by Nancy Revell
‘I just hope that when Detective Sergeant Peter Miller does leave, Rosie will forget about him,’ Lily said, breaking through his thoughts.
‘I agree, but knowing Rosie, I doubt very much that’ll be the case,’ George said, just as Maisie came bustling into the room and demanded that they both cheer up and get themselves next door to see in the New Year.
Chapter Forty-Two
Friday 2 January 1942
‘Ah, just the person!’ DS Neville Grey shouted out as soon as he spotted Peter coming into the main entrance of the Sunderland Borough Police headquarters. He took his hand off the receiver of the black Bakelite and put on his best speaking voice. ‘Yes, sir, Detective Sergeant Miller has just walked into the building. I’m going to hand you over now.’
Peter looked at his colleague and knew by his tone of voice that there was top brass on the other end of the phone.
His time had come.
Walking round to the other side of the counter, he took the phone off DS Grey and introduced himself.
‘DS Peter Miller here. How can I help you?’ It was just a formality as Peter knew exactly how he could help the Chief Super who was calling from Guildford Police headquarters. The call, however, had come earlier than expected. The correspondence he had sent off just before Christmas had obviously been received and dealt with quickly. Certainly more speedily than anticipated.
DS Grey pretended to busy himself, but was listening intently, although the only words he caught were Peter saying, ‘Yes, sir … No, sir, that’s no problem … Of course, sir. I will be there at twelve hundred hours … Yes. Thank you, sir. Good day.’
When Peter put the phone down, DS Grey asked, ‘Everything all right there, Peter?’
Peter nodded as he looked under the counter, where he knew the stationery was kept.
‘Yes, thanks, Neville. Listen, I’ve got to go back out again.’ Peter took a piece of paper and an envelope from one of the drawers, folded them up and put them in his inside pocket. He looked at his watch.
‘You’ll be off shift by the time I’m back, so give my regards to the family. Wish them all the best for the New Year.’
DS Grey said he would and put a hand up to signal his farewell.
Peter knew he would not be seeing Neville, or any of his other colleagues with the Borough Police, for a good while, if at all; nor those men he’d got to know in the town’s Home Guard. Apologies about his sudden departure would be made tomorrow – after he’d left – by those higher up the chain of command. It had been agreed with the Chief Super that Peter was to leave without any kind of ceremony as the least fuss made, the better.
All he could think about now was Rosie. Since she’d left him in the pub on New Year’s Eve, he’d desperately wanted to go to her, to spend one last night with her, but he had argued with himself that although that was what he wanted, was that really fair on her? Should he not simply let her be?
Now he’d got the call, he decided to compromise. He would write a letter, give it to Kate and ask her to give it to Rosie, who he knew was always at the bordello on a Friday evening. It would be up to Rosie what action she took.
She could either see him one last time before he left on the train tomorrow – or not.
It was almost dark by the time he reached the Holme Café. It was nearing the end of the day’s trading and the customers were leaving in dribs and drabs, enabling Peter to grab a quiet table in the corner near to the window.
He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his fountain pen and the sheet of paper and envelope he had taken from the station. He sat there for a while, thinking, pen posed. The young waitress took his order and had returned with his pot of tea before Peter finally began to write. He didn’t stop until he had reached the end of the page. By the time he signed off With all my love for ever, Peter, his hand was shaking.
Had the blackout blinds of the tea shop not been drawn, he would have seen one of the nuns from Nazareth House walk past the window.
He would also have seen that the robust-looking older woman, dressed from head to toe in a traditional black habit, stopped for a moment outside the Maison Nouvelle before straightening her back and entering Kate’s little boutique.
If Peter had observed all of this, he would undoubtedly have wondered why a nun would need the services of a seamstress, or indeed have any reason whatsoever to enter such a shop.
And if Peter had left the café just one minute earlier, he would have seen the same ruddy-faced nun stepping out of the Maison Nouvelle before striding back in the direction of the town centre.
When Peter walked into the Maison Nouvelle, it took a few moments for his eyes to search out Kate and find her standing behind her workbench. She was so small and was standing so still he hadn’t seen her straight away. She could have easily passed for one of the mannequins standing in the corner of the shop.
‘Kate?’ Peter felt a moment’s concern. Kate was staring ahead, as though in some kind of trance. ‘Kate, are you all right?’ Only then did Kate’s dark eyes come back into focus and she looked at Peter as though she had just realised he was there.
‘Peter,’ she said, but her voice was low and quiet.
‘Are you all right? You look like you’re in another world there.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Kate said, ‘I’m fine. Is there something I can help you with?’
Peter looked down at his hand, which had been clutching his letter to Rosie since he had left the tea shop.
‘Yes, yes, there is. And I hope you don’t think it’s an imposition,’ Peter said with a slightly embarrassed smile as he held out the letter. ‘I wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind giving this to Rosie on my behalf, please?’
‘Of course I will,’ Kate said without hesitation. She put her hand out for the letter but still did not move from where she was standing. Peter stepped forward and, leaning across the wooden bench, placed it in her hand.
‘Thank you, thank you so much. That means an awful lot to me. It really does,’ Peter said before turning and walking back towards the shop door.
As he left, he looked back at Kate, who was still rooted to the spot.
It had not occurred to Peter that it was odd Kate made no effort to move from where she was standing, and he didn’t know her well enough to think it strange that she didn’t come from behind her worktop to welcome him, or that she didn’t offer him a cup of tea.
If the light had not been so dim, and if Peter had walked around the counter to give Kate his letter, he would have noticed not only that she was trembling, but that pooled around her new black leather Mary Jane shoes was a small puddle which had formed while her previous visitor had been in her shop.
As soon as Peter had shut the door behind him, Kate stuffed the letter he had given her into her skirt pocket and then turned and went into the back room. She cleaned herself up as best she could before retrieving the mop and bucket from their place by the back door and wiping down the floor where she had been standing. She then grabbed her bag and gas mask, checked everything was safe and secure in the shop, and locked up.
Glad of the darkness, she hurried back to the bordello, letting herself in with her front-door key and making sure she was as quiet as a mouse. She did not want to speak to another living soul.
Heading straight for the kitchen, she stood for a moment at the door, which was slightly ajar, and listened. It was quiet and, therefore, most likely empty. If Milly was cooking or clearing up she usually had the wireless on. Kate slipped through the door and headed straight for the walk-in larder. Rummaging around on the shelves for a short while, she finally found what she was looking for – the cooking brandy. As she quickly left the kitchen she heard the low murmur of chatter and Vera Lynn’s voice crackling slightly as the gramophone played ‘We’ll Meet Again’.
As soon as she reached her room in the attic, she uncorked the brandy and took a swig straight from the bottle. She then closed the door firmly behind her, sat down on the edge of her bed and to
ok another, longer swig. Her face was without expression or emotion.
Kate stayed there, staring straight ahead into nothingness, taking regular swigs of the cheap brandy.
By the time she passed out, the bottle was half-empty.
Chapter Forty-Three
Peter hadn’t expected to sleep at all and he was proved right. He had tried to keep himself busy. There was certainly plenty to do – he had to pack, and then he had to tidy up the house in anticipation of it being left empty for an uncertain period of time. Normally he would have put on the wireless whilst doing any kind of mundane task, eager to catch the BBC home news, or any other snippets of information about the war, but this evening he could not risk it. Rosie might knock and he might not hear her.
Earlier on in the evening, shortly after getting back from seeing Kate, he had nipped next door to see his neighbour and ask if she would be so kind as to keep a spare key for the house. He had tried to be as vague as possible about where he was going and for how long, but it was hard as Mrs Jenkins was not only a chatterbox, but also a bit of a nebby-nose who liked nothing more than to grill whoever she was talking to. Peter had thought in the past that she would have made either a good copper or a journalist.
During his time talking to Mrs Jenkins, Peter had refused the offer of tea and repeated offers to come in out of the cold. Instead, he had remained chatting on the doorstep, terrified he might miss Rosie should she turn up.
As the night wore on, he kept doing slow, methodical laps of the house, going from room to room, checking and rechecking that all the electrical appliances had been unplugged, and making sure the place was spick and span; he did so constantly alert for any sound outside the house that might signify that Rosie was walking up the gravel path, or knocking on the door. Indeed, he had kept the front door ajar until it was late, only then reluctantly closing it.
He had considered taking one of the chairs from the kitchen and putting it outside so that he could sit on it, and watch for Rosie’s arrival through the little wooden gate at the bottom of the private road. If he had been able to do so without arousing the suspicions of his neighbours, he would have happily done it – in spite of the bitter cold.
By midnight Peter had been forced to accept that Rosie was not coming – even though he had been convinced that she would. The letter he had written to her had been from the heart. It had also explained that he had to leave much sooner than expected, and that he had to catch the twelve o’clock train to Guildford tomorrow.
In the early hours of the morning, Peter toyed with the idea of walking to her flat and knocking on her door – he had been on the verge of doing so, before he managed to stop himself. If she had wanted to see you, she would have come, he’d told himself.
It had even gone through his mind that perhaps Rosie had not received the letter, but he had dismissed this as wishful thinking. He knew Kate adored Rosie and would do anything for her.
There was no reason why she wouldn’t give Rosie the letter, was there?
When Rosie turned up at the bordello it had just gone seven and she caught a glimpse of the back of Kate hurrying up the stairs. Probably, Rosie thought, to get on with one of her own ‘projects’. Kate now had so much work on at the shop that anything personal she wanted to spend time on had to be done of an evening in her free time.
Rosie went into her office and settled down at her desk, where she worked undisturbed for the next couple of hours. Lily and George were out at the theatre, and Rosie knew she wouldn’t see hide nor hair of the other girls as they were all, understandably, giving her a wide berth. She was being a real cow at the moment, but she couldn’t stop herself. She felt constantly swamped by anger and irritation. She’d managed to just about keep a lid on it at the yard, but she knew her squad were aware that something was up, and she knew she’d have to tell them all at some stage; at the moment, though, she just wanted to stew in her own misery and ill-temper.
She hadn’t, however, succeeded in being quite so cordial with some of the girls at the bordello and had snapped at a few of them over the past couple of days. She knew it wasn’t fair, but a part of her didn’t care. Her whole future had just crumbled in front of her very eyes, and she had not the least desire to try and pretend that her life was tickety-boo.
Yesterday she’d overheard Maisie chatting to Vivian, saying that she was not in the least bit surprised by the breakup. ‘Rosie must have been mad to think she could have a normal relationship – and with a copper of all people.’ It had brought home to Rosie that, much as she hated to admit it, Maisie was right. Her life had never been ‘normal’ and would never be normal.
When the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway announced that it was nine o’clock, Rosie gave up trying to concentrate any more. Her mind seemed unable to focus on the rows of numbers in front of her, and instead kept going over every word Peter had spoken to her on New Year’s Eve – and over the conversation she’d had with George last night, when he’d spoken to her about the kind of war work Peter had obviously signed up for.
George had stressed to her that the country needed men like Peter, with his language skills and the knowledge that came from being a long-serving detective. Logically, she knew George was right and that she should be more understanding.
She wished more than anything that she could be like Polly, who had been so understanding when Tommy had joined the navy despite being in a reserved occupation. She had given him her blessing, told him she understood his need to go to war, and promised to wait for him.
But she just couldn’t bring herself to do what Polly had done.
All the logic and reasoning in the world could not shift this anger she was feeling.
In frustration at her inability to concentrate, Rosie slammed closed the red leather-bound accounts ledger. She sat staring at the fire, which was dwindling and needed another boost of coal. She pushed her chair away from her desk and stood up. She walked towards the fire and picked up the little brass shovel lying on the hearth. She was just about to stab it into the coal bucket and give the fire the sustenance it needed, when she suddenly changed her mind. Dropping the metal scoop back into the scuttle, she turned and walked across the room, opened the heavy oak door and stepped out into the hallway. Grabbing her mackintosh, but leaving behind her handbag and gas mask, she slipped out of the front door and hurried down the narrow path and through the gate.
Rosie told herself that she just needed a little fresh air; that she was tired and needed waking up so that she could go back and concentrate on her bookkeeping.
She kept telling herself that until she reached the end of Tunstall Vale.
When she crossed over Tunstall Road, though, and started walking down the short stretch of cobbled lane that led to Brookside Gardens, she couldn’t kid herself any longer.
Her heart was banging in her chest as she stopped at the little wooden gate. It was pitch-black and she couldn’t even see to the end of the row of thirteen terraced houses, although it didn’t matter, she could have walked blindfolded to Peter’s home.
Every nerve in her body was telling her to click up the latch, walk through the gate, and go and knock on Peter’s door.
A minute passed as Rosie stood there in the darkness, her hand on top of the gate.
She so wanted to open it, but it was as though there was an invisible line there that she could not cross. She just could not bring herself to walk through the gateway and go to Peter.
Her anger wouldn’t allow it.
Peter was leaving her, damn it! And in doing so he was taking all her dreams with him. Dreams she had not even allowed herself to have until he had stepped out from the shadows and kissed her for the first time on the afternoon of Hope’s christening.
He hadn’t even allowed her to enjoy those dreams for long – barely six weeks – before he had snatched them back off her.
Rosie looked up to the cloudless night sky and gave a heavy, exasperated sigh.
Then she turned around
and walked away.
Away from what had once been her dream.
Away from what had been her hopes of a normal life.
Away from Peter.
Chapter Forty-Four
Saturday 3 January 1942
When Kate woke the next morning, her head felt like it was going to explode and her face felt sticky. When she sat up and looked at her pillow she realised she had been sick in her sleep. She was filled with shame. Terrified that the others would know of her humiliation, she forced her body to stand up. Combating waves of nausea, she began to clean up the evidence of the previous night’s stupefaction. If Lily knew what she had done, she’d be beside herself. Lily had made Kate vow never to touch another drop again after she had taken her under her wing – it had been Lily who had helped her get through the awful withdrawal she had suffered coming off the drink. It had been Lily who had seen her through what she had told her were called the ‘delirium tremens’, which had felt more terrible than all the beatings she had suffered at the hands of the nuns.
As Kate splashed her face with water from the bowl on her dressing table, she felt angry with herself that she had let Sister Bernadette have such an effect on her. Why had she just stood there and said nothing as the nun had verbally crucified her, hissing that she was the ‘devil’s child’ and doing ‘Satan’s work’ by dressing women like whores?
It hadn’t been the nun’s words, though, that had upset Kate – she had become accustomed to accusations of being intrinsically evil and that she’d been ‘spawned by Jezebel’, just like she had become accustomed to all the different kinds of punishment she’d had to endure over the years.
