by Nancy Revell
Dr Parker looked askance at Helen.
‘We’ve still got a skeleton staff keeping things ticking over,’ she explained.
Five minutes later they had left the confines of the yard and were scrunching through thick snow along the promenade. Daylight was starting to fade, although there was still enough light to see the grey waters of the North Sea and the outline of the lighthouse on the North pier.
‘So …’ Dr Parker looked up at the darkening skies. The clouds looked heavy with yet more snow. ‘I’m guessing that Tommy will be somewhere over the Atlantic by now?’
He tried to sound casual, but he was desperate to know how Helen was feeling about the departure of the man he knew she had loved all her life.
The man who had just married another woman.
‘I’d say so,’ Helen said, pulling up the cuff of her coat sleeve and looking at her watch. ‘It’s gone half four. I know his flight was at one – so, allowing for delays, and the time difference, I’d say he’d be there by now.’ A worried look fell across her face. ‘God willing.’
They walked for a while in silence. The snow glinting with a sparkling topcoat – the result of the morning’s fall.
Eventually it was Dr Parker who spoke.
‘So, how are you feeling about everything?’ he ventured, his mind still on Tommy.
Helen sighed. ‘Well, a little confused, to be honest.’
Dr Parker’s heart sank. They had not talked openly about Tommy since the day Helen had declared her love for him at the hospital. That had been over two months ago, and Helen had barely mentioned it since.
‘Well,’ Helen said, ‘I was thinking last night when I was trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep …’
Dr Parker felt an ache in his chest. His heart.
‘ … I was thinking,’ she said, ‘trying to work out that if Bel is related to my mother – and to me for that matter – then what are the possible options?’
Dr Parker was momentarily confused. Had Helen deliberately avoided talking about Tommy and her feelings for him? Or was she genuinely obsessing about Bel?
Sometimes he thought he could read Helen like a book; at other times she was a complete and utter mystery.
‘Options?’
‘Well …’ Helen said as they crossed the road. There was no need to check for any traffic. The roads were empty. ‘There’s the possibility that Bel could be my mother’s illegitimate love child, before she met Dad. I mean, they do look like mother and daughter. And the age gap is about right. I’ve worked it out. Mum would have been about sixteen. Possibly seventeen.’
‘True,’ Dr Parker conceded.
They continued walking.
‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind having another sister.’ Helen laughed. ‘I always wanted one when I was growing up. I might now have an older sister – as well as a little sister.’
Helen smiled as she thought of Hope. She’d looked particularly gorgeous in her ivory flower-girl dress yesterday. She couldn’t believe she was now nearly one and a half years old. She had fought with herself when Hope was just a baby; had tried her hardest not to have anything to do with her father’s illegitimate child, but it had been hopeless. As soon as she’d clapped eyes on her in her pram the day she’d bumped into Gloria in town, she’d fallen in love.
‘What about your aunty?’ Dr Parker knew that Miriam had a sister who was very similar in looks, but the complete opposite in nature.
‘Mmm,’ Helen mused. ‘I did think about Aunty Margaret – that Bel could possibly be her child – but I can’t see her having a child out of wedlock. Besides, she was never able to have children with Uncle Angus – could never carry them to full term …’ Her voice trailed off.
Dr Parker knew Helen would be thinking of her own miscarriage earlier on in the year.
Stepping aside, he let Helen pass through the wrought-iron gate and walk into the park. The place had been turned into a winter wonderland. Bushes and trees were draped in thick white shrouds. The model boating lake was a sheet of ice. The bowling green no longer green.
‘The other spanner in the works,’ Dr Parker said, ‘is, even if your mother or your aunty Margaret had an illegitimate child, why would Bel’s mother – what’s her name again?’
‘Pearl.’
‘Why would Pearl claim that Bel was her daughter? From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t strike me as your typical adoptive parent.’
‘That’s putting it politely,’ Helen said. ‘The only reason someone like Pearl would take on a child would be if she was being paid handsomely for it. And the woman clearly hasn’t got two pennies to rub together.’
By now they had reached the other side of the park.
‘Which,’ Helen continued, ‘brings us to the men in the family.’
‘Your grandfather?’ Dr Parker said, pulling open the gate.
Helen burst out laughing.
‘Hardly, John!’ She walked out and onto Roker Park Road. ‘Do the maths. Bel’s roughly the same age as me. She’s more likely to be his granddaughter.’
Helen’s face suddenly lit up.
‘Unless it was my grandmother’s secret love child? She was much younger than Grandfather. And I get the impression she was a bit of a dark horse.’
They crossed the road and started walking the short distance to the corner of Park Avenue.
Helen looked at Dr Parker.
Her excitement waned.
‘But that still brings us back to the problem of Pearl, doesn’t it?’
Dr Parker nodded.
Helen could feel herself getting exasperated.
‘There’s far too many ifs and buts and maybes and maybe nots. It’ll end up driving me mad.’
She took Dr Parker’s arm as they crossed Side Cliff Road to her front gate. It was the only house in the vicinity that had managed to keep its Arts and Crafts ironwork.
‘To be continued,’ Helen said.
Dr Parker smiled and shook his head.
‘I still think that imagination of yours is running riot.’
He wondered, though, if Helen’s current obsession with Bel was her way of avoiding thinking about Tommy.
They walked along the short pathway and up the stone steps. Putting her key into the front door, Helen turned to Dr Parker.
‘I’m thanking you in advance,’ she said with a grimace. ‘I’m sure this is probably the last place you fancy being today. On Boxing Day of all days. And one of your rare afternoons off.’
Dr Parker dismissed her words with a shake of his head.
If only Helen knew. He didn’t give two hoots where he was right now – as long as he was with the woman he loved.
When Helen opened the front door, they saw Miriam walking into the lounge, her hand clutching a glass of what could only be a large gin and tonic.
Their arrival caught her eye and she turned to welcome them with outstretched arms.
‘Darling!’ she said, air-kissing her daughter and then Dr Parker. ‘I thought you’d deserted your dear mama – again.’
Neither Helen nor Dr Parker said anything.
Miriam inspected her daughter.
‘Go and get yourself spruced up.’ Miriam tilted her head towards the landing. ‘I’ve put out a lovely dress for you to wear.
‘And John,’ Miriam purred, ‘come and meet the rest of the guests. They’re all dying to meet you.’
She suddenly burst out laughing.
‘Dying. Well, I hope not.’
She leant towards Dr Parker.
‘But at least if they are, we’ve got our very own doctor on hand to save the day!’
She chuckled again at her own joke.
Not for the first time, Dr Parker was reminded of his own mother.
As Miriam took Dr Parker’s arm, more to steady herself than in affection, Helen shook off her coat and hung it up. She didn’t go upstairs, though, but instead headed through to the back kitchen.
Dr Parker knew she was on her way to see the cook, Mrs Westley.
As he walked into the lounge with Miriam by his side, he stole a sidelong glance at Helen’s mother.
There was no doubting it, she really was the double of Bel.
Chapter Two
The Grand Hotel, Bridge Street, Sunderland
‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ Polly said, shaking the hand of Mr Pollard, the manager of the Grand Hotel – the most exclusive hotel in Sunderland, if not the whole of the north-east. ‘I don’t think I could have wished for a more perfect wedding. Or honeymoon. I really don’t.’
Tears had started to well in her eyes. She blinked them back.
Mr Pollard squeezed Polly’s hand and did something he would not normally have done – he raised the young woman’s hand to his mouth and kissed it.
‘It has been our pleasure, Mrs Watts,’ he said.
Polly smiled her goodbye before walking down the stone steps and joining the swell of festive shoppers as they headed into town. Not only was it Boxing Day, it was also Saturday afternoon. She turned left into High Street West, where the shoppers were replaced by those heading to one of the many pubs and taverns that lined the long, wide road that led to the east end.
By the time Polly had reached the corner of Norfolk Street it was much quieter. She slowed her pace. She needed a little time to think before she got home, where she knew her sister-in-law Bel would be waiting with a barrage of questions; where her niece Lucille would demand she play with the toys Santa had brought her; and where her ma would be cooking a special Boxing Day dinner.
Her brother Joe would probably be out with Major Black and the Home Guard. A former Desert Rat with the Eighth Army in North Africa, Joe had been left lame with shrapnel injuries, but was still determined to be of some use to the war and spent every spare minute he had teaching more able men how to defend their country.
And Arthur, dear Arthur, would be sitting in his favourite armchair next to the warmth of the range, half reading the day’s newspaper, half dozing, the dogs curled up at his feet. She couldn’t wait to see him. She’d give him a big hug and tell him that Tommy had said not to worry, he’d be back before Arthur knew it.
Thank God she had Arthur. He had become a surrogate father to her these past few years. Always there with a few quietly spoken words of wisdom. A pillar she could lean on, shoring her up.
As Polly crossed over the Borough Road, she looked over to where Gloria and Hope lived. Hope had looked as sweet as pie yesterday. It was such a shame Jack hadn’t been there to see her.
So much had happened in such a short space of time. She and Tommy had fallen out, but they’d made up. Thank goodness. The image of Tommy riding his motorbike across the yard would never leave her. Nor the feel of his arms as he’d pulled her close and told her he loved her.
Nor their making love for the first time after arriving back at the Major’s flat.
Polly felt the wedding and engagement rings on her finger.
‘Mrs Watts,’ she muttered to herself. It had felt strange hearing the manager call her by her new name.
As she walked down Tatham Street, the place that had been her home her entire life, she didn’t think it possible to feel so happy and yet so sad. Tommy had made her promise, though, just before she’d waved him off, that she would not allow any sadness to infiltrate their joy.
A few tears had managed to escape on the way back to the Grand when she’d been sitting in the back of the RAF staff car. But when they’d driven up Fawcett Street and she’d spotted the latest newspaper headlines telling of a British submarine sunk by Italian torpedo boats, she’d brushed those tears away. If she needed a reminder of why Tommy was going back to Gibraltar, then this was it.
Continuing down Tatham Street, Polly felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. She’d had the most magical of weddings. The most magical Christmas wedding. She was a lucky woman.
Almost home, Polly dodged a couple of the neighbours’ children playing tag.
And that was when she noticed the curtains were drawn.
Odd.
She felt her heart skip a beat.
Followed by a sense of dread.
She hurried to the front door and let herself in.
‘Ma! Ma!’ Polly shouted out as soon as she stepped through the doorway.
She had only made it halfway down the tiled hall when Agnes came hurrying out of the kitchen, her arms open, ready to embrace. The two dogs, Tramp and Pup, scrambling to catch up on the tiled flooring.
‘Ahh, Pol! Come here.’ Agnes put her arms around her daughter. ‘I’m so sorry, my love, but I’ve got some sad news.’
She took a step back, but still held her daughter by the shoulders.
‘I’m afraid it’s Arthur … He died … last night.’
Polly stood, shocked, and she stared at her mother.
‘Arthur’s dead?’
Agnes looked at her daughter and nodded sadly.
‘He is, pet. I’m afraid he is. Poor soul.’
Polly still didn’t move; she could not comprehend the news. She felt something push against her leg and looked down, seeing the dogs fussing around her feet.
‘Come here,’ Agnes said, giving her daughter another hug before guiding her into the kitchen. She knew Arthur’s death would hit Polly the most. Apart from Tommy, of course.
‘But he seemed so well yesterday …’ Polly sat down at the kitchen table. ‘And so happy.’ A vision of his face as he walked her down the aisle suddenly sprang to mind.
Agnes poured out a cup of tea from the pot she’d made. She added milk and two teaspoons of sugar, stirred it and put it in front of Polly. The dogs settled in their basket by the range, their eyes trained on the two women. Tears slowly began to trickle down Polly’s face as the reality of what her ma had told her started to sink in. Agnes pulled her chair up close and put her arms around her daughter. She could feel her body juddering as grief began and then gradually gained momentum.
They sat like that for a little while.
Finally, Polly looked up at her ma, her face wet with tears.
‘Why, Ma? Why now?’
‘It was his time, pet.’ Agnes looked at her daughter’s distraught face. ‘It was his time.’
The house was quiet. Agnes had asked Bel to take Lucille into town so she could be alone with her daughter when she told her the news. For Polly, having Arthur in the house had been like having a part of Tommy close by. Now that comfort had been taken from her.
‘He went to bed last night and he was so happy.’ Agnes held her daughter’s wet face in her hands and looked into her pretty green-blue eyes. She wiped away tears with the corner of her pinny, as she’d done when Polly was a child.
‘When he didn’t get up this morning,’ Agnes said, ‘I went into his room and he was lying there in his bed.’ She took her daughter’s hand. ‘He looked contented, Pol. He was lying on his back, holding a photograph of Flo. I think he missed her every day. He’ll be happy now. Trust me. He will. He won’t want you to be sad.’
Polly nodded but still didn’t trust herself to speak as more tears rolled down her face.
Chapter Three
Brookside Gardens, Sunderland
Sunday 27 December
‘Night, Mrs Jenkins … Mr Jenkins.’ Rosie smiled at both her neighbours, although she had to tilt her head to one side to see Mr Jenkins since his wife was commandeering the doorway.
‘And thank you for the gorgeous meal. That was the best Sunday roast I’ve had for as long as I can remember,’ she said, putting her hand on Charlotte’s back and gently pushing her down the short pathway.
‘Me too!’ Charlotte said, opening the little wooden gate and adding cheekily, ‘Rosie never does a roast. It’s either pie and peas … or pie and peas.’
‘Well, it’s clearly not done you any harm!’ Mrs Jenkins said.
She turned her attention to Rosie, who was giving her sister the daggers.
‘Eee, pet, you’ve got your hands full with that one, haven’t you?’
&n
bsp; Rosie laughed.
‘Just a tad!’
Charlotte was now making a show of opening their own little wooden gate and allowing her big sister to go first.
‘And thank you so much for inviting us to the wedding. It was wonderful, wasn’t it?’ Mrs Jenkins said, looking behind her at her husband, who nodded enthusiastically. ‘The whole day was marvellous … the church … the Grand.’ Mrs Jenkins looked up into the starry sky. ‘It was so Christmassy. So romantic.’
Rosie hurried up the path. She needed to get into the house before Mrs Jenkins went off – again – about Tommy and Polly’s wedding.
Reading her sister’s thoughts, Charlotte opened the front door and dodged straight in.
‘Night, night!’ she shouted out as she disappeared from view.
‘Thanks again, Mrs Jenkins,’ Rosie said.
‘If you can’t push the boat out at Christmas, when can you, eh? Well, as much as you can push the boat out with all this rationing … Anyway, it’s nice to have someone else to cook for other than the master of the house.’ Mrs Jenkins jerked her head back and pulled a funny face.
Rosie laughed, gave a little wave and shut the front door. After dropping the latch, she leant against it and sighed heavily.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone talk so much,’ she said as she slipped out of her heels and put them next to her work boots. She then reached out and took Charlotte’s shoes off her and put them neatly next to her own.
‘Poor Mr Jenkins,’ Charlotte said, turning and jogging up the stairs, ‘he barely gets a word in edgeways.’
Rosie smiled and walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. It was true. Since moving in less than a year ago, she’d hardly heard the man speak. Mind you, she reckoned, most people would struggle to get a word in with Mrs Jenkins.
‘Hot chocolate before bed?’ Rosie shouted up at the ceiling. She could hear Charlotte banging about in her bedroom.
‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ Charlotte shouted back.
Rosie sighed for the second time in as many minutes. Mrs Jenkins was not joking when she’d said that Rosie had her work cut out with Charlotte. It was more than two months since she’d turned up on her doorstep, and she’d not had a minute’s peace since.
