by Nancy Revell
As if reading her thoughts, Vinnie stepped forward.
‘Dinnit worry, Glor, I’m not ganna hurt you. You can tell yer mate that.’ He looked at his wife, trying to read her but not succeeding. He still wasn’t entirely sure whether or not it was Gloria who had got the balaclava-clad man to give him a good hiding, and looking at her blank face now, he was still none the wiser.
‘I just want to see my little girl.’ He leered into the doorway, trying to see the baby encased in his wife’s arms.
‘I heard from the auld gossipmongers you’ve called her Hope. What kind o’ a name’s that?’ he sneered.
‘I’m telling you this just the once, Vinnie.’ Gloria added volume to her voice. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near me or my baby. So, get yer foot out of my door before I start screaming blue murder.’
‘All right …’ Vinnie slid his booted foot back. Gloria immediately clashed the door shut in his face and with shaking hands rammed across the bolts she had installed herself, before swinging the safety chain on to the latch.
Vinnie stood speechless. His face was just inches away from the wooden front door. He felt himself flush with anger and humiliation. It took a second or so for him to find his tongue. ‘I’ll be back, Glor! Yer can’t stop me seeing my own daughter!’
Gloria remained standing quietly in the hallway, barely allowing herself to breathe until she heard Vinnie stomp back down the short garden path. She only turned to go back into the lounge when she heard him pull the little wooden gate shut with such force it nearly took the hinges off.
His retreat felt like a victory for Gloria – even if, like her gate, it was a fragile one, and had left her more than a little shaken.
Chapter Two
Tatham Street, Hendon, Sunderland
‘Oh my,’ Bel’s soft voice sang out when she opened the door the following day to see Gloria standing on the pavement, one hand holding on to her pram, the other cradling Hope. It had just gone a quarter to seven but already the cobbled street outside the door of the Elliots’ home in the heart of the town’s east end was teeming with a mass of flat caps, all moving in the direction of the numerous shipyards lining the River Wear.
Reaching out to gently take the sleeping baby out of Gloria’s arms and into her own, Bel gazed down at the little face, barely visible through the layers of blankets Gloria had wrapped her in for her early morning journey to what was to be Hope’s second home.
‘How she’s changed in just two weeks,’ Bel said quietly, trying not to wake her new charge. But it was no good, baby Hope had sensed the crossover and knew she was no longer in her mother’s arms. Her eyes opened and Bel gasped in delight at the slightly startled baby, ‘What a beautiful girl you are!’
Bel’s face became sombre as she looked up at Gloria and quietly asked, ‘Any news about Jack?’ She knew only too well the true awfulness of waiting to hear about a loved one.
Gloria shook her head, and Bel automatically reached out with her free hand and squeezed Gloria’s arm gently.
‘Anyway,’ Bel said, forcing her voice to become more cheerful, ‘come in. Everyone’s up.’
Turning with the baby to walk down the long, tiled hallway and into the warmth of the kitchen, she announced to the whole house, ‘Look everyone! It’s baby Hope!’
As Gloria followed Bel down the hallway, she was touched by her words, but she couldn’t stop herself feeling a little emotional watching another woman take command of her baby – even if it was Bel. There was a part of her that wanted to snatch Hope back, but she knew she was being stupid.
As Gloria walked into the hub of the warm kitchen she was greeted by a room full of upturned faces: Her workmate, Polly Elliot, who was just pulling on her overcoat and taking a last sup of tea, her older brother Joe, who was hobbling through from the scullery with the aid of his walking stick, their mother, Agnes, who was pulling a pan of porridge off the stove to serve up to Bel’s three-year-old daughter, Lucille – and Arthur Watts, Tommy’s grandad, who was pushing himself out of the armchair positioned next to the range.
Gloria smiled over to the old man and thought how well he looked despite his seventy-odd years. His recent move from the Diver’s House down by the south docks, where he had lived most of his life with Tommy, to the Elliots’ home here in the east end had done him well.
‘Me see baby?’ Lucille asked, her little face straining up towards Hope. Her question was more a demand, and Joe went to pick his little niece up by the waist and held her aloft so she could have a bird’s eye view of the newcomer.
‘My baby!’ she announced on seeing Hope. Everyone chuckled. Lucille was going through a stage of declaring anything new or of interest to be hers, and hers alone.
‘What’s all the commotion about?’ Everyone turned to see Pearl, standing in the doorway, her faded pink cotton dressing gown wrapped around her scrawny body. Gloria had met Pearl, Bel’s mother, just the once at the next-door neighbour’s birthday party a few months back and she had sussed her out pretty quickly, although her reputation had preceded her as Polly had bent all the women’s ears back at work with her regular laments about how outrageously out of order Pearl could be – and had been most of her life.
‘Ma, go and have your fag,’ Bel said, spotting the unlit cigarette between her mother’s fingers. ‘I know you’re gasping for one, and it’s not as if you’re a real baby person, is it?’ Bel snipped at her mother.
Gloria looked at Polly and they both raised their eyebrows in unison.
Pearl peered across at the gurgling baby in her daughter’s arms and sniffed, ‘Aye, yer right there … I mightn’t be a “real baby person” as you put it,’ she paused, ‘but you are, Isabelle.’ Pearl’s eyes shifted mischievously up to her daughter’s pretty face and across to Joe who was standing with his back to the wall, allowing the women to ‘ooh and ah’ over the new baby.
‘So,’ Pearl added, ‘don’t you be getting any ideas, will ya?’
With a half laugh, half cough, Pearl bustled to the back door and out into the yard to smoke her cigarette.
Gloria looked at Bel, who was looking at Joe. Their look of exasperation at Pearl’s inappropriate comments was plain for all to see. Gloria knew, of course, that Bel and her brother-in-law, Joe, were now an item. They had admitted they had fallen in love to Agnes on the day when Gloria had given birth to baby Hope.
Poor Agnes. She was surprised the woman was still of one mind; in the space of just a few months her only daughter had started work in the shipyards – the target of just about every bomb dropped on the town so far – then her son, Teddy, had been killed out in North Africa – and her other son, Joe, seriously injured.
Bel, who had been married to Teddy, had plummeted into a terrible depression, but had thankfully come out of it. She had helped to nurse Joe during his convalescence at home and their friendship had developed into love. Luckily, from what Gloria had gathered from Polly, Agnes had given her blessing to their union, but, still, she was sure Agnes’s head must be a minefield of mixed emotions.
‘She’s a bonny bairn.’ Arthur’s deep voice caused them all to look up. The old man, like his grandson Tommy, had a low, calm voice. Gloria smiled, and watched as Bel held Hope out to Arthur who put his hands up as if he was surrendering.
‘Nah, Bel, I’ll only drop the wee thing,’ he said, leaning forward to take a peek. As he looked at the baby girl happily cuddled up in Bel’s arms, his pale blue eyes widened. Hope was the spit of her father. It was uncanny.
‘Eee, well, we best be getting off then, Pol,’ Gloria said, trying to be strong and not give vent to the well of tears she felt were building up inside her at the thought of being without her beloved baby all day long.
Polly looked at Gloria and understood her workmate’s need to make her parting as quick and as painless as possible.
Agnes seemed to have cottoned on quickly too. ‘Yes, get yourselves off to that yard.’ She ushered them out of the kitchen. ‘I don’t want you both to be late o
therwise the stingy buggers’ll dock yer wages.’ She smiled as she pushed Polly’s sandwiches into her hand as they made their way down the hallway and out the front door.
Gloria stepped out on to the busy street, now full of the sound of men’s voices and the smell of burning tobacco that followed the blanket of cloth-capped heads moving towards the Borough Road.
As she did Agnes quickly grabbed Gloria’s arm. ‘And don’t you be worrying about Hope,’ she said, her latent Irish accent coming to the fore. ‘She’ll be just fine here. No need to fret … And if anything were to happen to the bab, I’ll make sure you’ll get word straight away,’ she told her, adding with a cheeky smile on her face, ‘I’ll send Pearl – with the promise of a pint. Guaranteed she’ll be there faster than the speed of light!’
Chapter Three
The North Atlantic Ocean
Monday 4 August 1941
‘Look! Out there!’ The skipper’s panicked but excited voice sounded out into the blustery night as he spun the trawler’s steering wheel quickly to the left and powered the vessel forward.
Their boat was the first to make it to the wrecked SS Tunisia after responding to a Mayday call which had come across the airways: A British steamship had just been bombed out of the water by a German FW200 aircraft. The cargo vessel had been transporting manganese ore, desperately needed for iron and steel production, but 350 miles off the west coast of Ireland it had been spotted by the Luftwaffe. Within minutes the immense weight of its cargo had made the ship sink like a lead balloon into the depths of the Atlantic.
The ship had been made up almost entirely of Merchant Navy sailors – although there had been a few passengers who, like its cargo, were being transported back to British shores.
‘Quick! Get the light on him!’ the skipper shouted to the young lad whose hands were clamped on either side of a large, round light from which a strong beam was laying a yellow path across the turbulent waters.
Behind him a burly-looking older man stood stock-still, staring intently as the moving path of light caught a snatch of life being dragged under the waters.
‘I’m going in!’ the broad-shouldered, bearded fisherman yelled, as he swiped off his cap, tore off his waxed cotton gaberdine, and pulled his thick polo neck jumper over his head, before freeing himself of his rubber boots. Before anyone had time to object he had tossed his long thick woollen socks aside and had climbed barefoot, wearing just his vest and trousers, on to the side of the boat.
‘Jim!’ the skipper shouted out, but it was too late. His mate had dived, torpedo-like into the moving grey sea and disappeared.
The old skipper and the young lad stood transfixed, holding their breath and staring intently into the choppy waters. It seemed like an age, but must have only been a few long-drawn-out seconds before Jim reappeared, gasping for air. He swam towards the end of the beam of light and upended himself back beneath the water. The light caught his white, bony feet as they disappeared where his head had been just moments before.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ the skipper said aloud. ‘Jim, yer a bloody eejit yer are!’ He mumbled as he gripped the boat’s large wooden steering wheel, keeping the trawler on track and chugging slowly to where he had seen his lifelong friend disappear. The silence felt deafening as the old man and the young boy stared, their eyes glued to the spot where the brave fisherman had dived beneath the surface.
There was a joint intake of breath as their mate reappeared; one of his arms was wrapped around a man’s chest, while his other arm floundered behind him as he fought the water, swimming on his back, towing the man’s lifeless body in his wake. Waves kept submerging them both, but the fisherman and his human cargo kept bobbing back up to the surface.
This was one battle Mother Nature was not going to win.
‘Bejesus!’ the skipper shouted out jubilantly. ‘Let’s get the great big lummox back on board,’ he shouted to the young lad, as he powered off and swiftly wrapped a length of rope around the steering wheel to keep the rudder steady.
By now Jim had grabbed a piece of timber bobbing about on the water’s surface and was using it like a float, his feet kicking out furiously to keep himself and the lifeless man buoyant. As the boat neared its human catch, the young lad dangled the top part of his skinny body down the side of the hull, desperately trying to grab the shirt that the lifeless man was still wearing.
‘Got him!’ the youngster shouted out, as he took a firm hold of the shirt before reaching out and grasping Jack’s thick leather belt. Summoning all his wiry strength, the boy hoisted Jack up, over and into the boat, landing him on deck like a monster-sized catch. But unlike the fish the men were used to hauling on board, all thrashing around and gulping for air, there wasn’t a flicker of movement from the man.
The skipper dropped the ladder across the side of the boat and threw a thickset arm down to grab his mate’s outstretched hand. Clutching the skipper’s hand, Jim managed to pull himself out of the water, clamber up the ladder and over the vessel’s railings, before collapsing on to the deck next to Jack. Water trickled from his grey-speckled black beard as he heaved to fill his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he sucked in the night’s air.
Now the skipper dropped to his knees and started pushing with all his might down on Jack’s chest.
‘Come on, man!’ he shouted. Taking Jack’s lolling head in his hands, the skipper cleared his airway before blowing into Jack’s mouth and giving him the kiss of life. But there was no sign of life.
‘Come on, yer bastard! We’ve not done this fer bugger all!’ The man’s voice was frantic as he took another gasp of air and blew once more into his lifeless catch.
The young lad was standing nearby, hands on his knees, retching with adrenaline. Jim was laid out on his back, too exhausted to even sit up. The strength was draining from the skipper’s arms, and in a fit of desperation he turned his head upwards and muttered a quiet prayer to the starless skies above. The old man hoped someone up there was listening.
Suddenly Jack’s body convulsed, and as it did so, a huge spray of salty seawater erupted from his mouth.
‘Thanks be to God in the Highest Heaven!’ the skipper voiced his relief, before rolling the sodden weight of Jack’s semi-conscious body on to its side, allowing more of the sea’s deathly liquid to spew back out and on to the deck.
He looked across to his mate, who was still breathing heavily and still flat on his back. ‘You okay there, Jim?’
Jim looked at his old friend and smiled.
‘Aye, I am, Shamus,’ he coughed, spat out seawater, then forced himself to sit up. ‘But I think we’re getting too old for this game.’ Jim let out a loud bark of laughter as the young lad hurried round, stepping over crab pots and a heap of nets to help his dripping-wet workmate to his feet.
‘Best get some blankets wrapped around the both of them – and quick, laddie,’ Shamus commanded the young boy as he himself lurched unsteadily back into the confines of the small cabin, climbed behind the wheel and began steering the boat back to dry land. ‘The sea mightn’t have got ’em, but the cold might yet,’ he muttered to himself.
A quarter of an hour after the three fishermen had hauled Jack’s lifeless body out of the sea, the small trawler was joined on the water by a converted freighter bearing the red and white insignia of the Red Cross.
It was a great relief to the crew to hand over the unknown man to the Order of St John volunteers.
‘We think hypothermia’s set in … he’s barely conscious,’ Shamus told one of the medics tending Jack, who was now shaking violently from the freezing temperatures he’d been exposed to.
As Jack’s stretcher was winched from the trawler and swung on board the rescue ship, the medic shook the hands of the skipper, the fisherman, and the young lad in turn. ‘If he lives, it’ll be down to you three,’ he said solemnly.
‘Aye, well, she took an old friend early this year,’ Jim said, nodding over the side to the lapping ocean, now surprisingly calm
. ‘She wasn’t gonna have anyone else – not on my watch anyway,’ he said with a clear determination in his voice.
‘We’ll be having a dram or two when we get back to shore,’ Shamus added, ruffling the messy mop of dirty amber-coloured hair on the young boy standing next to him. ‘Won’t we, lad?’
The pale, freckle-faced youngster smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
‘Let’s just hope this one gets to enjoy the burn of a good whisky again,’ the skipper nodded up to Jack as the stretcher he was strapped into disappeared from sight.
As the two fishermen and the boy watched the Red Cross ship power away from them they knew they would probably never find out what happened to the unknown man they had saved from certain death. They could only hope and pray that he survived – for his own sake, and for the family they presumed he had waiting for him at home.
As Jack’s eyes flickered open momentarily he saw a brass lantern dangling above him and felt the gentle sway beneath him and he knew instinctively he was in the bowels of a ship at sea.
The glow of the light bobbing above him seemed so bright. Too bright. He closed his eyes.
He was almost sure he was still alive. He had a sense that he had somehow escaped death – that he had beaten the odds and survived. He had a vague recollection of drowning, of being dragged down into a watery grave. But then he had felt the pull of something, or someone, above him and seconds later he was breathing in air – not water.
What had happened after that was sketchy. He remembered darkness and then seeing an old man’s face next to his. The man had had a distinctive Irish accent and he had shouted some kind of profanity at him. Then he remembered his body starting to shake – and shake. His whole body had felt like it was bouncing off the stretcher he’d been put on. The shaking had spread to his jaws and he had heard his teeth repeatedly clashing together.
