by Nancy Revell
Even Pearl, lying in her bed in the small bedroom overlooking the backyard, was thinking about someone she had loved so very much, and who was no longer with her. It was not some old lover, though, but someone no one else knew anything about, and about whom she could never talk, even if she wanted to.
Chapter Ten
The Slums, Sunderland
June 1913
‘You? Working in some posh hotel? And in London? God knows how you wangled that one!’ Pearl’s mother sneered at her.
‘Enid wrote.’ Pearl stuck her chin up as she looked her ma defiantly in the eye. ‘Said she’d got me a job, like she promised she would. At the same hotel. Said it’s only till the end of the summer – but yer never know, might be longer.’
Pearl, of course, was lying her socks off. Had rehearsed her story dozens of time in her head. Everyone knew her old schoolfriend Enid Wallis was a cockney and that her ma and da had just upped sticks and taken her and her brothers back down to the Big Smoke. It was a convincing lie. Had to be. If her ma and da knew the truth, Pearl would be beaten to within an inch of her life by them both, and then chucked out on to the street for good measure.
She had tried to think of a solution to her problem for just about every waking minute of the past six weeks and had finally found the answer. Or rather, she had been given the answer as it had come to her totally by chance – had literally been handed to her by a stranger in the street.
‘Well then,’ Pearl’s ma said with a vindictive smile on her face, ‘if yer gonna be some skivvy in some hoity-toity hotel, ya better get yerself something decent to wear otherwise they’ll take one look at ya and give yer the elbow before ya even start.’
Pearl looked down at her grubby, torn dress and made a resolution to somehow find something halfway decent to wear before she left the next day.
‘Aye, why, good luck to ya, Pearl,’ her da said. ‘And good on ya. Better than sitting all day on yer lazy backside drinking yerself into a stupor like someone not a million miles away here.’ He threw a derisory look over to his wife.
Pearl caught the return look in her ma’s eyes and knew it would just be a matter of minutes before her mam and dad worked themselves up a treat and began screaming at each other like banshees. She forced a compliant smile at her da and made quick her escape.
Besides, she had things to do before she left the next day. Her ma was right. She needed to get herself a dress that didn’t make her look like she had just stepped out of the workhouse – and she knew just where to get one.
A few hours later Pearl had acquired herself a nice-enough pinafore dress she’d pinched from a washing line in one of the backyards in Hendon. As well as this she had managed to put aside enough money for her train fare from the odd jobs she did for some of the Jewish families living on Villette Road. It was at times like this she was glad there was such a thing as God and religion, and for something called ‘the Sabbath’, which in Pearl’s basic understanding meant that if you were a Jew, you couldn’t do any kind of work from a Friday to a Saturday night. Even something as simple as lighting a fire or washing up was prohibited. That, in turn, had meant girls like Pearl, if they acted proper and watched their ps and qs, would be employed to do what the Jews weren’t allow to do.
After counting her money out and folding her new dress loosely and putting it at the bottom of her bed, Pearl finally put her head down, although she wasn’t at all tired. She couldn’t decide whether her nerves were jangling from fear of what the next few months would bring, or excitement at leaving the town she had never set foot outside of her whole life.
After barely sleeping a wink, when the early morning light started to peep through the thin, threadbare curtains of the room she slept in with her siblings, Pearl got up and got ready. She waited until everyone else was up before saying her farewells. Her three young siblings ran up to her to give her a cuddle and Pearl hugged them back, keeping her head as far away from them as possible.
Her brothers joked that if the streets were really paved with gold, they would come and join her.
And her ma and da had actually stood at the door and waved her off.
Pearl had felt a little sad, wishing that they could have been like this more often, but then she imagined the scenario if they had known about her condition and she didn’t feel quite so sentimental.
It only took her about twenty minutes to walk the mile from her home in Barrack Street, up High Street East and on to High Street West, before taking a sharp left into Station Street. And then she was there. At the entrance of the town’s main railway station. At the start of her journey that she knew was going to change her life.
After paying over the majority of her ‘Sabbath’ money to an elderly gentleman at the main counter, she was given her ticket. She made her way down the two flights of stairs to platform number one. It was early so the place wasn’t heaving, although more people started to arrive as the hands on the massive round clock hanging from the station’s ceiling moved towards eight o’clock.
Half an hour later she was standing on the platform along with a swarm of other travellers. In one hand she was holding on tightly to the tatty carpet bag her mam had given her and which was now stuffed with her meagre belongings – in her other she clutched her one-way ticket to London.
Twenty minutes later she’d boarded the long, black Pullman steam train and found herself a seat near the window in one of the third-class compartments. The remaining bench seats were soon taken by three sole travellers – two elderly men and a young woman. The men curtained themselves off behind large newspapers, and the woman kept her gaze firmly fixed on events on the other side of the window.
As was the English way, they all avoided eye contact and no one spoke, which suited Pearl just fine.
As the train slowly pulled away from the steam-filled platform, only then did Pearl start to relax. She had made her escape. She knew she couldn’t have waited a day longer. Her belly had grown quickly over the past few weeks, as had her breasts. It wouldn’t be long now before she could no longer hide her condition.
Pearl stayed wide awake for every minute of the eight-hour journey, fascinated by the changing landscapes, but also wary that someone might want to nab her bag – not that there was much in there to steal.
When the train finally arrived in London, squealing to a dramatic halt and emitting a huge plume of steam, Pearl stepped out on to the platform at King’s Cross station and was immediately hit by the buzz of life, a mixture of smells – some pleasant, some not – and a cacophony of noises – from shouts and laughter to high-pitched whistles and the slamming of carriage doors.
As Pearl looked around her she felt that she had stepped into another country – never mind another city. Even the people pushing past her to get on the train she had just got off seemed different. Some of the women she spotted were wearing the most amazing skirts made from enough material to clothe a family of ten. Even the voices crisscrossing around her were peculiar.
As Pearl joined the choppy sea of bodies, she held her bag to her chest and edged forwards, at last reaching the end of the platform and handing her now crumpled ticket over to a man, whose uniform had the brightest gold buttons Pearl had ever seen.
After passing through the rotating barrier, Pearl found herself chucked out into another swirl of men, women and children – some running, some idling, some simply standing. She looked around for a few minutes before finding the ‘Way Out’ sign.
The crowds started to thin out and for the first time Pearl was able to take in the immense building that was King’s Cross railway station. She looked up at the huge ceiling which to her mind resembled the inside of an upside-down ship with its arching metal ribs. She could even see pigeons nestling in the framework, cooing and looking down at the tableau below.
As she neared the huge pillared exit, Pearl heard a load of women’s voices shouting in unison. Wondering what all the kerfuffle was about, she swung round to see a group of a dozen or so women,
all well dressed, and all waving large placards in the air.
Pearl squinted and read: ‘Votes for Women’. Another read ‘Ballots not Bullets’.
Pearl had heard about these women – these ‘suffragettes’ – but had not given them much thought. Her da said they were ‘a bunch o’ mad cows causing trouble’. Now seeing them for real, Pearl thought they didn’t look at all mad. In fact, they seemed quite normal – and not short of a few bob either, judging by what they were wearing.
Pearl stood, rooted to the spot, captivated as the women passed her by. Once they had gone, she merged again with the moving crowd of fellow travellers.
She had never felt so small, so insignificant, or so anonymous.
Chapter Eleven
Thursday 4 September 1941
‘Never?!’ Dorothy’s voice sounded out across the early morning quietness of the shipyard. A few of the plater’s helpers who stood smoking and chatting around their five-gallon barrel fire instinctively looked across at the sound of Dorothy’s loud exclamation before going back to their own conversations.
Oblivious to the attention she was drawing to herself, Dorothy looked around at the women welders who were standing around their own burning steel drum, and inhaled theatrically.
‘Oh … My … Goodness!’ She enunciated the words with increasing volume. Her face was animated with pure drama.
‘Did you hear that, Ange? Joe’s gone and proposed to Bel!’ Dorothy’s voice was somewhere between a shrill and a screech. The low-flying seagulls on the lookout for early morning titbits squawked as if in response to the melodrama unfolding below.
Angie had just turned up at the women welders’ work area that consisted of a large wooden bench and a scattering of metal rods and welding equipment. She dumped her gas mask and holdall down by the side of their workbench.
Dorothy took another good suck of air. ‘This is sooo exciting! We want to hear every teeny-weeny detail.’ Her head swung around to her best friend. ‘Don’t we, Ange?’
Polly wanted to laugh at Dorothy’s pantomime performance at this time in the morning, but the banging in her head made her wince. She was suffering the worst hangover ever, and Dorothy’s less than dulcet tones had her mentally reaching for the volume control. Last night had been great, but she was paying for it now, as she guessed everyone else in the Elliot household would be too. All apart from Pearl, who had the tolerance of a man mountain when it came to alcohol.
‘Ooo, Dor, keep it down a notch, will you. My head’s throbbing me. And I feel as rough as a badger’s backside,’ Polly pleaded, putting her hands to her temples as if that would somehow ease the loud internal knocking in her head. She wished she had held off telling them about Bel and Joe’s engagement until it was lunchtime, when she would hopefully be starting to feel a bit better. But she had been so buoyed up that it had just come tumbling out as soon as she had seen her workmates.
Rosie chuckled. ‘That’ll teach you to drink on a work night. What was it? Brandy?’
Polly groaned. ‘Port – but Bel and I did have a tiny sniff of whisky towards the end.’
‘Argh,’ Gloria sounded her disgust. ‘I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.’
‘Hannah’ll want to know.’ Martha’s comment was a veiled request.
‘Go on then,’ Rosie said, ‘nip over there quickly and tell her to get herself over to the canteen this lunchtime. A bit of good news for a change.’
The words were barely out of Rosie’s mouth before Martha was loping across the yard, stepping over large coils of steel chains and dodging the incoming tide of workers heading off to their own work areas around the huge expanse of the yard.
‘And tell her to bring her new friend if she likes,’ Dorothy shouted after her.
Angie laughed. ‘Dinnit wind her up, Dor. Yer know she can’t stand young Olly. Bet ya she tells Hannah it’s girls only.’
‘I don’t know why you two call him “young Olly”,’ Gloria butted in as she picked up her welding mask and gave the filter a clean with a piece of rag. ‘He’s older than you two. He must be in his early twenties. At least.’
‘So, Polly,’ Rosie spoke across the women and the growing level of noise and chatter as it neared the half past seven start time, ‘I’m guessing Bel said “yes”?’
‘Of course it was yes!’ Dorothy interrupted. ‘You’ve seen the pair of them together, haven’t you? Like two lovebirds they are. Totally smitten. Aren’t they, Ange?’
Angie, crouched down on her haunches, was rummaging around in her bag for her headscarf and merely grunted her agreement.
Dorothy looked over at Ange, who, she felt, didn’t seem as excited about the news as she should be. After all, it wasn’t every day someone they knew got engaged. They had both met Bel and Joe when they had taken baby Hope back to the Elliots’ house just after she was born. When they’d walked home that evening they had gassed on for ages about ‘how pretty Bel was’ and how Joe looked the spit of Errol Flynn. And they had sighed at the thought of how wonderful it must feel to be so in love – and how Bel and Joe were clearly head over heels. You would have been blind not to see it.
‘Hey, silent night, cat got your tongue?’ Dorothy prodded Angie, who was wrapping her olive green scarf expertly round her head so that not a wisp of her strawberry blonde hair was let loose. As she jerked round to look at her friend, Dorothy immediately noticed a red mark on her right cheek.
‘What’ve you done to your face?’ Dorothy asked; her voice had now lost its joviality.
Angie put her hand to the offending blemish on her face and shrugged it off.
‘Got a clout this morning from my da cos I forgot to gan to the shops yesterday. There was nowt to eat for breakfast. Ma’s doing night shifts so everything’s gone to pot.’
‘God,’ Dorothy was clearly furious. ‘Has your “da” lost the use of both of his own legs? Hm? Or does he just enjoy a little mindless violence every now and again?’
Angie let out a short laugh. ‘He’s not violent, Dor.’ As she spoke she quickly looked across at Gloria and recalled the state of her face the day after Vinnie had done a job on her. Now that was being violent.
‘I think he just feels the need to put me in my place every now and again.’
Dorothy stomped across and started to scrutinise Angie’s face. ‘Maybe someone needs to put him in his place every now and again,’ she muttered, pulling her bag from under the workbench and fishing around for her powder compact.
Angie just tutted and rolled her eyes.
‘Yeh, Dor, all sixteen stone of him. I’ve seen him in a few punch-ups ’n he never so much as comes away with a scratch.’
Hearing the girls’ chatter, Gloria had to swallow her tongue. Bloody men. Why couldn’t they just keep their hands to themselves?
Dorothy was now covering Angie’s red mark with a flurry of loose powder. ‘There,’ she said as she stood back, ‘as good as new. I think me and you should go out tonight and you can stay over at mine – bugger the shopping!’
‘All right, you lot,’ Rosie said sternly in her put-on boss’s voice. ‘Let’s get to it.’
And with that the horn sounded the start of their shift. Within seconds any kind of chatter was pointless, as the deafening din of the yard got into full swing, drowning out even the banging in Polly’s head.
At twelve o’clock on the dot the klaxon sounded out once again and the yard fell silent, or as silent as a shipyard ever could be. Within minutes the women had freed themselves from their metal masks and pulled off their thick, oversized work gloves. Within five more minutes they’d arrived at the canteen, beaten the other workers to the front of the queue, and were settled with their plates of hot steaming food at what had become known as the ‘the lasses’ table’.
‘So, I’m guessing you’re going to be the maid of honour?’ Dorothy asked Polly, who was busy shovelling forkfuls of mince and potato into her mouth. She was still looking as white as a sheet, but at least her head had stopped throbbing. She
nodded her answer.
‘And what about bridesmaids?’ Dorothy probed somewhat hopefully.
‘I don’t think godmothers can also be bridesmaids,’ Gloria butted in, deadpan.
‘Really?’ Angie said, looking baffled.
‘Ignore her, Ange, she’s just being sarky and trying to wind me up,’ Dorothy said.
Gloria tensed as she looked at Angie’s marked face. The powder Dorothy had brushed on had worn off and Angie looked like she had put a blob of rouge on one cheek but had got distracted and forgotten about the other.
‘I don’t think Bel’s going to have bridesmaids,’ Polly butted in. ‘I think they just want a small family affair. Probably registry office.’
‘What is “registry office”?’ Hannah piped up. She had Martha on her left and on her right was Olly, who looked as pleased as punch to be with the women on their table, and was listening intently to the conversation.
‘It’s an office where you get married,’ Martha explained through a mouthful of mince pie.
‘Ah.’ Hannah looked up at her friend and smiled, but she didn’t look any the wiser.
‘You see, Hannah,’ Polly explained, ‘with this being Bel’s second marriage, I don’t think she felt it would be right to have a church wedding. She didn’t say anything, but I know for a fact she wouldn’t want to get married at St Ignatius because that’s where she and Teddy were married.
‘But,’ she said, looking across at Dorothy who had seemed a little dejected since the mention of a ‘small’ and ‘family’ wedding, ‘… just because it’s not gonna be some great big hoo-ha of an affair, that doesn’t mean you’re all not invited.’
Dorothy’s mouth immediately spread into a smile.
‘So,’ Angie said cheekily, ‘do yer think this means we might be hearing the pitter-patter of little feet in the near future?’
Polly laughed. ‘God, Angie, you sound like Pearl! That’s not why they’re getting married, if that’s what you’re meaning.’
