by Nancy Revell
There had been patches of black. Jack realised he had been swinging in and out of consciousness and that he had no idea how long he had been in the belly of this ship.
For a moment a part of his muddled mind wondered if he was, in fact, dead, that this was some kind of strange afterlife and he was being transported to ‘the other side’ – whatever or wherever that was; that was until he heard voices around him, voices that were very clearly human.
‘How many were on board?’ a voice to his right asked. Jack hadn’t realised he was not alone; he tried to turn his head to see the person who was speaking, but his head wouldn’t move. Jack felt like he was sinking slowly down into a dark pit and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.
‘I think I heard there were forty-three,’ another, deeper voice on his left replied with what sounded like a guttural north-west accent.
‘And how many survivors?’ the first voice asked.
‘Apart from this one – if he makes it,’ the lilting voice answered, ‘just four.’
The people on either side were now moving about around him, and Jack could feel the odd bump as the ship rode waves.
There was silence and Jack again tried to open his eyes a fraction. It was all he had the energy for. Even his eyelids felt heavy. He caught sight of two men, now with their backs to him, bent over another stretcher with a lifeless-looking body laid on it. It seemed so quiet now, and so dark – or was that his eyes closing?
He was now back in the darkness and he could feel his mind and his body welcoming the deep sleep that he sensed was just about to take him. It was a heavenly feeling and he couldn’t wait to embrace it. But just before he did – before the darkness came and he fell willingly into its embrace – he saw the cherub again.
The baby.
The child he somehow knew was his.
And then the darkness came and took him away.
Chapter Four
J.L. Thompson & Sons Shipyard, North Sands, Sunderland
Thursday 28 August 1941
‘Welcome back!’ Rosie said, handing Gloria her very own welding helmet that had her name painted on it in big white lettering. All the women welders now had their own personalised headgear. The idea had been Martha’s, although it had been Dorothy, of course, who had jumped at the suggestion as soon as it had been made, and had wondered out loud why on earth she hadn’t thought of it, before promptly galloping off to find a spare pot of white paint and a brush so she could do the honours. Having their names emblazoned on their helmets had made them all feel like they had finally made their mark in the shipyard. It was proof that they were here to stay.
Just a year previously the yards were more or less a totally male-dominated environment. But now, despite shipwrights being exempt from conscription, the number of shipyard workers had become depleted, and despite objections from some of the town’s bigwigs, there’d been no choice other than to bring the women on board.
‘Look,’ Martha declared to Gloria, causing her to turn around and face the rest of the women welders. ‘We’ve got our names on our masks!’ As she spoke Martha threw her thick muscular arm around in a semicircle as if she was introducing a new stage act.
Gloria stared at Martha. This was the first time she had really heard her normally less than verbose workmate speak a full sentence, never mind sound so animated. Dorothy had been right. Something really had propelled her into the world of words.
‘Eee, it feels good to be back,’ she said, looking round at Martha and then at Dorothy, Angie, and Polly, all proudly clutching their personalised metal helmets like gladiators holding their shields. A big smile spread across her face. ‘Feels like I’ve been away ages, not just a couple of weeks.’
Dorothy was just about to say something when her voice was lost in the sound of the bellowing klaxon. It was seven thirty on the dot. Time to start building ships.
‘Saved by the horn,’ Gloria ribbed Dorothy, who responded by scrunching her face up into a scowl.
‘I’ll make up for it at lunchtime,’ she promised, before they all put on their newly decorated helmets, pushed them down and got to work.
As the deafening sounds of the shipyard started up, there seemed to be a particular buzz in the air. It had been noticeable for some time now. It might well have been down to the fact that they had just finished building the SS Empire Liberty, the first British emergency war-built ship.
There was a great communal sense of pride. J.L. Thompson & Sons shipyard was leading the rest of the world.
As well as the sense of achievement and status their own yard had, everyone knew all of the town’s shipyards were crucial to the war effort. Naval fleets and merchant vessels were falling victim to enemy attacks with worrying frequency and, as a result, Sunderland, which was known as ‘The Biggest Shipbuilding Town in the World’, was playing an essential role in producing new ships and repairing those damaged in battle.
Rosie watched the women and thought they all looked like they had been doing this job all of their lives. It was hard to believe that they had only joined the shipyard a year ago. She had done a good job. She was pleased with herself.
Rosie had worked hard to build a strong squad of women welders. And it hadn’t been easy. Not only had she had to train them all up from scratch, but she’d also had Helen to contend with.
As Rosie watched the women climbing up on to the staithes to weld together the hull of the yard’s new commission from the Ministry of War Transport, the cargo vessel SS Empire Brutus, she silently congratulated herself. Now that Gloria had returned to work she had her entire team back. She had only lost the one – Hannah – but that had ended up being a blessing in disguise as she was now putting her education and natural skill for technical drawing to good use in helping design the ships that they all hoped were going to win them this war.
When lunchtime arrived, the women welders switched off their machines, put down their rods and helmets and marched across the yard to the canteen, all the while bombarding Gloria with questions about baby Hope. Each of them also made a point of telling Gloria quietly that they were keeping their fingers firmly crossed for Jack’s safe return.
Rosie had been waylaid chatting to Jimmy the head riveter about what needed to be done in the afternoon, and was jogging to catch up with the women when she spotted two of the yard managers looking uncannily solemn heading for the admin office. Catching sight of Rosie, who was wearing a particularly vibrant red headscarf that was successfully keeping all but a few strands of her naturally blonde hair away from her face, the men both stopped in their tracks.
‘You got a minute, Rosie?’ Harold, the older of the two, asked, waving his hand to beckon her over. Rosie slowed down and veered away from the women and towards her two superiors.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, walking briskly over to them. As Harold opened the main entrance door and allowed Rosie to step into the warmth first, Rosie took one look at his face, and asked, ‘It’s about Jack, isn’t it?’
Her question was answered with a silent nod.
As they made their way up the stairs to the first floor, Rosie felt a rush of apprehension. She knew Gloria was worried sick about Jack, but she too cared deeply for her boss. He had fought her corner when she had started working at the yard just days after her sixteenth birthday, helping her become the only woman at that time to be employed to do what was considered a ‘man’s job’.
As they approached Jack’s office, Rosie wondered why she had been summoned. Harold and Donald knew Rosie thought the world of Jack, and had been waiting on tenterhooks for news of his welfare, but she was not management.
On entering the office Rosie came face to face with someone she wasn’t best pleased to see. The woman’s dark blue jacket and skirt had the right balance between fashionable and professional, and her figure was slim and still gave off a slight youthfulness despite her age. It was just her hands, as she stretched one of them out regally towards Rosie, which gave away her forty-four years. No am
ount of good living and expensive hand creams, Rosie thought, as she took hold of the woman’s hand, could hold back the show of time.
‘Ah, Rosie, good to see you.’ The woman’s words were perfectly enunciated, without the hint of an accent.
‘Mrs Crawford,’ Rosie said, clearly and politely, ‘how are you doing?’ She tried to sound as sincere as possible, although she felt no kind of warmth or genuine care for this woman she had known and met only very occasionally during her eight years working at the yard.
Miriam Crawford was Jack’s wife, mother to Helen – but, most importantly, she was the wealthy daughter of one of the north-east’s top industrialists who had close connections with all the Sunderland yards.
She was also one of the most stuck-up women Rosie had ever come across.
‘I’m very well, thank you, Miss Thornton.’ Miriam’s voice sounded as cold as her hand had felt, and her words were clipped as if she resented wasting words on someone as lowly as a welder.
‘And Jack? Has there been any word …’ Rosie hesitated, not sure how to ask whether Jack was alive or dead. ‘… Has there been any news of his well-being?’
Rosie knew she was probably speaking out of turn by enquiring about Jack, but he was – had been – her boss, after all, and more than anything, she was desperate to find out what had happened to him, for Gloria’s sake. The poor woman needed to be put out of her misery. Rosie had only seen Gloria the once since Hope had been born, due to her work at Lily’s demanding every spare minute she had outside of her employment at the yard, but it was quite clear that Gloria was worried sick about Jack. Rosie’s heart had gone out to her friend, and it had put into perspective her own private misery over the ending of her relationship with Peter.
‘Mr Crawford’s well-being …’ Miriam put the stress on ‘Mr Crawford’, subtly reprimanding Rosie for being over-familiar, ‘… is why I’m here today.’
Rosie was much taller than her boss’s wife, but Miriam still managed to give the impression of looking down her nose at her, and not just at Rosie, but just about anyone else she deigned to converse with.
Rosie looked at Harold and Donald, and saw that they too clearly felt uncomfortable in Miriam’s company. Standing solemnly to attention either side of the large metal desk behind which Miriam stood, they gave the impression of being Miriam’s minions, rather than men who were in charge of a business that produced more ships than anywhere else in the country. But their serious, straight faces did not hide their concern for Jack, which was not surprising as they had, after all, known him all of their working lives. In fact, just about everyone who knew Jack, and had worked with him over the years, liked him and respected him.
‘As you know, I try to leave the shipbuilding business to the men,’ Miriam said, ‘but as Mr Crawford’s wife, I felt it only right that I come here personally to impart the news.’
She took out a cream lace handkerchief and dabbed her nose.
Rosie knew Miriam thought the shipyards – and any kind of industry, for that matter – were solely the domain of the menfolk. So much so that she had actually voiced her opposition to women working in the town’s shipyards, agreeing with the argument that they should ‘protect’ the so-called shipbuilding traditions, and that the men’s jobs should be kept open for them when they returned from war. The only reason, she guessed, why she’d allowed her daughter Helen to work for Thompson’s was because she had an office job.
‘Well,’ Miriam began as if she was about to give a sermon, ‘I have come here today to tell you the news that I am sure you will all be pleased to hear – Jack is alive.’
Rosie felt a surge of pure joy. Jack was alive!
‘Oh, that’s wonderful news.’ Rosie couldn’t help the words spilling out of her mouth.
‘Yes,’ Miriam said, her voice still in lecture mode, ‘it is “wonderful news”, but he has had a rather difficult time of it all, and the doctors aren’t sure when Mr Crawford will be well enough to come back to work.’
Rosie’s heart sank. Had Jack suffered some terrible injury? Lost limbs, like so many others who had been caught in the war’s crossfire? Rosie had to bite her tongue to stop a demand to know more.
Luckily, Harold plucked up the courage to ask, ‘Is he going to be all right?’
Miriam dabbed her nose once again. Rosie couldn’t help but think that Miriam was enjoying this moment of being in control. Of standing behind what had been Jack’s desk and acting like she owned the place.
‘Mr Crawford was very fortunate in that he was one of the few to survive the direct hit the SS Tunisia suffered on the fourth of this month.’
Miriam took a breath; a pause for dramatic effect.
‘He was rescued, but had been in the water for some time and, not unusually, he suffered hypothermia.’
Miriam looked at both managers – and then at Rosie. ‘Which is caused by being exposed to freezing cold temperatures for a prolonged period of time.’
Rosie wanted to shake the woman. Any idiot knew that if you were dumped in the middle of the ocean there was a good chance that, if you didn’t drown, you’d freeze to death.
Just spit it out, woman! she wanted to scream. Is Jack all right?
Perhaps sensing the atmosphere in the room was getting a little tense, Miriam continued at a brisker pace.
‘And, although he is still alive and still managing to breathe on his own, it would appear that due to either his near drowning, or the hypothermia – or, indeed, both – his body has shut down. Mr Crawford is in a coma.’
Rosie was stunned. Her head spun as she tried to get an understanding of whether what she was hearing was good news – or not.
‘The doctors,’ Miriam said, her voice starting to shake a little, ‘will not say whether or not he will wake up. And if he does,’ another dab at her nose, ‘… what state he will be in.’
Her voice started to warble slightly.
‘That’s where my daughter is now. With her father. By his bedside, praying he wakes up.’
Rosie couldn’t help but feel Miriam’s ladylike sobs were crocodile tears, and she chastised herself for being so hard. Jack was the poor woman’s husband, after all. She wasn’t totally heartless, was she?
Miriam sat down, and both managers looked over to Rosie, giving her a hard stare and then shifting their look to Miriam.
So that was why they had invited her up to the meeting. Now she understood. They had wanted – needed – another woman there, having anticipated Miriam’s outpouring of emotion. Obeying the wordless command of her superiors Rosie walked around the table to where Jack’s wife was now seated and in tears.
‘Mir–– I mean Mrs Crawford, I’m sure he’ll come through it.’ Rosie tried her best to sound sincere, but just as she reached her side, Miriam waved her away with the hand in which she still had her scrunched-up lace hankie.
‘Just spread the word, Miss Thornton,’ she said, adding, with barbed bitchiness, ‘I’m sure you and your girls will do a good job of making sure everyone in the yard knows.’
Rosie glowered down at this woman who had barely looked at her in all the time she had stood just yards away. All her comments had been addressed to the two men.
Miriam looked up with sorrowful, puppy dog eyes at Harold and Donald. She had made sure she hadn’t cried so much that her mascara ran. Harold shuffled awkwardly forward and tapped his hand on her back by way of comfort.
Rosie knew she had been dismissed, and took the staged breakdown as her cue to slide quietly out the door and back down the stairs of the office to the ground floor then into the yard.
She stood for a moment and breathed in the sea air which was particularly pungent today. There was something about being indoors, and especially in the confines of an office, that made Rosie feel as if she was being deprived of air. Now she was outside, she filled her lungs, and listened to the overwhelming sounds of the shipyard – of man, metal and machinery. She had been in the meeting longer than anticipated – hadn’t eve
n been aware of the klaxon going off. Rosie looked across to the dry basin and spotted her women welders hard at work, all of them encased in an umbrella of sparkling, red hot molten metal.
Rosie spotted Gloria straight away. Now that the women had their names emblazoned on their helmets there was no need to guess who was who. She took a deep breath and walked purposefully over to the dock.
She had to tell Gloria the news about Jack at once.
It was only fair.
Chapter Five
‘“A coma”? What does that mean? I mean … I know what a coma is, but …’ Gloria’s head felt like it was spinning. Her brain was muddled. She didn’t seem to be able to think straight.
She felt Rosie take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. The pair of them were seated in the canteen. It was quiet, save for the noise of the dinner ladies clearing up from the lunchtime rush. Pots and pans were being banged about and leftover food scraped off plates and slopped into large metal waste bins.
‘Does that mean he’s going to live?’ Gloria implored.
‘I don’t know,’ Rosie said. She felt so helpless. She didn’t know whether to be positive, and in doing so perhaps give Gloria false hope, or be more honest, and admit that in all truthfulness the little bit of information Miriam had imparted had not sounded good.
‘Did Miriam say anything else? Anything about what the doctors said? People come out of comas, don’t they?’ Gloria asked desperately. Gloria rarely uttered Miriam’s name, she hated the woman so much, but at this moment in time she didn’t give a damn. Every drop of her mind was focused on Jack, and every ounce of emotion taken up with her feelings for the man she had fallen in love with as a young girl, and who she had fallen in love with all over again this past year.
For want of words Rosie squeezed Gloria’s hand again. She then poured her a cup of tea from the pot she had bought when they came in, adding a good heap of sugar. She wished she had a hip flask of brandy or whisky like the ones some of the men kept in their overall pockets.
