soon,’ he admitted.

  ‘How soon?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘In the next week or so,’ Peter said quietly.

  Rosie felt the panic rising inside her.

  Peter was leaving her.

  ‘How long? When will you be back?’ she asked, her voice practically a whisper.

  Peter knew Rosie deserved an honest answer, even if it hurt.

  ‘Not until we’ve won this blasted war,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peter said again.

  Rosie looked at him and that was when she knew. That was when she knew why Peter had struggled to tell her this. Why he had put off telling her.

  He didn’t know if he was coming back!

  It was only then that the reality of what he was trying to tell her really hit home.

  ‘You’re not coming back!’ Rosie felt as though she had just been punched hard in the stomach. She felt nauseous. She wrenched her hand away from his. She felt herself go cold. Numb. And yet the anger was there. Anger that Peter had not been truthful with her before now. Anger that he hadn’t even discussed this with her. Anger that he was going and might never come back. Anger that he was leaving her … That she would not be able to be with him. To feel his arms around her … To lose herself in his kisses and his caresses … Anger that she was having his love and his friendship and his care ripped from her. Ruthlessly. Suddenly. And without any guarantee that she would get it back.

  ‘Damn you, Peter!’ Rosie said, abruptly pushing her chair back and standing up.

  ‘Damn you!’ She stood, glowering down at him.

  And then she grabbed her coat and gas mask off the back of her chair, turned around and pushed herself through crowds of revellers until she found the exit. She almost tumbled out onto the street. Pulling on her coat and throwing her gas mask across her shoulder, she started running down the street. Angry, frustrated tears started streaming down her face.

  She didn’t care that it had started to rain or that she could barely see where she was going in the blackout.

  She didn’t care about anything, other than the unbearable pain in her chest and the hurt that was crushing all the life and love out of her heart.

  Peter knew it was pointless to follow Rosie. She was too hurt, too angry. He cursed himself. He should have told her sooner, although deep down he knew he had purposely held off telling her until the last minute. Selfishly, he’d wanted to continue enjoying the wonderful lightness of being they had when they were together for as long as he possibly could.

  He knew Rosie, and knew this would be her reaction. He knew she would see it as a rejection. And he knew that if someone hurt her, she ran. He knew that he could have tried to sugar-coat the bitter pill he had just forced her to swallow; he could have made out that the war would be over before they knew it, and then they’d be back in each other’s arms. But that wouldn’t have been fair. And, anyway, it would have been a lie. This war was far from over. People believed that just because the Americans had joined the fray victory was on the horizon. But that simply wasn’t the case. Hong Kong had just fallen to the Japanese, Russia was in dire straits and the situation in North Africa was precarious to say the least.

  On top of which, he knew that where he was likely to be sent, there was a good chance he might not make it back in one piece. Toby had been brutally honest with him and told him that most of those they sent behind enemy lines did not make it back. It was unfair to give Rosie unrealistic expectations. In all the time they had been together, the difference in their ages had never been an issue. Now it was. He was twice Rosie’s age. He’d had a life. If it was taken from him during this world war, then it would be a sacrifice worth making.

  As Peter sat and finished his pint, oblivious to the hubbub of joviality around him, he knew he’d have to decide whether he should go and see Rosie before he left – tell her that he loved her and that he was sorry – or simply let her be. Let her stay angry with him. Would that make it less painful? Was letting her go the kindest option? Would seeing him again simply make it worse?

  Of course, he knew what he wanted to do, but what was best for Rosie?

  At this moment, he really didn’t know anything, other than he had never felt so wretched in his entire life.

  Chapter Forty-One

  ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’

  Lily had hurried out of the back parlour where she had been mixing with the evening’s house guests when she’d heard the front door slam. She’d been greeted by the sight of Rosie standing in the hallway, dripping wet, tossing her gas mask and her bag down on the parquet flooring, then trying to pull off her grey mackintosh, which was wet through.

  ‘Ma chère …’ Lily tottered down the long hallway. It wasn’t until she was up close that she saw the devastation etched into Rosie’s face. Her mascara had run down her cheeks and her blonde curls were plastered to her face.

  ‘What on earth’s wrong?’ she asked, as she watched Rosie wrestle with her gaberdine before finally wrenching it off and chucking it to the floor in anger.

  ‘Here, ma chérie.’ Lily reached out and took Rosie’s hand, gently manoeuvring her towards the front reception room. As she did so, George and Maisie appeared in the hallway. They had also heard the door slam and had seen Lily make her excuses to the brigadier, with whom she’d been chatting, before bustling out of the room.

  As Lily opened the heavy oak door and guided an overwrought and very wet Rosie through to what had become her office, she gave George a look
that said he was to follow her. She then turned her attention to Maisie and asked if she could fetch a towel.

  ‘Come on,’ Lily commanded, ‘let’s get you in front of the fire and warm you up.’

  She guided Rosie to one of the armchairs next to the fireplace. She was glad she’d told Milly to get all the fires going because it was New Year’s Eve and she’d wanted the bordello to be as warm and cosy as possible as they were expecting a full house that evening.

  Rosie slumped into the chair as Maisie hurried in. She knew better than to stick around and left as quickly and as quietly as she had come. George was hovering behind Lily, uncertain as to what to do or say. He had never seen Rosie so openly distressed.

  ‘Be a dear and pour us a couple of brandies, will you, George?’ Lily asked before turning her attention back to Rosie, who was now sitting with her hands covering her face. Her shoulders were juddering as she cried silent tears. Lily put the towel around her shoulders and sat down on the leg rest that was next to the leather armchair.

  ‘Ma chère, has anyone hurt you?’ Lily asked, checking Rosie out but not seeing any signs of an attack or any kind of physical mistreatment.

  George squeezed Rosie’s shoulder, and held out the glass of brandy. Rosie’s hand was shaking as she reached out to take it.

  ‘Is it Peter?’ Lily asked, gently.

  Rosie nodded before taking in a deep, juddering breath.

  ‘He’s leaving me,’ she said simply.

  Lily looked at George, who was pouring out a second glass of brandy. Her mouth pursed, and she shot him another loaded look as he came over to give her her drink. George knew exactly what Lily was thinking.

  Lily sat, drink in both hands, leaning forward, looking at Rosie, who was now staring into the blazing fire. The music next door was filtering through, as were the sounds of lively chatter and laughter. Vivian’s mock Mae West accent could be heard asking for requests for the next record to be played on the gramophone.

  ‘Ma chère, what do you mean, he’s leaving you? Has he ended the affair?’ Lily asked, trying to keep the growing anger out of her voice.

  This, Lily realised, must be what it feels like to be a mother, to watch your child’s distress and not be able to do anything about it.

  ‘He’s going away,’ Rosie said, her voice trembling. ‘He’s going away. And he’s not coming back!’

  ‘Oh, ma chère.’ Lily reached forward and held Rosie’s distraught face in her hands. The rain and the tears had washed off her make-up, and the tiny scars were clearly visible. Seeing them added to Lily’s ire.

  George had seated himself in the other armchair. Comprehension showed itself on his face as he put both hands on the top of his ivory walking stick and leant forward, his attention focused entirely on Rosie.

  ‘Is this to do with some kind of war work?’ he asked quietly. Lily turned her head and threw him a questioning look.

  Rosie nodded, taking a big glug of her brandy.

  At that moment George had a good idea of what had happened. Peter would not have been called up under the new conscription rules, so he must have volunteered.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ George continued to question Rosie, fishing out the reason for her distress.

  ‘Guildford … London … abroad …’ Rosie took another sip of her drink, wanting to escape this terrible pain she was feeling.

  It was then that George understood, although he had no idea what to say to make Rosie feel better.

  ‘We promised we’d be honest with each other,’ Rosie started to ramble. She looked at Lily and then at George. Her eyes were red and bloodshot. ‘That we’d tell each other everything. We promised each other at the very beginning …’ Her voice drifted off as her mind returned to that very first time they had made love.

  ‘He should have told me!’ Rosie said in frustration. ‘I could have talked him out of it. Got him to stay here!’

  George tentatively asked Rosie what it was that Peter had signed up to do, but he could see that she wasn’t sure. He listened intently as she mumbled something about a friend of his called Toby and how Peter had ‘the skills they needed’.

  George and Lily listened to Rosie as she talked, sometimes a little incoherently, about the events of the night. Neither of them said much, knowing that words weren’t going to help. Rosie was losing the love of her life after just finding him. She was angry and upset. She just needed a shoulder to cry on, a gentle hug, a sense of empathy. They knew there was no quick fix for this heartache. All they could do was be there for her.

  After Rosie drank her second glass of brandy, her energy was spent and her emotions exhausted. Lily tried to convince her to stay over for the evening, but Rosie insisted that she wanted to go back to her own home, so George drove her home.

  He insisted on accompanying her into her flat and making her a cup of tea, but by the time the kettle had boiled, Rosie had fallen asleep on the little settee in her living room.

  George found a blanket and put it over her before leaving and driving back to the bordello with a heavy heart.

  When George walked back into the front office, he found Lily puffing away furiously on a Gauloise. Judging by the empty packet and the near to overflowing ashtray, she had been chain-smoking since he’d left. He barely made it halfway across the room before he heard the words he’d known Lily had been desperately holding back all evening.

  ‘I knew it! Just knew it! I said that man would bring Rosie heartache and sure enough, he has. The man’s barely been in her life two minutes and yet he’s tipped her world upside down, ripped the poor girl’s heart to shreds and is now just sauntering off – happy as you like – oblivious to the carnage he’s left behind.’ Lily puffed and blew out gusts of smoke.

  ‘God, I wish Detective bloody Sergeant Peter Miller was stood in front of me now so I could strangle him with my own bare hands!’

  George knew not to say anything until Lily had got everything off her chest. And he was more than aware that there was lots to unload. This had been brewing for a long time – since the day Rosie had first mentioned that she had bumped into Peter down by the docks back in February.

  ‘That man’s been trouble from the start!’ Lily took a deep drag on her cigarette as she paced up and down.

  George went to top up his drink and then sat down in the armchair by the fire. The party in the next room was now in full swing, and he could hear the kitchen door swinging open and shut as Milly took plates of sandwiches into the reception room and brought empty ones back out to refill with more nibbles.

  As he continued to listen to Lily as she verbally massacred Peter and damned him to an eternity of purgatory, he allowed himself a cigar. It was nearly the New Year, after all.

  It took until he was just about halfway through the cigar before Lily finally ran out of steam.

  ‘I know you’re angry, Lily,’ George said tentatively. ‘As am I. We love Rosie to bits. She’s the most amazing, wonderful, kind-hearted and hard-working woman I know and she really does not deserve this terrible heartache she’s presently having to endure … God knows she’s been through enough in life already.’

  Lily sat down in the armchair opposite and sighed. ‘I agree.’

  ‘Her mother and father died,’ George continued, ‘or rather were killed. Then there was all that awfulness with her uncle … She’s worked her socks off at that shipyard and here to keep her little sister out of the workhouse. A sister, I hasten to add, who now appears to be going off the rails.’

  Lily listened. All of a sudden she felt worn out. The dramatic turn of events, on top of all the preparation she had done during the day to make the New Year Eve’s celebration a successful one, had caught up with her.

  ‘And during it all,’ George continued, ‘she’s never enjoyed the love of a good man – or any man for that matter – or enjoyed the frivolousness of being in love. Until now.’

  Lily made a huffing sound. ‘And boy oh boy, did she not half pick the wrong bleedin’ bloke
to fall hook, line and sinker for.’

  George looked at the clock and saw they only had about ten minutes before they would have to show their faces next door for the great countdown to midnight.

  ‘But – ’ George took a deep breath, knowing that what he was going to say next was not going to be met with such agreement ‘ – Rosie has chosen a man who is fundamentally a good man. He has not messed our Rosie about intentionally. From what I’ve gathered, the man’s as besotted with Rosie as she is with him.’

  George paused.

  ‘But,’ he looked at Lily, who had got up and pulled another Gauloise out of the packet on the desk, ‘he has done something which I believe to be incredibly selfless and also very brave. He has forsaken his own needs and wants and desires, to help his country. Our country. This wonderful country of ours that is in danger – that could soon be ruled by a certifiable madman. I, for one, have to commend Peter. It is terrible for our Rosie. She’s not had an easy ride out of life and it looks like she’s still being dealt a pretty bad hand, but she’s going to have to do what she always does, and that’s dust herself down, get up and get on living this life the best she can.’

  Lily looked at George. She knew he was right but she would never admit it. She was still too angry. She made a show of taking the glass stopper out of the decanter and splashing more brandy into her crystal tumbler.

  ‘Well,’ she said, taking a sip, ‘I still don’t like the bloke. Never have, never will.’ She sat back down in the armchair. ‘But what really gets my goat most of all is that I know Rosie. And I know that once she’s calmed down and lets go of her anger, she’ll forgive Perfect Peter and then pine for him. She won’t show it, of course. But I know for sure our girl will think about that bloody copper every day until he comes back.’

  George looked at Lily and took a swig of brandy.

  ‘If,’ he said solemnly, ‘if he comes back.’

  George still kept an ear to the ground and had contacts from his service in the First World War, and piecing together what Rosie had said, it looked as though Peter had signed up with Churchill’s so-called ‘Secret Army’, the SOE (Special Operations Executive), and if that was the case, the chances he would return weren’t high. Covert operations carried out behind enemy lines were dangerous, to say the least. Rosie had mentioned a while ago that Peter’s mother hailed from Bordeaux and that French was his second language, so it didn’t take a genius to work out that Peter’s linguistic skills, combined with his experience as a detective, could be put to good use.