by Nancy Revell
They were quiet for a short while.
‘As your grandfather is saying, Helen.’ Again, Miriam was speaking in a half hiss, half whisper. ‘You and the brat look alike. You’re both the bloody spit of your father. People might well put two and two together.’
No one spoke. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
Miriam finally broke the stand-off with an almighty sigh. ‘For the life of me, I really can’t understand how it is you’ve gone from hating Gloria and her motley crew of women welders to being the best of buddies.’
‘And why,’ Mr Havelock raised an eyebrow, ‘you risked your own life a few months back getting Gloria and the bastard out of that bombed house in Tatham Street.’
‘I didn’t know anything about that.’ Miriam’s tone was sharp. She looked from her father to Helen.
‘Perhaps, Mother, if you didn’t spend so much time swilling gin at the Grand with that lush Amelia, you might know more of what’s happening in the real world.’
Mr Havelock extracted a cigar from his top pocket. ‘Your daughter has a point there, my dear.’
‘Perhaps if my daughter actually talked to her poor mama occasionally, I might know what’s happening “in the real world”,’ Miriam jibed back.
Helen looked out the window. Thank God, they were nearly at Thompson’s. She felt as though she would explode if she didn’t get out of this car.
Leaning forward, she yanked open the glass partition.
‘Can you pull over here, please?’ she said to the driver, before turning to her grandfather. ‘I can walk down to the yard. The fresh air will do me good.’
The chauffeur looked to Mr Havelock for permission. The old man nodded his assent and the car pulled over.
Helen climbed out.
Before shutting the door, she leant back in.
‘On the way back home, Mother, you might want to tell Grandfather about the lovely little postbox you had put up. And about all those letters that were sent to the house but mysteriously went missing. It might go some way to explaining why your daughter doesn’t talk to her “poor mama” much these days.’
And with that she slammed the door and walked off down the embankment to work.
Chapter Ten
‘Oh, John, thank goodness you’ve come!’ Helen stopped for a moment. ‘God, I must stop saying that!’ She had welcomed John with those same words on Boxing Day. ‘It sounds like I’m incapable of doing anything on my own.’
Dr Parker smiled. He knew Helen was more than capable of being her own woman, standing on her own two feet and going places unaccompanied, but he also knew she lacked confidence at times, and going to Arthur’s wake at the Tatham was one such time. It was on occasions like this, he knew, that Helen needed a friend. It was clear to him now, more than ever, that Helen saw him purely as a friend – and nothing more. It wouldn’t have been a problem if he hadn’t been so in love with the woman.
‘Come on, I’ve managed to nab Grandfather’s chauffeur to take us over there,’ Helen said. ‘Not that I’m in his or my dear mother’s good books today.’
Dr Parker gave Helen a questioning look.
‘I’ll tell you in the car.’
Ten minutes later they were making their way over the Wearmouth Bridge. The chauffeur was driving carefully as the temperature had dipped, causing the wet roads to turn icy. Helen looked out of the window. She couldn’t see much – the vague outline of the barrage balloons, and the dark shadows of the dozens of frigates, warships and colliers docked along the hem of the river.
‘So, your mother now knows about your heroics during the Tatham Street bombing?’ Dr Parker asked.
Helen nodded. ‘Not that I think Mother will see it as being particularly heroic. More than likely she’ll be worried that people will be asking why I did what I did. She’ll be terrified they’ll “put two and two together”, as she puts it.’
Dr Parker thought for a moment.
‘I’m surprised your grandfather knew about it.’
‘What? My “heroics”?’
Dr Parker nodded.
‘He might be ancient,’ Helen mused, ‘but he’s still got his ear to the ground. Besides, there’s not a lot he doesn’t know when it comes to what happens in the town. He’s got moles everywhere.’
Dr Parker thought about the time he had met Mr Havelock when Helen was in the hospital after her miscarriage. He’d never forget the way her grandfather had written out a cheque, saying he hoped it was enough for helping Helen and, moreover, for keeping shtum about what he had described as the ‘dire predicament’ his granddaughter had got herself into. He had been ‘eternally thankful’ that the situation had ended up ‘resolving itself’. Dr Parker had wanted to say that the resolving of the ‘predicament’ had nearly claimed his granddaughter’s life, and perhaps it was her recovery for which he should have been ‘eternally thankful’.
‘Anyway, I told him about her keeping back Father’s letters,’ Helen said.
‘And what was his reaction?’
‘No idea. I left them to it.’
Somehow Dr Parker didn’t think Helen’s grandfather would have been morally aggrieved by what Miriam had done.
Helen suddenly turned her attention back to John. ‘You don’t think I’m like her, do you?’
‘What, your mother?’ Dr Parker’s brow furrowed.
Helen’s eyes searched his face, wanting to know what he really thought.
‘Well, put it this way.’ His face was deadly serious. ‘I wouldn’t be sat here now if you were in any way like your mother.’
Helen’s face lit up with sheer relief. His words had been spoken with total candour.
‘That’s why I love you so much,’ she said.
As soon as the words were out, Helen felt herself flush bright red.
‘Oh, gosh, how embarrassing. I meant to say, “That’s what I love about you so much.” You know? Because you know me. You know what I’m really like.’
Dr Parker looked at Helen. He could see her obvious embarrassment at her faux pas. He knew that in a way she did love him. Like a brother. A friend.
‘I know exactly what you meant,’ he said. ‘And I do know exactly what you’re like.’ He smiled to ease her still evident mortification. ‘Warts and all!’
Helen slapped his arm playfully, relieved the awkward moment was over.
When Helen and Dr Parker walked into the main bar, it was heaving. The air was heavy with smoke and the smell of spilled beer.
‘Gosh, I think half the east end’s in here tonight,’ Helen turned and shouted back at Dr Parker.
When they got to the bar, they saw a picture of Arthur in his canvas diving suit, holding his twelve-bolt copper helmet under his arm. Next to him there was a rather faded sepia photo of Arthur and Flo on their wedding day. The third photograph was of Arthur holding a baby in his arms.
‘Is that Arthur’s daughter?’ Dr Parker asked.
‘No, that’s Tommy,’ Helen said.
‘Ah.’ Dr Parker pretended to inspect the photograph, all the while fighting the now familiar rush of jealousy, quickly followed by despondency.
‘Can I have your attention, please!’ Bill’s voice boomed out.
The pub fell quiet.
Pearl spotted Helen at the bar and quickly turned away, pretending not to notice them. Her pretence did not go unnoticed, though. Dr Parker had seen Pearl’s slightly panicked reaction; seen something in her face that he couldn’t quite read. Strange. He watched as Pearl made herself busy, clearing empty pint glasses off the far end of the bar.
‘As this is Arthur Watts’s wake, I’d like to say a few words to honour a man who I’m sure you will all agree was the epitome of a true gentleman and a true friend to all those he encountered.’
The barmaid, Geraldine, who had been drafted in for the evening, saw Pearl’s reluctance to serve the posh-looking couple and went over to see what they wanted.
‘Not many of you might know this, but it is thanks to
Arthur we now have our North pier—’
‘What yer after?’ The young barmaid half spoke, half mouthed to Dr Parker.
Helen leant over the bar and asked for a pint of bitter and a vodka and lemon.
The girl looked at Dr Parker as though needing his acquiescence.
Helen rolled her eyes to show her annoyance and leant over the bar again.
‘This year, if you don’t mind.’
‘—He was also the longest-serving deep-sea diver the Wear Commissioner has had to this day. And probably the most highly regarded.’
Bill’s words were met with a mumbling of assent.
‘Vodka and lemon?’ Dr Parker quizzed.
‘Yes,’ Helen said. ‘Time for a change.’
Dr Parker thought it might be more to do with her wanting to be as different from her mother as possible.
Helen glanced around as she waited for their drinks. She looked over a sea of flat caps, searching the pub for Bel.
When the surly young barmaid put the drinks on the bar, Helen got out her purse and paid. Dr Parker didn’t object. He’d given up objecting; had come to believe that it was Helen’s way of saying this wasn’t a date. They were simply friends.
Dr Parker looked at Pearl as she turned around.
Seeing that Helen had been looked after, she moved back to the middle of the bar to serve a group of elderly men in their best suits. Pearl started to chat loudly to one of the men, called Albert, saying that even though Arthur ‘had gone to meet his maker’, Albert should still drop by with any spare veg from his allotment.
Dr Parker looked at Pearl’s profile. She was definitely Bel’s mother. You could see the similarities in their looks, if nothing else. But who was it that Pearl reminded him of?
‘Thank you.’ Dr Parker smiled at Helen as he took his pint from her.
As they made their way over to the women welders, who had congregated at the far side of the pub, it suddenly came to him. He would have slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand if he’d been able to.
It wasn’t just Bel who looked the spit of Miriam – Pearl did too.
Miriam and Pearl looked uncannily similar, only Pearl’s looks were camouflaged by the ravages caused by a harsh, impoverished life.
With that realisation, other thoughts followed.
And not particularly nice ones either.
By the time he and Helen had squeezed and manoeuvred their way across to the other side of the pub, Bill had finished his speech and a toast had been made.
‘Hi, everyone!’ Helen’s greeting rang out as they reached the women welders.
Dr Parker knew Helen was making a good show of being completely relaxed in her environment when inwardly she felt anything but.
‘Helen! I’m so glad you made it!’ Polly said. ‘We were just going to make our own little toast to Arthur.’
Polly made room so that Helen and Dr Parker could be a part of their circle.
Polly raised her glass of port in the air.
‘A toast on behalf of those who couldn’t be here: Tommy and Jack, who both loved Arthur to bits.’ Polly looked at the circle of faces. ‘Who will, I’m sure, be saying their own goodbyes to Arthur in their own way in Gibraltar and in Glasgow.’
There was a brief pause as everyone raised their glasses in the air.
‘To Arthur,’ Polly declared.
‘To Arthur!’ the women’s voices rang out in unison.
They each took a sip of their drink.
Helen was about to edge her way towards Gloria and Hope, the only people she really felt at ease with, when she was stopped in her tracks by Dorothy and Angie.
‘Do you think your dad’ll be back any time soon?’ Dorothy said.
Helen was taken aback by the question and by the fact that Dorothy and Angie were staring at her expectantly.
She looked around for John, but he had turned round and was talking to Joe.
‘Well …’ Helen hesitated. ‘I hope so.’
‘It’s just that Gloria’s not seen him for ages.’ Dorothy dropped her voice, even though it was totally unnecessary as the noise levels in the pub were now high and everyone was engrossed in their own chatter. ‘And if he doesn’t come back soon, Hope’s not going to know who her dad is. I swear she thinks Joe’s her father.’
Angie was nodding her agreement.
Helen looked at Dorothy and at Angie. They might act the fools – the jokers of the pack – but they were far from stupid.
‘I know.’ Helen said it in a way that she hoped conveyed empathy. ‘But it’s madness on the Clyde at the moment. They really are up against it. It’s all hands on deck.’
‘Funny – those were the exact words Rosie used,’ Dorothy said.
‘Yeah, exactly,’ Angie agreed.
Helen looked at the two young women.
‘That’s because it’s true,’ she said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘It really is a case of all hands on deck. Every man – and woman. You both know more than most how punishing our deadlines are – especially with all the overtime you’ve all done.’
‘Ah, Helen!’ Gloria had seen that Helen was cornered. ‘Take this little monkey off me, will you?’ She handed Hope over. ‘She’s getting heavier by the minute.’
‘You could have always asked me, you know,’ Dorothy said. ‘I am her godmother, don’t forget.’
‘I know, Dor, but you and Angie have been playing with her all afternoon. You need a rest.’
‘Why don’t you …’ Helen grappled around in her handbag with her free hand ‘ … go and get everyone a round in? My way of saying thank you for all your hard work – all the hours you’ve been notching up.’
Dorothy and Angie looked at the crisp ten-bob note.
Rosie suddenly appeared and tapped Dorothy on the shoulder. ‘And Charlotte here can give you a hand.’ She nodded her head towards her sister. ‘But don’t let her con you into getting her anything alcoholic.’
‘Oh,’ Helen chipped in, ‘and buy the barmaid a drink as well. Show her it’s not only the men that are able to tip.’
‘Come on, then!’ Dorothy said to Angie and Charlotte. ‘Into the fray!’
Once the two inquisitors and their helper had been swallowed up in the throng and were out of earshot, Rosie gave Helen and Gloria a worried look. ‘They’re getting suspicious, aren’t they?’
They nodded.
Helen jostled Hope to get a more secure hold of her. The toddler looked at her big sister, then at her mother and Rosie, scrutinising the serious looks on their faces.
‘And the longer it is before Jack comes back, the more suspicious they’re gonna be,’ Gloria sighed.
‘But Dorothy’s right,’ Helen said. ‘This little one’s growing up fast. She needs her daddy.’ She looked at Gloria and Rosie. ‘Needs to know who her daddy is.’
‘I know,’ Rosie said, ‘especially as Jack could be doing equally important war work here.’
‘You don’t think either Dorothy or Angie know? About their mothers?’ Helen said, looking at Rosie. ‘I know Gloria thinks that Angie might know about her mam.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Angie’s got an inkling,’ Rosie said. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought Dorothy has a clue about her mother’s …’ She paused, not wanting to say the word.
‘Oversight?’ Helen filled in the blank.
‘That’s one way of describing it,’ Rosie said. As she spoke, she took hold of Hope’s hand and gave it a kiss. The little girl was always fascinated by her scars, forever trying to touch them, even when she had them well covered with make-up.
‘It’s just, if they did,’ Helen continued her train of thought, ‘then you could tell them.’
‘What?’ Rosie said, surprised. ‘About your mother’s blackmail?’
Helen nodded. ‘It would go a long way to lessening my mother’s hold.’
‘Which would mean,’ Rosie added, ‘we’d be nearer to getting Jack back.’
Gloria felt her heart lift at
the very thought.
Dorothy and Angie were standing at the bar, waiting for the rest of the round they were buying on Helen’s behalf.
Angie had given Charlotte a demonstration on how to carry three drinks in two hands. She had mastered the technique quickly and delivered two half-pints of shandy and a brandy and lemonade to Martha and her mam and dad. She was now coming back for Helen, Gloria and Rosie’s drinks and was making haste as Dorothy had promised her a sip of her port for helping them out.
‘Can yer imagine living somewhere like Lily’s?’ Angie said to Dorothy. It was their favourite conversation and had been since they’d been inside the bordello on Christmas Eve. It had given them hours of endless chatter and it always had them whooping with laughter that Toby had thought Dorothy was one of Lily’s ‘girls’.
‘It was that chandelier that did it for me,’ Angie said. ‘Honestly, I thought my jaw was gonna hit the ground.’
‘The ground being a rather gorgeous polished parquet floor,’ Dorothy added.
‘And that staircase,’ Angie said, taking a sip of her gin and tonic; a drink, Dorothy noticed, her friend had started having since beginning her lessons in ‘being posh’.
‘I knar Lily’s a bit o’er the top, but her house is really something else.’
Dorothy nodded. ‘I know. I swear I felt like I’d walked onto the set of some Hollywood movie. Those plush velvet curtains, that chaise longue, the beautiful cherrywood desk …’
‘And dinnit get me started on the wallpaper. I had to stop myself gannin over ’n touching it. It was gorgeous.’
‘Oh, and that fireplace. It looked like it’d been hand-carved and shipped directly from Paris.’
‘Here you are!’ The barmaid put the rest of the drinks down in front of them. ‘Is that yer lot?’ She looked at Dorothy and Angie and then nodded over at someone behind them. ‘Does yer little waitress want anything?’
Dorothy and Angie both spun round to see Charlotte.
‘How long ’ave yer been there?’ Angie demanded.
