by Nancy Revell
Helen was trying her hardest to hide her growing anger.
‘And Hannah and her aunty, who was giving out credit and not collecting her dues. How the “little refugee” and her aunt might well find themselves homeless and knocking on the door of the local workhouse. How did you put it again? “From a palace in Prague to the slums of Sunderland.”’
Miriam laughed.
‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with your memory, is there?’
Helen ignored her mother’s comment.
‘There’s no more swinging the axe over their heads, is there? For starters, as you well know, Polly’s married Tommy, so it’s highly unlikely that he’ll give any credence to nasty rumours that might unbalance his mind.
‘And as for Rosie, she’s also married her older man, so it’s not as if you can shame her – not that I think you would have done anyway. You clearly don’t know the woman.’
Helen could feel her heart hammering in her chest.
‘And you can’t touch Hannah. Because, quite simply, I won’t let you. As long as I’m drawing breath, she’ll always have a job in the yard. She and her aunty Rina will always have food on their table and a roof over their heads.’
Miriam burst out laughing.
‘Goodness gracious me, Helen, you have changed your tune this past year, haven’t you?’ Miriam allowed herself another short burst of laughter. ‘Perhaps you are having problems with your memory? Have you forgotten that it was you who once wanted to rip that gaggle of women welders to shreds? And if my “old” memory serves me right, I distinctly recall being in this very room and you telling me, your dearest mother here, how you were going to split up Polly and Tommy so that you could have the boy all to yourself … And yes … I’m sure I’m right in my recollection: you didn’t just threaten to spread malicious and totally false rumours about Tommy, but you went ahead and did it. You might even have succeeded in breaking up the pair if you’d done the job properly and made out Polly was stepping out with someone who wasn’t actually married – and had a child on the way.’
Helen felt herself cringe inwardly. She had worked hard at pushing to the far recesses of her mind that painfully embarrassing memory of when Ned the plater’s heavily pregnant wife had stomped into the yard and shown her up in front of the whole workforce.
‘And when that plan didn’t work out, you decided to take it out on Polly’s friends. Remember? Remember how it was you who was trying to get the little refugee sacked – how you worked the poor “little bird” to the bone? Gave her all the worst jobs in the hope she’d walk – or you’d have enough ammunition to sack her.’
Helen felt awash with self-loathing. A self-loathing she hadn’t felt for a good while. Her mother’s words had brought the feeling back with a vengeance.
Miriam stood up, sensing it was time to go for the jugular.
‘You might like to think you’re whiter than white these days.’ Miriam walked over to Helen. ‘You might like to think you’re little Miss Perfect, with your new doctor friend, but the thing is, Helen, you’re my daughter. You’ve got my blood coursing through your veins. We’re the same, me and you. Whether you like it or not.’
She paused.
‘And it doesn’t matter how hard you try, there’s no running away from it.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jack.’
Gloria had just told Jack that Arthur had died. She had her ear pressed against the receiver. She would have given anything to be with him now. To have told him face to face instead of down some crackly phone line.
‘I’m glad it’s you that’s told me, and not her.’ Jack didn’t have to say who he was referring to. Gloria knew that Jack hated Miriam so much he could barely bring himself to say her name.
‘Fingers crossed, you’ll be able to come to the funeral?’ Gloria tried not to feel too excited about the prospect; it felt wrong to gain any kind of pleasure from someone’s death.
‘No chance,’ Jack said, his tone flat. The anger he felt whenever he thought, never mind talked, about his estranged wife was pushing at the surface, trying to break through.
‘Really?’ Gloria was genuinely surprised. ‘Yer don’t think she’ll allow it?’ It hurt her to admit that Miriam had such a hold over them both; that they had to seek her permission.
‘That woman won’t miss the opportunity of driving the knife in even further,’ Jack said. ‘She knows how much it’ll hurt me not being there.’
‘But you ’n Arthur were so close.’
‘My point exactly.’
‘But everyone knows how close you were,’ Gloria argued. ‘People will wonder why you’ve not come back to say yer goodbyes.’ Her hand was gripping the black Bakelite handset. She forced herself to relax.
‘A few might think it’s strange, but most people will just think it’s the war. Too busy trying to save the living to wave farewell to the dead.’
Gloria realised that Jack was right.
Miriam controlled them.
And there was nothing they could do to stop it.
‘Did Helen seem all right when you spoke to her?’ Jack asked. ‘She’s known Arthur all of her life. Probably saw more of Arthur than she did her own grandfather when she was little.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Gloria reassured. ‘She’s pretty level-headed about these things.’
She thought for a moment.
‘Although she did seem to think that you’d definitely be coming to the funeral. She told me she was going to see Miriam to tell her this evening.’
There was a snort of derision down the phone.
‘Well, she’ll be in for a disappointment … Tell her not to worry when yer see her tomorrow. Tell her she’ll be paying her respects for the both of us.’
‘I will, love.’
There was a pause.
‘Do yer think Helen’s all right about Tommy going back? I know how fond she was of the lad,’ Jack said, not needing to elaborate.
‘She seems fine. I think her fondness for Tommy really is just that these days. I think her attention’s been focused more on her doctor “friend” of late.’
Gloria heard someone shouting in the background.
‘Listen, pet,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve got to go now, but don’t worry about me not coming back for the funeral. And tell Helen the same. It’s not as if Arthur’s gonna mind, is it? I’ll visit his grave when I’m back.’
He was quiet for a second.
‘She can’t keep us apart for ever, yer know.’
Gloria didn’t say so, but she wasn’t so sure.
‘And give the bab a cuddle from me,’ Jack said. ‘Tell her that her da loves her to bits.’
Gloria told him she would.
Hope needed as many reminders as possible that she did, in fact, have a father. Having not seen him for a year, it was unlikely that she would recognise him when she did eventually get to see him.
If she ever got to see him.
That dream seemed to be fading rapidly.
Chapter Seven
J.L. Thompson & Sons, North Sands, Sunderland
The following day
Tuesday 29 December
‘I’m so angry!’
Helen ushered Gloria into her office.
Winston the ginger cat managed to shoot through before Helen closed the door.
Marching over to the blinds, Helen pulled them shut. She didn’t care if her staff started gossiping about why Gloria had been summoned to her office. They could say what they damn well wanted.
Helen stomped over to her desk and grabbed her Pall Malls.
‘Mother won’t let Dad come to the funeral!’ She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Honestly, Gloria, I think I can say – hand on heart – that I hate her. I actually hate my own mother.’
‘Come on, sit down and tell me what happened,’ Gloria said, throwing the cat a look of disdain as it rubbed itself against Helen’s legs, purring loudly.
‘You don’t think I’m like my mum, do you?’ Helen said out of
the blue.
Gloria sat down on the chair in front of the desk.
‘Of course I don’t. I’m always saying how much yer take after yer dad. In looks and in personality.’
Helen gave Gloria a sad smile. ‘You always try and make me feel better.’ She blew out smoke. ‘It worries me, though, that I am like her. That I have been like her.’
‘Don’t be daft, yer nothing like her,’ Gloria reassured. ‘For starters, you’ve got a conscience.’
Helen looked at Gloria and they both laughed.
‘It fights its way through occasionally.’ Helen smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. She knew Gloria hated smoking. Made her think of her ex.
‘I do worry, though,’ Helen admitted, ‘that we’re blood, you know? That I’ll be like her, even if I don’t want to be.’
‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous,’ Gloria said. ‘You choose the person yer want to be. And if yer don’t want to be like your mother, yer won’t be. It’s your choice.’ Gloria looked at Helen. If she was honest, there had been a time when she would have said Miriam and Helen were similar. Very similar. But not any more.
‘Let me guess,’ Gloria said. ‘Miriam said point-blank that Jack’s not allowed back for Arthur’s send-off – and if he dares come within a mile of the place, she’ll make sure everyone’s secrets aren’t secrets any more.’
Helen let out a bitter laugh. ‘That’s about the nub of it.’
‘Well, don’t worry,’ Gloria said. ‘Yer dad guessed there was no way he’d be allowed back. Out of spite, if nothing else. He said to tell yer not to mind or get yerself all irate. He’s just going to be glad you’ll be there on his behalf … Everything will work itself out eventually.’ Gloria sounded much more optimistic than she really felt. ‘You’ll see.’
Helen didn’t look convinced.
‘I was awake all last night. Thinking and thinking. Going over in my mind what I can do to get Dad back here. How to break the hold my mother has over everyone.’
She looked at Gloria, the beginnings of hope on her face.
‘What if Martha actually knows about her real mother and doesn’t care one jot if the whole world also knows?’
She paused.
‘What if Angie’s mam runs off with her young lover? Or her dad knows about her mam already, but doesn’t let on – or care?
‘And let’s say … And I know this is a long shot … But what happens if Dorothy’s mother decides she wants to come clean and admits to her bigamy? Sorts it all out legally?’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘Then my mother will have no axe to wield over all our heads and it’ll be her that’s worried about being exposed – a spurned wife whose husband has left her for another woman. It’ll be her that’s worried about feeding the town’s gossipmongers, knowing it’ll keep them going for weeks – months.’
Gloria sighed.
‘That’s a long list of ifs.’ She pushed herself out of her chair. ‘Why don’t we make the most of what we’ve got now? Why don’t yer arrange to go ’n see yer dad in Glasgow for a few days? Yer can combine it with work. Chat to the manager at Lithgows about the things you high-ups chat about. Yer mam can’t stop yer from seeing yer dad. And before yer go up there, I can get a photograph of Hope done ’n you can take it to him. He’ll love that.’
Helen gave a resigned sigh and nodded.
Gloria, as always, spoke sense. She was the voice of reason. The mother she’d never really had.
Seeing Gloria out, Helen picked up Winston, who immediately started to nuzzle her neck.
‘One day, Mother, I promise you,’ she spoke her words aloud to the empty office, ‘I’ll get Father back here. And there’ll be nothing you can do to stop me.’
Chapter Eight
New Year’s Eve
Thursday 31 December
Polly watched as the coffin, carried by Ralph and three other divers, along with the two linesmen, slowly made its way down the aisle of the grand, Gothic-style St Ignatius Church.
Had it really been just six days since she’d walked down this very aisle with Arthur by her side, proud as punch to be giving her away?
Now it was Arthur who was the centre of attention. Something, Polly knew, he would have hated.
‘You all right?’ Bel whispered in Polly’s ear, taking her hand at the same time.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, honestly,’ Polly said, squeezing Bel’s hand to reassure her.
Bel looked at her sister-in-law and believed her. She seemed in control of her emotions and she looked well. The black dress she was wearing had not dulled her complexion. Married life suited her, Bel mused. Even if her new husband was thousands of miles away.
Sensing movement next to her, Bel looked down at her daughter, who was happily sandwiched between her mammy and her daddy, and then at Joe, who gave her a wink and a smile that was a little sad. They’d talked about Teddy while they’d been getting changed into their smart clothes. They’d never had a funeral for Joe’s twin – Bel’s first husband – because they’d never had a body to bury. One day, they’d agreed, they would visit the place called Sidi Barrani where he’d been laid to rest.
Bel glanced back down at Lucille, whose cherub-like face was beaming up at her. She looked as bright as the yellow dress she was wearing. Her joy at being able to wear her favourite dress twice within the space of a week was more than evident. The disapproving looks at Lucille’s splash of colour amidst all the black had not gone unnoticed, though. Not that it bothered Bel. She knew Arthur wouldn’t mind. Not one bit.
Hearing the reverend loudly clear his throat, she looked up to see him surveying the faces of his expectant congregation, his service book open in upturned palms.
‘We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to Arthur Thomas Watts.’ He spoke with great solemnity. ‘Let us now pray.’
Bel lowered herself down onto the embroidered kneeler and clasped her hands in prayer, leaning forward a little to afford herself a sidelong glance at Mr Havelock.
This was the first time she had seen him since the day that was indelibly imprinted on her memory – when her ma had taken her to Glen Path.
That afternoon she’d been so full of expectation – excitement, even – knowing she was finally going to find out who her real father was; after all, she’d had a lifetime of wondering.
Now she wished she’d just kept on wondering.
She had never agreed with the philosophy that ignorance is bliss.
Until now.
Now she had to live with the knowledge she’d gained that day back in June when she’d learnt the true horror of her parentage.
Afterwards, she’d felt a strange kind of bereavement, as though she had somehow lost her father – which, in a way, she had, for she could not call any man who sired a child through rape a father. Such a man had no right to a claim of parenthood.
Bel took a look at the old man’s profile. It was hard to view him with any kind of objectivity. All she could see was a parasite of a man who had sucked any joy that life could have offered out of a poor fifteen-year-old girl.
A vulnerable fifteen-year-old girl who was her ma.
Bel clenched her fists tightly and looked away for fear of what the violence stirring in her own heart might make her do.
She thought of her ma and part of her wanted to weep for everything she had been forced to endure because of the sadistic needs of one man.
‘Amen.’ The voices of the congregation were loud and enthusiastic, carried by the church’s acoustics. There was a sense of importance in the air. Bel knew it was because the parish – one of the poorest in the borough – had been graced with the celebrity of the Havelock family.
If only they knew.
As the mourners all sat back on their hard oak seats, Bel looked at Miriam. She was the spit of her father.
As was Bel.
This was the first occasion they had all attended together. For the briefest of moments, Bel had a flash of anxiety that the simi
larities in their looks might be noticed, but she dismissed the thought as soon as it had registered.
She was being paranoid.
There was a mass rustling as everyone got to their feet and fussed about with their hymn books and Order of Service pamphlets. The huge pipes of the church organ droned into life and sounded out the first vibrating chords of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’.
Polly was standing, her hymn book closed. She knew the words. She looked about her, forcing herself to be observant, to remember as much about this day as she could so she could put it all down in her letter to Tommy. She wanted him to feel as though he had been here, saying goodbye to his beloved grandda.
She turned slightly and caught sight of Gloria with Hope in her arms. Dorothy and Angie were standing next to her.
Polly knew Gloria would be doing the same. Memorising every detail of the service and the day in its entirety so she could relay everything back to Jack. They’d all been a little surprised when Gloria had told them that he hadn’t been given leave to attend the funeral. Everyone knew how close Jack and Arthur had always been.
It was only Rosie who hadn’t seemed particularly surprised or incensed. She’d said Clydeside was under enormous pressure to get the ships out, and it really was a case of ‘all hands on deck’ for the next few months.
The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want;
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me …
Gloria sang the words of the 23rd Psalm, but it was a half-hearted effort. Her mind was wandering. She looked down at Hope, who seemed happy to mimic what the others around her were doing and was standing with an upside-down copy of the New Testament in her hands, opening and shutting her mouth.
Looking at Arthur’s casket at the front of the altar, she thought back to Hope’s christening. That had been some day. It had been thanks to Arthur that Jack had ended up at the church, dripping wet, having battled through a storm to get there, not only to see his daughter christened, but to meet her for the first time.
And it was because of Arthur that Jack had slowly started to get his memory back, for the old man had taken him to the quayside every lunch break and they had sat and looked out across the Wear, as they had done as younger men. Arthur, not normally the most loquacious, had chatted to Jack about his past and about the present, and in doing so had given Jack his future.
