by Nancy Revell
‘Now, come on, dry those pretty eyes of yours.’ She walked over and handed Charlotte the handkerchief. ‘And let’s go and see Rosie.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
Bill looked at Pearl.
He hadn’t seen her this bad for a while.
‘Go on, if yer must.’ Pearl leant over the bar, her hand outstretched, shaking her empty glass. She was looking at Bill, although all she could really see was a fuzzy outline of a man who was taller than average, still had his hair, and whose rounded face seemed to match his rounded belly. He had one hand on top of the pump and the other was on his hip. She couldn’t really make out his expression, but she sensed he was not a happy chap.
‘Ahhm soo sorry, Bill,’ she said, still waving her glass. ‘I have jumped ship this fine evening … abandoned yer on yer own …’ Her speech was slurred and had been for the past hour.
Geraldine, the barmaid, leant into Bill and spoke through the side of her mouth so that only her boss could catch what she was saying. ‘She’s been hammering the Scotch since that posh cow came in to see her.’
Seeing Pearl leaning her scrawny body over the bar in an effort to get to the bottle of whisky, Geraldine squashed past Bill.
‘Here yer are!’ Geraldine got to the bottle just before Pearl’s hand nearly swiped it over. She poured Pearl a finger of whisky.
‘Give it here!’ Pearl made a grab for the bottle and missed, succeeding the second time round. ‘That’ll barely wet the back of my throat.’ She sloshed Scotch into her glass and swivelled her body round.
‘Here, Ronald, give us yer glass.’ She raised the bottle in the air.
Everyone in the bar looked over at Pearl before going back to their own drinks and conversations.
‘I think we need to get her home,’ Bill said. ‘I wonder if we should get Bel.’
‘Good idea.’ Geraldine undid the back of her pinny and walked to the end of the bar before ducking under the half-opened hatch.
‘Come on, gorgeous.’ Ronald’s voice was gravelly and slurred. He was drunk, but not as inebriated as Pearl. ‘I’m taking yer home.’ He grabbed Pearl by the wrist and gently tugged her away from the bar. ‘Bring yer bottle with yer as well.’
Pearl hugged the bottle to her as though she were a child and it her treasured teddy bear. She looked at Bill, although he could see she wasn’t really able to focus on him.
‘I think she might be better off in her own home tonight, mate,’ said Bill.
‘Nah! She wants to come back to mine.’ Ronald slipped his arm around Pearl’s waist.
Bill had to stop himself clambering over the bar and ripping Ronald’s skinny, tattooed arm off Pearl.
‘Ahhm all reet, Bill. Yer worry too much.’ Pearl was now being led across the bar towards the exit. Ronald had hold of one hand. Pearl’s other hand was gripping the neck of the bottle of Scotch.
Bill opened his mouth to object when one of the regulars shouted out, ‘Poker?’
Ronald looked over to his drinking buddy and shook his head. ‘Not tonight, mate.’ He cocked his head towards Pearl. ‘Bigger fish to fry.’
Bill watched as the door banged shut.
It took all his willpower not to go stomping after them.
A few minutes later, Bel came into the bar, followed by Polly, then Geraldine. The three women looked around.
‘Where is she?’ Bel mouthed the words over at Bill, who was busy pulling a pint but had noticed their arrival.
He put the frothy pint onto a beer mat, took the money for the drink and dropped it into the till. He motioned for them to come over, before going over and ringing the brass bell.
‘Last orders at the bar!’ he shouted out.
‘Port and lemonade?’ he said to Bel. ‘Lemonade straight up?’ to Polly.
Both women nodded and Bel opened up her handbag to get her purse to pay, but Bill waved a hand at her.
‘On the house.’ There was no arguing.
‘Sorry to get yer both here this late on,’ he said. ‘But yer ma was in a bit of a state and I thought it best to get her home.’
Bel thought she saw hurt in Bill’s eyes.
‘But looks like Ronald beat you to it,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘What? She’s gone off with Ronald?’ Bel was surprised. It had been a good while since her ma had been on a bender; even longer since she’d gone off with a bloke.
‘Just with Ronald?’ Bel asked, quickly scanning the room and seeing that the regulars who liked their after-hours card games were still there.
Bill didn’t say anything, just nodded.
It was on the tip of Bel’s tongue to say, ‘Sorry, Bill,’ but she didn’t. Instead she thanked him for their drinks and went with Polly into the snug.
‘What’s happened?’ Polly asked her sister-in-law.
Bel sat down with a heavy sigh. She was glad the snug was empty.
‘Oh, Pol, where do I start?’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
‘So, he’s definitely dead?’ asked Charlotte, entranced by the flickering orange and yellow flames in the hearth. It hadn’t been cold enough to necessitate lighting the fire, but when they had got home it was as though they needed to dispel the chill left by all the talk of the past.
Rosie was also staring into the fire, her arm wrapped around Charlotte, who had changed into her nightie and dressing gown and was now nestled up on the sofa.
‘Oh, yes, he’s definitely dead,’ Rosie said, thinking back to the sight of Raymond’s inflated, putrid body as it was hauled out of the Wear.
‘And was it true, what you said – before, when I asked you – about him being drunk and falling into the river?’
Rosie sighed. They had made a pact to be honest with each other from here on in. She had to honour that.
‘Mmm … sort of,’ she said. ‘He’d certainly had a drink.’ Rosie could still recall the rank smell of his breath.
‘He came back,’ Rosie began. ‘Just turned up one day.’
‘When?’ Charlotte looked up at her sister.
‘About two and a half years ago … September time.’
‘Was that the first time you’d seen him …’ Charlotte hesitated. ‘Since Mam and Dad’s funeral?’
‘It was,’ Rosie said.
‘And what did he want?’ Charlotte’s voice was quiet.
‘Money,’ Rosie said simply. ‘Money … and revenge for a perceived injustice.’
Charlotte looked up at her sister.
‘What did he think had been done to him?’ She was angry. After what he had done to her sister?
‘He thought he’d been swindled out of his inheritance,’ Rosie explained. ‘He’d been cut out of the will by our grandparents. They left everything to Mam. So when Mam and Dad died, he thought he’d finally get what he believed was his due, but, of course, he didn’t. It was all left to me – and you. So, he blackmailed me into paying him.’
‘And did you?’ Charlotte said.
‘For a while, yes, I had to. He was threatening to tell the world about Lily’s, and my working there – and, of course, you were his main bargaining chip.’ Rosie kissed her sister on the top of her head. ‘Not that he could have got to you.’
Charlotte thought about what Lily had said. Rosie’s solitary aim in life had been to keep her safe.
‘But then he found out I was holding back money from the overtime I was doing, and he came to the yard.’ Rosie tensed at the memory.
‘Was that when he went into the river?’
Rosie nodded.
‘He attacked me.’ Her hand automatically went to the small scars on her face. ‘That’s how I got these burns.’
Charlotte looked at her sister’s face, now clear of make-up. ‘So, it wasn’t a weld gone wrong?’ She remembered the day Rosie had come to visit her at the Rainers’. The scars had started to scab over. She’d been shocked but had believed what Rosie had told her.
‘I had a lucky escape,’ Rosie said. ‘My squad came looking for m
e … Gloria, Polly, Martha, Dorothy and Hannah.’ She smiled. They had been her knights in shining armour.
‘Did they push him into the river?’ Charlotte was now sitting up straight, entranced by what she was hearing.
‘No,’ Rosie said. ‘I think it was a case of divine intervention.’
She looked at Charlotte.
‘He tripped over a welding rod and went flying.’
‘What? Into the river?’
Rosie nodded.
Charlotte exhaled loudly.
‘Blimey, there really is a God!’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Bill pulled on his coat and then his tweed flat cap.
The pub was empty, the beer trays had been swilled, the glasses all cleaned and polished, ready for another shift, chairs had been upended and stacked onto tables.
‘You off?’ Geraldine said as she tied her headscarf, then slung her gas mask over her shoulder.
‘Aye,’ Bill said, following her out of the main bar and down the hallway. ‘The Welcome Tavern is having a lock-in tonight.’
Geraldine stepped out into the cool night. She looked up at the sky. It was cloudless. She never liked to see the stars. Her grandda always said it was an invitation to Jerry to come visiting.
‘Night, then,’ Geraldine said. ‘Just give me a shout if I’m needed. I’m always up for an extra shift.’ She’d bet money on her being called on tomorrow. There was no way Pearl would be in a state to work the afternoon shift.
‘Aye, thanks, pet,’ Bill said, forcing a smile.
He clashed the main door shut and turned the lock.
Tonight, he intended to get well and truly plastered.
It took Bill about a quarter of an hour to get to the lock-in, walking up Tatham Street, crossing the Borough Road, going left up Villiers Street, then turning right into High Street East, before finally arriving at the Welcome Tavern at the end of Barrack Street.
Within minutes he’d got himself settled at the bar with a pint and a whisky chaser.
Around the time Bill was ordering his second pint, the engines of sixty German bombers were turning over, getting ready to take off and head over the North Sea. Their target – the north-east of England.
It was a perfect night for flying. Fine and clear.
They flew fast and fairly low, but not low enough to evade the radar scanners.
At 1.44 a.m. the alarm went out, and the Sunderland sirens began to wail.
There was just enough time for people to get out of their beds, put on some clothes and get to a shelter before the drone of the bombers could be heard, vibrating the very air above them.
‘Come on, Dor!’
Angie shoved her friend, who was lying fast asleep in bed.
‘Blimey, it’s like trying to wake the dead.’
‘Noooo.’ Dorothy finally surfaced from underneath the bedclothes. ‘I hate Jerry! I hate air raids! I hate sirens! I hate this war!’
‘Aye, ’n I’m guessing yer’d also hate being dead, so ger up!’
Within minutes they had pulled on their dressing gowns and slippers, grabbed a blanket each and had left their flat to make their way down the stairs. As soon as they reached the bottom, Angie stomped over to Mrs Lavender’s front door.
‘Mrs Lavender! Wakey-wakey!’
She put her ear to the front door.
Dorothy sighed.
Angie looked at her friend in disbelief. ‘How can anyone sleep through this racket?’
She turned back to the door and started hammering again.
She bent down and opened the letter box.
‘Mrs Kwiatkowski!’ she shouted as loudly as she could.
Dorothy’s mouth fell open.
‘Since when did you learn how to speak Polish?’
Angie turned and looked at her friend.
‘It’s called good manners, learning how to say someone’s proper name – even if it is in a foreign language.’ Angie spoke like a teacher to her pupil.
Dorothy didn’t have the chance to reply as the front door opened. Mrs Lavender was standing there, a blanket draped around her shoulders, looking more asleep than awake.
‘Come on, let’s get going.’ Angie took her arm as Dorothy hurried ahead and opened the main door. The noise was deafening, but the street was relatively empty as most people along Foyle Street used their cellars and basements as shelters.
Once Angie and Mrs Lavender were outside, Dorothy let the door swing shut. Hurrying down the first lot of stone steps, she turned, taking more care as the second set of stone steps were much steeper. Having made it to Quentin’s flat, she reached up to the ledge above the door and felt for metal. Grabbing the key, she quickly opened the door.
Seeing the bottom of Mrs Lavender’s white broderie anglaise nightie, she looked up to see that Angie was having to take most of the old woman’s weight as she struggled to get herself down the steps.
‘Can you manage?’ she shouted above the noise of the sirens, holding open the front door.
Angie nodded, finally making it to the bottom, manhandling Mrs Lavender over the threshold and into the flat.
Ever since the Tatham Street bombing, Angie had made sure it only took them a matter of minutes to get somewhere safe. They’d had a close call that night and she wasn’t going to rely on Lady Luck helping them out again.
‘I think it’s going to be a bad one tonight,’ Angie said, taking one last look as thick fingers of searchlights stabbed the open skies.
Shutting the door, Dorothy put on the light so they could see where they were going. The blinds were down and, as usual, Quentin had left his flat immaculate. He had also left them what he referred to as ‘provisions’ on a tray on top of the table.
Angie grabbed the tray and Dorothy lifted up the tablecloth and flung it over the top.
‘Come on, in you go.’ Dorothy gently helped Mrs Lavender to get under the large steel table that doubled up as an indoor air raid shelter. Quentin had made some adjustments to the Minister of Home Security Herbert Morrison’s design, and had removed one side of the wire mesh and reinforced the top of the table with an extra layer of steel. He had also tied four gas masks to each leg, and for comfort’s sake had added blankets, quilts and cushions to sit on.
Angie put the tray on a small wooden box in the middle of what could easily have been a child’s den were they not at war.
‘Come on,’ Angie beckoned Dorothy, who dropped down on her knees and clambered inside.
They had just got themselves settled and had started to breathe normally when they felt the first tremor. It confirmed their fears. This was no false alarm.
Angie took off the cloth covering the tray. Quentin had left them a bottle of dandelion and burdock, some crackers and a packet of ginger nuts. Her favourites. She opened the packet and offered them to Mrs Lavender, who took one, and then Dorothy, who shook her head.
‘I don’t know how you two can eat at times like this,’ Dorothy said.
‘It’s a survival instinct,’ Mrs Lavender replied. ‘Eat now because you don’t know when you might eat again.’
Dorothy rolled her eyes. ‘We’re not in the middle of the desert, Mrs Lavender. The longest we’ll have to go without food is the length of this blasted air raid.’ All the same, she took a biscuit and forced it down.
They all jumped as they heard a loud whistling sound followed by a distant boom. There were a few more tremors. A few more explosions. Some distant. Some not so distant.
After a while Mrs Lavender’s head started to droop forward. She was nodding off.
Angie and Dorothy shared the bottle of pop and ate more biscuits.
Suddenly, Mrs Lavender’s eyes opened and she looked straight at Angie.
‘Quentin’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘Very kind. Thoughtful.’
Angie agreed. ‘Aye, he is, isn’t he?’
‘And very rich,’ Dorothy chipped in.
Mrs Lavender rested her eyes for a minute before opening them once again.
‘He will make a very good husband.’ Again, she looked straight at Angie.
‘Aye, he would,’ Angie said. She thought for a moment before adding, ‘But he’ll have to gan out more if he wants to ger himself a wife.’
She took another biscuit and bit into it.
Mrs Lavender and Dorothy looked at each other.
This time it was Mrs Lavender who raised her eyes to the ceiling – or rather the underside of the table.
‘You all right?’ Polly was sitting next to Bel.
They’d all had time to fling some clothes on and get round to Tavistock House before the first bombs had been dropped. But only just.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Bel said. ‘It’s me that should be asking if you’re all right.’ She looked down at Polly’s tummy, which clearly looked very pregnant now. ‘I swear you’ve got bigger these past few days.’
Polly rubbed her hand across her stomach. ‘I do too. Dr Billingham reckons it’s going to be a heavyweight.’ She smiled. ‘It’s definitely a fighter. Just like its daddy.’
Bel laughed. ‘I think you might find the baby’s fighting spirit comes from its mammy.’
Polly smiled. ‘Some might call it pig-headedness.’ She nodded over at Agnes.
They both looked into the semi-darkness. The flickering of the candles they’d lit when they’d arrived gave them fleeting shots of those who were with them in the dank old basement.
Polly sat forward.
‘You all right, Ma?’
Agnes nodded. Lucille was curled up next to her, sucking her thumb, her head resting in her nana’s lap.
Joe was sitting next to her. He had brought today’s Daily Mirror, which had a full report detailing the victory in North Africa: the capture of Tunis by the British First Army and the taking of Bizerte, forty miles north of the Tunisian capital by the Americans, had been followed by the final surrender of the remaining German Afrika Korps and Italian troops two days earlier. The Desert War had been won.
Bel knew Joe would keep that paper until it was yellow with age, for it was evidence that Teddy’s death had not been in vain.
