The Shipyard Girls
Shipyard Girls at War
Since starting the Shipyard Girls series I have been bowled over by the amount of support I have had from so many people and organisations. Special thanks must go to John Wilson, owner of Fulwell Post Office, Sunderland, and his lovely staff for their continuing support and promotion of the Shipyard Girls series; Rachel Emmett, of the Salvation Army, for helping me with my research into Ivy House – the country’s first unmarried mothers’ maternity hospital; Meg Hartford, for unearthing specific historical facts and information on my behalf; Jackie Caffrey, creator of the Facebook group Nostalgic Memories of Sunderland in Writing; the ever-supportive Beverley Ann Hopper, of The Book Lovers; the National Maritime Museum; the Sunderland Antiquarian Society, especially Linda King, Norm Kirtlan, and Philip Curtis; and journalist Katy Wheeler at the Sunderland Echo.
I would also like to thank Pauline Martin, of South Tyneside Libraries and Dr Trish Winter, of the ‘Putting Southwick on the Map’ research project, for allowing me to indulge my passion of spreading the word about the forgotten women who worked in the Sunderland shipyards in World War Two.
I must also say a really big thank you to my editor Viola Hayden and assistant editor Cassandra Di Bello for their invaluable editorial advice and guidance, and to the rest of the talented team at Arrow.
As always, I am indebted to the fabulous Diana Beaumont, who really is the best literary agent anyone could wish for.
And, of course, to my mum and dad, Audrey and Syd Walton, and my husband, Paul, who keep me fuelled with so much love, care, support and encouragement.
Thank you.
We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.
Winston Churchill
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781473536760
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 2017
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Copyright © Nancy Revell 2017
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Nancy Revell has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain by Arrow Books in 2017
Arrow Books
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781784754662
To my mum, Audrey Walton (née Revell), who has always encouraged me to follow my dreams. With all my love.
Jack Crawford desperately tried to stay afloat.
But as yet another angry wave of freezing cold seawater washed over him, his flailing body was forced back down into the darkened, soundless underworld of the North Atlantic.
Jack fought back and seconds later he managed to battle his way to the surface, but the numbness presently creeping up his limbs told him his time was running out. As he gasped for breath, he inhaled salt water and started spluttering. Choking. With his last ounce of energy he strained his head up to the skies, frantically trying to take in the fresh, pure night air. But his thick tweed trousers felt like lead weights dragging him back down, and, despite having freed himself of his jacket shortly after being thrown – or rather blasted – into the ocean, even his cotton shirt now felt like it was tailored with metal.
It might have been Hitler’s Luftwaffe that had caused Jack to be floundering around in a debris-strewn expanse of sea, with planks of wood from the ship’s deck bobbing next to him, and a smattering of lifeless bodies lolling aimlessly face down on the surface of the water. It might have been their bombs that had successfully sunk the steamship which had been taking him back home to the woman he loved, but, as Jack felt Nature close in – claiming him – drawing his body down into the quietness of its watery womb, his eyes closed.
Jack had lived and worked within a stone’s throw of the sea his entire life and he loved it with a passion – yet, after a lifetime of adoration, it had turned on him, and like a spurned lover baying for blood, it was trying its utmost to kill him.
And it was succeeding – slowly but surely.
As Jack opened his eyes to take one last look at life, he saw a bright, round, yellow light. It was the middle of the night – he was in the middle of nowhere – and, until this moment, the only illumination had come from the starry sky and the waning moon above.
Jack felt Nature close in – claiming him – drawing his body down into the quietness of its watery womb, his eyes closed.
Jack knew he was dying.
He felt his body closing down, but as it did so his whole being was flooded with the most comforting warmth, and all around him he could smell a sweetness; like jasmine on a sultry summer’s eve. As his grip on life loosened, the door of his mind’s eye opened and he was gifted with a wonderful vision – a beautiful, newly born baby girl. Her eyes were still cloyed with sleep, but as Jack stared in awe at this ethereal apparition, the baby’s eyes opened and looked back into his own with unguarded love.
A ripple of surprise – then recognition – hit Jack, and he smiled, for the wide, grey-blue eyes gazing back at him were a replica of his own.
And it was then he knew.
He knew who the child was.
And at that moment Jack’s world went black. And quiet. And he knew Nature had won.
Death had come for him.
‘Happy Birthday to you … Happy Birthday to you …’
Dorothy bent over the crib in the middle of Gloria’s neat front room and sang softly to the baby girl who was snuggled up on her side, her little thumb just touching her tiny bud-shaped mouth. Hope was sound asleep, her breathing only broken by the occasional snuffle.
Gloria was putting a tray laden with two cups of tea and a plate of shortbread fingers down on the oblong wooden coffee table. As she sat down on the sofa she pushed her thick, slightly curly, brown hair back behind her ears, and pulled her favourite cardigan around herself. She’d given up trying to convince herself it had shrunk; the fact of the matter was it wasn’t only her waist that had expanded with this pregnancy, but just about every other part of her body.
‘Honestly, Dorothy, she’s only two weeks old. It can hardly be classed as a birthday!’ Gloria said, looking at the sugar-speckled shortbread before guiltily taking a piece and dunking it in her tea.
Dorothy straightened up and put her hands on the belted waist of her denim overalls that had been pulled in tight to accentuate her tiny waist and womanly hips. She frowned at Gloria. Her friend. Her workmate. The mother of her goddaughter. She would never have guessed a year ago, when they’d all started working at Thompson’s shipyard as trainee welders, that it would be Gloria with whom she would form the closest bond.
‘I swear, Glor, if I said something was black you’d argue it was white.’ She left the side of the crib and went to her holdall and pulled out a small present, which had been neatly wrapped in pink tissue paper and adorned with a white bow on the front. She had purchased the little present from Risdon’s, which had the reputation for being the best baby shop in town.
Dorothy handed the gift to Gloria.
‘You open it on Hope’s behalf,’ she demanded.
Gloria pursed her lips, a little embarrassed, as she took the present. ‘You should be saving your money,’ she reprimanded her friend. This was so like Dorothy, as frivolous with her money as she was about life. But, she also had a heart of gold. And, more than anything, she was one of the most loyal people Gloria had ever met. Take away all the bluster and showiness and you were actually left with a surprisingly solid and steadfast young woman, someone who would stand by your side, whatever the circumstances.
‘I told you …’ Dorothy sighed dramatically, untying her headscarf and allowing her raven-coloured hair to tumble untamed around her face and over her shoulders ‘… when Hope was born, I was going to be the best godmother ever. That means spoiling her rotten – even if she’s not awake to appreciate it.’ As she spoke, she looked over at Hope to make sure she had not woken up.
‘Anyway …’ she continued, ‘I didn’t haul myself all the way over here – from the other side of the town – after an entire day spent welding the hull of a great big bloody ship together – to be told how to spend my hard-earned money!’ Dorothy pulled a comical ‘so there’ pout, sat down, picked up her cup, and took a big slurp of tea.
Gloria watched Dorothy nestle up in what had been Vinnie’s chair, and smiled to herself. The tatty brown armchair had always been her husband’s – or rather, her soon-to-be ex-husband’s. They must have had the wretched thing for almost twenty years: it was probably as old – and definitely as worn out – as their marriage. And during all that time, no one but His Majesty King Vinnie had been able to park their bum in it. Gloria could honestly not remember a single occasion when anyone else had used it. And now, even after she’d finally found the strength to chuck Vinnie out of the marital home at the end of last year – Gloria could still not bring herself to sit in it. It was almost as if by doing so she would feel him near – and that was the last thing on earth she wanted.
Gloria’s mind spun back four months, to when Vinnie had called round at the house after work and lost it with her; he’d smashed her so hard in the face it was a fluke her nose had not been broken. She had not seen hide nor hair of him since then and she had the sneaking suspicion that someone had put the frighteners on him. She’d heard through the grapevine that not long after he’d tried to rearrange her face, he had been given a right battering himself. He’d claimed he’d been mugged, but Gloria knew no one with half a brain would bother trying to rob Vinnie – especially after he’d been to the pub. Even if he’d had any money on him in the first place, it would be safely tucked away in the landlord’s coffers by the time it was last orders.
Seeing Dorothy sitting there now, drinking her tea, all cosied up and still in her dirty overalls, Gloria was glad she had kept the chair. She would love to see the look on Vinnie’s face if he were to see her workmate – and a woman, at that – now commandeering his throne. His chair that no one had ever been allowed to use – not even their two grown-up boys. Seeing others sitting on it without a care in the world, especially someone like Dorothy, who, she knew, Vinnie would hate with a passion, gave her a sliver of revenge.
Gloria held her daughter’s birthday present for a moment before carefully tearing the tissue paper to reveal the cutest, smallest brown teddy bear she had ever seen.
‘Ah, Dorothy, it’s lovely. Thank you. She’s going to love it. Why don’t you give it to her yourself when she wakes up,’ Gloria said, helping herself to another finger of shortbread and taking a big bite.
Dorothy looked at her friend and laughed, ‘Eee, I see your sugar craving’s not left you then?’
Gloria popped the rest of the biscuit into her mouth and brushed the crumbs off her skirt. ‘I know. I’ve already used up all my sweet rations. Anyway, I vaguely recall you telling me when I was in labour that you were going to buy me “the biggest cake ever” once I’d given birth!’
Dorothy let out a theatrical sigh at the mention of Hope’s birth, when Gloria had gone into labour in the shipyard in the middle of an air raid. It had been one of the most terrifying but also most wonderful days in their lives. They’d all run around like headless chickens, with the air raid sirens screaming out their warning for everyone to take cover, and bombs dropping just half a mile away in Fulwell. They hadn’t even had time to get to the yard’s shelter as baby Hope had been determined to make her entrance into the world in the middle of all the pandemonium.
‘God, I think I’ll remember every second of that day for as long as I live!’ Dorothy said, helping herself to a biscuit and casting another look over at Hope.
‘Same here,’ Gloria agreed, her mind immediately tripping back to Hope’s traumatic birth; it still made her feel incredibly emotional thinking of how Dorothy and all the other women welders had risked life and limb to get her to the relative safety of the painters’ shed that had ended up becoming a makeshift delivery suite.
‘Anyway, come on, tell me the latest gossip from the yard,’ Gloria demanded, pushing away the tears which had started to prick the backs of her eyes. She was annoyed at herself for being so overly sensitive but it was hard when she remembered Dorothy’s face after she had delivered her goddaughter, and the look of both relief and elation on the rest of the women’s faces.
‘How’s our “little bird” getting along?’ Gloria asked. ‘She still happy working in the drawing office?’
Hannah had been taken on as a trainee draughtsman just a few weeks before Hope was born. It had been her saving grace as she really was like a little bird, petite and fragile, and in no way cut out to do any kind of physical work, never mind something as gruelling and back-breaking as welding. They’d all been amazed she’d stuck it out for as long as she had, as she’d struggled from the moment she had first switched on her welding machine, but, much to their amazement, she had continued to slog it out for nearly a year.
Thankfully, Rosie had spotted some drawings that Hannah had done of one of the ships that was waiting to be launched in the dry dock and had taken it across to Basil, the head draughtsman. He had jumped at the chance of taking Hannah on, as not only were her sketches, in his words, ‘technically brilliant’, but, like just about everywhere nowadays, his department was desperately short of workers.
Dorothy’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes, more than happy. Apparently Rosie says she’s taken to it like a “duck to water”. She’s even got some colour in her cheeks, quite something for Hannah. I’ve never known anyone with such translucent skin … But, anyway, I digress –’ Dorothy sucked in air for added effect ‘– our little bird has not only got a few roses in her cheeks – but, more importantly, she’s got quite a sparkle in those big brown eyes of hers.’
Gloria almost choked on her tea. ‘No … Hannah? … Really? I can’t believe she’d have her head turned by anyone.’
‘Well,’ Dorothy said, grabbing a biscuit from the plate, ‘it would appear so, or at least Ange and I think so.’
Gloria chortled, ‘Oh, honestly, you two are terrible. Not everyone’s man-mad you know? I’m surprised either of you ever get any work done the way you’re constantly on the lookout for new talent. Hannah’s not like you two. The poor girl’s probably got a “sparkle in her eye”, as you put it, because she’s simply cock-a-hoop she’s not having to weld any more.’
Dorothy sat back in her chair. ‘Well, there’s something up. Every time I see this Olly he’s practically glued to Hannah. He’s obviously got the glad eye for her.’
‘Mm.’ Gloria took a sip of tea and got up to check on baby Hope. ‘Well, if that is the case, and you and Ange are right, then you’d better make sure she’s all right. She’s far too young for any kind of shenanigans … And I don’t want you and Angie encouraging her. The next thing we know, she’ll have had her heart broken, or worse still, have gotten herself in the family way.’
Dorothy spluttered with outraged laughter. ‘God, you’re a right one to talk! … Anyway, Glor, “that girl” is the same age as Ange and me. Hannah’s not far off nineteen. She’s a young woman not a child!’
‘That may well be,’ Gloria pursued her point, ‘but she’s different to you two. She’s had a different upbringing. And she’s so naïve. And on top of all of that, she hasn’t got anyone around her – apart from her aunty Rina, who, by the sounds of it, is a lovely woman, but she’s getting on a bit and she’s not very – how can I put it – worldly-wise?’
All the women knew Hannah had had a sheltered upbringing in her native Prague; that her middle-class Jewish upbringing in Czechoslovakia couldn’t have been more different to being raised in an industrial, working-class town like Sunderland. The only reason she was over here, instead of sat at a desk studying Latin, or learning to play the piano, was that Hitler had decided Hannah’s homeland was to be a part of his Third Reich.
‘Hannah’s got us,’ Dorothy reassured her friend. ‘Anyway, don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her – and this lovelorn work colleague of hers.’ Dorothy stood up and noisily put down her teacup, causing Hope to stir. Dorothy smiled; she had succeeded in waking the baby.
‘Hurrah! She’s woken up … wants to see her fairy godmother,’ Dorothy said as she strode over and picked Hope up out of the cot, cradling her in her arms and cooing.
Gloria shook her head at Dorothy as she pushed herself out of the sofa. Last week when Dorothy had popped in to see Hope, she’d used similar tactics to wake the baby.
‘Well now, seeing as we’re all up and awake I’ll make you some sarnies,’ Gloria said. ‘You must be starving. I know I’d be after a day’s work at the yard. Bring Hope into the kitchen and you can keep telling me all the news.’
Gloria plodded into her little kitchen, which, as always, was spic and span. Since she had got shot of Vinnie, she had enjoyed keeping her newly built council house pristine and well ordered. There wasn’t room in her life for any more chaos.
‘So, Glor, have you made up your mind when you’re going to get this little one christened?’ Dorothy asked, following behind her with Hope cradled in her arms.
Gloria sighed. Dorothy had asked her the same question last time she came round. She wasn’t quite sure whether it was because Dorothy genuinely thought her daughter should be baptised, or because it would be a good excuse for a bit of a social – and one where she would be the centre of attention.
‘Not yet,’ Gloria said, slapping two slices of white bread down on the wooden chopping board. ‘So, how’s everyone else doing?’
‘Well …’ Dorothy paused, looking down at Hope and pulling a funny face. The baby’s little clenched hands reached up and tried to grab at some imaginary object in front of her godmother’s face. ‘… Polly’s just got a letter from lover boy, so she’s all happy.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ Gloria said, genuinely pleased. Polly’s fiancé, Tommy Watts, who she’d met and fallen in love with when he was working as a dock diver at the yard, was now removing limpet mines from the bottom of Allied ships. Being on the list of reserved occupations, Tommy could have stayed at home, but he’d been determined ‘to do his bit’. Gloria couldn’t work out if he was a brave man, or a mad one. Probably both. But regardless, Polly adored the lad, and every time she got a letter from him she’d read it out to them all.
‘He still based in Gibraltar?’ Gloria asked.
Dorothy nodded. ‘Polly says she can’t see him being moved anywhere else. They can’t risk losing the Rock. If they do they’ll lose control of all shipping in and out of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. Then we really will be done for.’
Any talk of the Atlantic or the war being waged on the sea made Gloria anxious. Thoughts of her own two boys, who were also in the Royal Navy, pushed themselves to the fore, as well as her increasingly desperate worries about Jack. It had now been three weeks since his ship had gone down and still there’d been no word as to whether or not he had been one of the lucky few to survive.
Gloria forced her mind back to Thompson’s and their squad of women welders. ‘And Rosie?’ Gloria asked. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘Mm,’ Dorothy mused, ‘she seems all right … although you know Rosie, it’s always hard to tell. She’s such a closed book.’
Gloria opened up a can of spam. ‘Mm, she’s a deep one is Rosie.’
‘I know,’ Dorothy said as Hope managed to grab a strand of her shoulder-length thick black hair and yank it with surprising force. ‘I thought she might have opened up a bit more after that trouble with her uncle …’ Dorothy gently tugged her hair free from Hope’s determined grasp. ‘Especially after she told us about her other work.’ Dorothy spoke the words quietly as if they were in danger of being overheard.
Gloria sliced the spam up and layered in on to the thickly buttered slices of bread. Neither woman had to say anything. Nor wanted to. After that awful night last year when Rosie had nearly been killed by her uncle in the shipyard, they’d learnt about Rosie’s ‘other job’ – her night-time work at a place called Lily’s bordello in a posh area of the town just next to the Ashbrooke cricket club. Rosie had worked there for years, although after the night she’d almost died she’d stopped working as one of the girls and, by the sounds of it, was now practically running the place.
‘She’s not mentioned anything more about that copper she seemed to be getting friendly with? What’s his name … DS Miller? God … memory like a sieve … Can’t remember his first name …’
Gloria knew that Rosie had felt more than friendship towards the detective; knew that they had been meeting at a little café called Vera’s just up from the south dock.
‘Peter,’ Dorothy said, ‘DS Peter Miller … No, not a peek. I know for a fact she’s not seeing him every week like she used to. Shame. I thought he was quite scrummy – in an older man type of way.’
‘Maybe it’s just as well,’ Gloria said. ‘I mean, it’s not as if she could ever have a proper relationship with the bloke. If he ever found out about … you know … Lily’s place and what goes on there, it wouldn’t just be Rosie who would be up to her neck in it – but everyone working there. No,’ Gloria surmised, ‘Rosie’s a wise woman. She would know there would be too much at stake – “scrummy” or not,’ she said, cutting up Dorothy’s sandwich and putting it on a plate.
‘That may well be,’ Dorothy added. ‘But what if she’s fallen madly in love with Mr Scrummy Detective?’
Gloria chuckled. ‘God, Dorothy, you go to see too many of those daft romantic films. I know Rosie, she’s got her head far too securely screwed on. Anyway, come on, let’s do a swap,’ she said, hauling Hope out of Dorothy’s arms. They went back into the lounge and between mouthfuls of sandwich Dorothy continued to tell Gloria all the latest.
‘Oh, how could I forget. You’d never believe Martha. She’s getting really chatty lately!’ Dorothy exclaimed. Gloria’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
‘Well,’ Dorothy said, ‘“really chatty” might be a bit of an exaggeration, but she’s definitely talking a lot more than normal. I reckon it’s because Hannah’s not really about all that much. I know she’s missing her like mad – you know how close they were – but I think, in a way, she’s come out of her shell more since Hannah’s defected to “the other side”.’
Gloria chuckled. There was definitely a division in the shipyard. A real ‘them and us’: Those who worked outside in all weathers, building the actual ships – and those who worked in the comfort and warmth of the offices.
‘Either that,’ Dorothy added, ‘or seeing little Hope being born has shocked her into speech!’
Gloria laughed. Hope’s birth really had been blood, sweat and tears.
‘Sounds like she’s opening up more. That’s good,’ Gloria said, and she meant it. She had a soft spot for Martha, who really was the epitome of a ‘gentle giant’, with more muscle on her huge frame than most men, yet possessing the quietest and mildest of natures.
As Hope started to wriggle in her mother’s arms, Gloria chuckled, ‘I bet you she’s still not uttering a word to any of the blokes, though?’
Dorothy laughed. ‘No, not that any of them mind. I think they all find her a bit scary, although they’d never for one minute admit that.’
‘And …’ Gloria said tentatively, ‘dare I ask if Helen’s been causing any more trouble?’
Dorothy’s face dropped. They were all well aware that the yard’s acting manager Helen Crawford hated them. Her animosity was mainly due to the fact that she had not got what she’d so desperately wanted – Tommy Watts, and that he’d not only fallen for Polly, but had proposed to her. Since then Helen’s need for revenge had applied to them all, and she’d tried every trick in the book to break up their squad – and what’s more, had nearly succeeded. Over the course of the past six months she had repeatedly used her position at Thompson’s to push Martha across to the riveters, and make Hannah’s life unbearable by making her do some of the hardest welding jobs. When Helen had found out Gloria was pregnant, and that legally she could get rid of her at the drop of a hat, she had almost succeeded in her aim of systematically ripping apart their gang of all-women welders. It would have left Rosie with just Polly and Dorothy, giving Helen the green light to place the women in different squads at opposite ends of the yard.
It had only been thanks to Rosie that they were all still together now. She had brought in the Union, who had stipulated that contractually Martha’s employment was as a welder – and not a riveter; she’d then orchestrated a job swap with Gloria and Angie, a crane operator.
But, even though Helen had failed in breaking them up, that was not to say she had given up.
‘For once that horrible vindictive cow is not on our backs,’ Dorothy said, adding, ‘but that’s only because she’s not been at work these past couple of weeks. I’m guessing because of Jack …’ Dorothy let her voice tail off.
Helen was Jack’s daughter, something everyone found quite hard to believe. The apple had truly fallen a long way away from the tree. Helen’s spoilt, self-obsessed nature could not have been more different from that of her father, and it was generally agreed by those who knew the family that Helen was the replica of her mother, Miriam. Still, it was her father Helen adored and she had pulled every string possible to get herself a job at Thompson’s as she had been determined to follow in his footsteps. Miriam, of course, was horrified that her beautiful daughter should go to work in the shipyards, but Helen had, as usual, got her own way and wangled herself a job in the administration offices, where, much to everyone’s surprise, she had made her mark. So, when Jack had gone off to America to educate the Yanks about the new Liberty ships which the yard’s owner Cyril Thompson had designed, Helen had been promoted to acting yard manager – and, in doing so, had become a deeply embedded thorn in the women’s sides.
‘Helen’s never off work,’ Gloria worried. ‘I wonder if that means they’ve heard something about Jack. No one’s said anything at work, have they?’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘Sorry, Glor.’
Gloria looked down at Hope and felt her heart start to beat faster. Since she had been told that Jack’s ship – the SS Tunisia – had been sunk somewhere off the coast of Ireland, she had been filled with a sense of terrible foreboding. Baby Hope had brought light and joy into her life, but that could not obliterate the worry and the dread she felt whenever she thought about Jack – a worry and dread that plagued her just about every minute of every day.
When she had started work at the yard, she had done so to escape her unhappy and abusive marriage; all she had wanted was a respite from Vinnie. An escape. She had never expected to fall in love with Jack – for the second time in her life.
Twenty years previously he had broken her heart when he’d dumped her and married Miriam. They had barely seen each other during that time. She had married Vinnie and had two boys. Jack and Miriam had had a daughter, Helen. But then Gloria had started work at Thompson’s. She had known he was yard manager there, but not that she would see so much of him. But she had, and it had been as if there was a magnet pulling them together. Their love had been reignited – a love that they realised had never really died, and they had become lovers. Jack had told her that his marriage to Miriam had never been a happy one and had been dead for many years. He’d been desperate for them both to come clean about their love for each other, especially as he now knew about Vinnie’s violence and how it had been, and still was, both brutal and frequent. But Gloria had told Jack to wait until after he had returned from America. Their new lives together would start after he came back.
But ever since hearing that his ship had been hit, Gloria had felt in a cruel limbo, her mind swinging between hope that Jack was alive – then back to mentally preparing herself for news of his death. It was driving her insane, and it was for this very reason that she was going back to work tomorrow. She couldn’t stand to be alone with her own thoughts a moment longer. She needed the distraction. And on top of everything else, she needed the money – not just to get by on, but also because she was determined to get a divorce. And in order to do that, she had to seek legal advice – and that kind of professional help didn’t come cheap.
Her decision to return to work had been made that much easier when Polly told her that her sister-in-law, Bel, would be more than happy to look after baby Hope while Gloria was at work. When the war had really got going last summer, Polly’s mother, Agnes Elliot, had been determined to ‘do her bit’ for the war effort, and, after the government had stuck up posters emblazoned with the plea: ‘If you can’t go to the factory, help the neighbour who can’, she had transformed her home into a makeshift crèche, now known affectionately by those around the doors as ‘Aggie’s nursery’.
Gloria knew Hope could not have been in better hands.
‘I hate to even utter that man’s name …’ Dorothy said with a look on her face as if she had eaten something rather unpleasant, ‘but have you heard anything from Vinnie?’
Gloria shook her head.
‘Well, fingers crossed it stays that way,’ Dorothy said sternly.
Half an hour later, after relaying more snippets of gossip doing the rounds in the yard, Dorothy said her farewells in a whirlwind of hugs and kisses, which Gloria allowed her to bestow on Hope, but which she herself rejected.
‘Dinnit be so soft and get yourself home,’ she berated her.
‘Home?’ Dorothy gasped in mock outrage. ‘It’s far too early to be going home, Glor! Ange and I are off up the town. Apparently there’s a load of RAF blokes out on the tiles – living it up before their next mission.’
Gloria tutted her disapproval but couldn’t quite suppress a smile as she watched her workmate make her way down the path and out the front gate – her leather hobnailed boots sounding out her departure, her long shiny black hair falling down the back of her dirty overalls.
A few minutes later Gloria was settling herself down on the sofa so she could give Hope her evening bottle of milk when the doorbell rang. Thinking it was Dorothy and that she must have forgotten something, Gloria got up out of the comfort of the cushioned settee, and, with Hope cradled in her arms, went to open her front door.
As soon as she did so, though, she immediately regretted it and tried to slam the door shut again – but it was too late. Vinnie had already jammed his steel toe capped boot in the doorway.
Gloria cursed herself. Why hadn’t she put her safety latch on?
It had never occurred to her that it could be Vinnie. Whenever he turned up, he either bashed on the door or pummelled it with his fists. She had never known him to use the bell.
‘Dinnit worry, Glor,’ Vinnie said, keeping his foot in the door, ‘I’m not ganna kick off.’
Gloria’s hand instinctively went to shield Hope’s head – and her vision – from the sight of the man she both hated and feared, and who was now standing on her doorstep.
‘What you doing here?’ Gloria demanded, half turning away, protecting herself and her babe-in-arms from the man she had been married to for twenty long years – from the man who thought this bundle of innocence she now held in her arms was his.
‘What the hell do you think I’m here for? I want to see my bairn?’ he shouted, his face starting to contort with anger.
Gloria swung her face round to look straight at Vinnie. Her mouth was set hard and her eyes daggered into him.
‘Ooh, if looks could kill …’ Vinnie’s face turned mocking.
‘I wish,’ spat Gloria. ‘You’re not wanted here, Vinnie. Not ever.’ Her words were said with complete conviction.
For a second she had a flash of memory; of the pain she had felt as his bare knuckles had smashed on to the bridge of her nose. She could still recall the taste of metal as blood gushed from her nose and down her throat. Gloria had not heard a whisper from Vinnie since then, and she was sure that wasn’t because he’d all of a sudden developed a conscience, but because someone had warned him off. Someone, she was sure, had given him a dose of his own medicine, although she still had no idea who.
As if reading her thoughts, Vinnie stepped forward.
‘Dinnit worry, Glor, I’m not ganna hurt you. You can tell yer mate that.’ He looked at his wife, trying to read her but not succeeding. He still wasn’t entirely sure whether or not it was Gloria who had got the balaclava-clad man to give him a good hiding, and looking at her blank face now, he was still none the wiser.
‘I just want to see my little girl.’ He leered into the doorway, trying to see the baby encased in his wife’s arms.
‘I heard from the auld gossipmongers you’ve called her Hope. What kind o’ a name’s that?’ he sneered.
‘I’m telling you this just the once, Vinnie.’ Gloria added volume to her voice. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near me or my baby. So, get yer foot out of my door before I start screaming blue murder.’
‘All right …’ Vinnie slid his booted foot back. Gloria immediately clashed the door shut in his face and with shaking hands rammed across the bolts she had installed herself, before swinging the safety chain on to the latch.
Vinnie stood speechless. His face was just inches away from the wooden front door. He felt himself flush with anger and humiliation. It took a second or so for him to find his tongue. ‘I’ll be back, Glor! Yer can’t stop me seeing my own daughter!’
Gloria remained standing quietly in the hallway, barely allowing herself to breathe until she heard Vinnie stomp back down the short garden path. She only turned to go back into the lounge when she heard him pull the little wooden gate shut with such force it nearly took the hinges off.
His retreat felt like a victory for Gloria – even if, like her gate, it was a fragile one, and had left her more than a little shaken.
‘Oh my,’ Bel’s soft voice sang out when she opened the door the following day to see Gloria standing on the pavement, one hand holding on to her pram, the other cradling Hope. It had just gone a quarter to seven but already the cobbled street outside the door of the Elliots’ home in the heart of the town’s east end was teeming with a mass of flat caps, all moving in the direction of the numerous shipyards lining the River Wear.
Reaching out to gently take the sleeping baby out of Gloria’s arms and into her own, Bel gazed down at the little face, barely visible through the layers of blankets Gloria had wrapped her in for her early morning journey to what was to be Hope’s second home.
‘How she’s changed in just two weeks,’ Bel said quietly, trying not to wake her new charge. But it was no good, baby Hope had sensed the crossover and knew she was no longer in her mother’s arms. Her eyes opened and Bel gasped in delight at the slightly startled baby, ‘What a beautiful girl you are!’
Bel’s face became sombre as she looked up at Gloria and quietly asked, ‘Any news about Jack?’ She knew only too well the true awfulness of waiting to hear about a loved one.
Gloria shook her head, and Bel automatically reached out with her free hand and squeezed Gloria’s arm gently.
‘Anyway,’ Bel said, forcing her voice to become more cheerful, ‘come in. Everyone’s up.’
Turning with the baby to walk down the long, tiled hallway and into the warmth of the kitchen, she announced to the whole house, ‘Look everyone! It’s baby Hope!’
As Gloria followed Bel down the hallway, she was touched by her words, but she couldn’t stop herself feeling a little emotional watching another woman take command of her baby – even if it was Bel. There was a part of her that wanted to snatch Hope back, but she knew she was being stupid.
As Gloria walked into the hub of the warm kitchen she was greeted by a room full of upturned faces: Her workmate, Polly Elliot, who was just pulling on her overcoat and taking a last sup of tea, her older brother Joe, who was hobbling through from the scullery with the aid of his walking stick, their mother, Agnes, who was pulling a pan of porridge off the stove to serve up to Bel’s three-year-old daughter, Lucille – and Arthur Watts, Tommy’s grandad, who was pushing himself out of the armchair positioned next to the range.
Gloria smiled over to the old man and thought how well he looked despite his seventy-odd years. His recent move from the Diver’s House down by the south docks, where he had lived most of his life with Tommy, to the Elliots’ home here in the east end had done him well.
‘Me see baby?’ Lucille asked, her little face straining up towards Hope. Her question was more a demand, and Joe went to pick his little niece up by the waist and held her aloft so she could have a bird’s eye view of the newcomer.
‘My baby!’ she announced on seeing Hope. Everyone chuckled. Lucille was going through a stage of declaring anything new or of interest to be hers, and hers alone.
‘What’s all the commotion about?’ Everyone turned to see Pearl, standing in the doorway, her faded pink cotton dressing gown wrapped around her scrawny body. Gloria had met Pearl, Bel’s mother, just the once at the next-door neighbour’s birthday party a few months back and she had sussed her out pretty quickly, although her reputation had preceded her as Polly had bent all the women’s ears back at work with her regular laments about how outrageously out of order Pearl could be – and had been most of her life.
‘Ma, go and have your fag,’ Bel said, spotting the unlit cigarette between her mother’s fingers. ‘I know you’re gasping for one, and it’s not as if you’re a real baby person, is it?’ Bel snipped at her mother.
Gloria looked at Polly and they both raised their eyebrows in unison.
Pearl peered across at the gurgling baby in her daughter’s arms and sniffed, ‘Aye, yer right there … I mightn’t be a “real baby person” as you put it,’ she paused, ‘but you are, Isabelle.’ Pearl’s eyes shifted mischievously up to her daughter’s pretty face and across to Joe who was standing with his back to the wall, allowing the women to ‘ooh and ah’ over the new baby.
‘So,’ Pearl added, ‘don’t you be getting any ideas, will ya?’
With a half laugh, half cough, Pearl bustled to the back door and out into the yard to smoke her cigarette.
Gloria looked at Bel, who was looking at Joe. Their look of exasperation at Pearl’s inappropriate comments was plain for all to see. Gloria knew, of course, that Bel and her brother-in-law, Joe, were now an item. They had admitted they had fallen in love to Agnes on the day when Gloria had given birth to baby Hope.
Poor Agnes. She was surprised the woman was still of one mind; in the space of just a few months her only daughter had started work in the shipyards – the target of just about every bomb dropped on the town so far – then her son, Teddy, had been killed out in North Africa – and her other son, Joe, seriously injured.
Bel, who had been married to Teddy, had plummeted into a terrible depression, but had thankfully come out of it. She had helped to nurse Joe during his convalescence at home and their friendship had developed into love. Luckily, from what Gloria had gathered from Polly, Agnes had given her blessing to their union, but, still, she was sure Agnes’s head must be a minefield of mixed emotions.
‘She’s a bonny bairn.’ Arthur’s deep voice caused them all to look up. The old man, like his grandson Tommy, had a low, calm voice. Gloria smiled, and watched as Bel held Hope out to Arthur who put his hands up as if he was surrendering.
‘Nah, Bel, I’ll only drop the wee thing,’ he said, leaning forward to take a peek. As he looked at the baby girl happily cuddled up in Bel’s arms, his pale blue eyes widened. Hope was the spit of her father. It was uncanny.
‘Eee, well, we best be getting off then, Pol,’ Gloria said, trying to be strong and not give vent to the well of tears she felt were building up inside her at the thought of being without her beloved baby all day long.
Polly looked at Gloria and understood her workmate’s need to make her parting as quick and as painless as possible.
Agnes seemed to have cottoned on quickly too. ‘Yes, get yourselves off to that yard.’ She ushered them out of the kitchen. ‘I don’t want you both to be late otherwise the stingy buggers’ll dock yer wages.’ She smiled as she pushed Polly’s sandwiches into her hand as they made their way down the hallway and out the front door.
Gloria stepped out on to the busy street, now full of the sound of men’s voices and the smell of burning tobacco that followed the blanket of cloth-capped heads moving towards the Borough Road.
As she did Agnes quickly grabbed Gloria’s arm. ‘And don’t you be worrying about Hope,’ she said, her latent Irish accent coming to the fore. ‘She’ll be just fine here. No need to fret … And if anything were to happen to the bab, I’ll make sure you’ll get word straight away,’ she told her, adding with a cheeky smile on her face, ‘I’ll send Pearl – with the promise of a pint. Guaranteed she’ll be there faster than the speed of light!’
‘Look! Out there!’ The skipper’s panicked but excited voice sounded out into the blustery night as he spun the trawler’s steering wheel quickly to the left and powered the vessel forward.
Their boat was the first to make it to the wrecked SS Tunisia after responding to a Mayday call which had come across the airways: A British steamship had just been bombed out of the water by a German FW200 aircraft. The cargo vessel had been transporting manganese ore, desperately needed for iron and steel production, but 350 miles off the west coast of Ireland it had been spotted by the Luftwaffe. Within minutes the immense weight of its cargo had made the ship sink like a lead balloon into the depths of the Atlantic.
The ship had been made up almost entirely of Merchant Navy sailors – although there had been a few passengers who, like its cargo, were being transported back to British shores.
‘Quick! Get the light on him!’ the skipper shouted to the young lad whose hands were clamped on either side of a large, round light from which a strong beam was laying a yellow path across the turbulent waters.
Behind him a burly-looking older man stood stock-still, staring intently as the moving path of light caught a snatch of life being dragged under the waters.
‘I’m going in!’ the broad-shouldered, bearded fisherman yelled, as he swiped off his cap, tore off his waxed cotton gaberdine, and pulled his thick polo neck jumper over his head, before freeing himself of his rubber boots. Before anyone had time to object he had tossed his long thick woollen socks aside and had climbed barefoot, wearing just his vest and trousers, on to the side of the boat.
‘Jim!’ the skipper shouted out, but it was too late. His mate had dived, torpedo-like into the moving grey sea and disappeared.
The old skipper and the young lad stood transfixed, holding their breath and staring intently into the choppy waters. It seemed like an age, but must have only been a few long-drawn-out seconds before Jim reappeared, gasping for air. He swam towards the end of the beam of light and upended himself back beneath the water. The light caught his white, bony feet as they disappeared where his head had been just moments before.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ the skipper said aloud. ‘Jim, yer a bloody eejit yer are!’ He mumbled as he gripped the boat’s large wooden steering wheel, keeping the trawler on track and chugging slowly to where he had seen his lifelong friend disappear. The silence felt deafening as the old man and the young boy stared, their eyes glued to the spot where the brave fisherman had dived beneath the surface.
There was a joint intake of breath as their mate reappeared; one of his arms was wrapped around a man’s chest, while his other arm floundered behind him as he fought the water, swimming on his back, towing the man’s lifeless body in his wake. Waves kept submerging them both, but the fisherman and his human cargo kept bobbing back up to the surface.
This was one battle Mother Nature was not going to win.
‘Bejesus!’ the skipper shouted out jubilantly. ‘Let’s get the great big lummox back on board,’ he shouted to the young lad, as he powered off and swiftly wrapped a length of rope around the steering wheel to keep the rudder steady.
By now Jim had grabbed a piece of timber bobbing about on the water’s surface and was using it like a float, his feet kicking out furiously to keep himself and the lifeless man buoyant. As the boat neared its human catch, the young lad dangled the top part of his skinny body down the side of the hull, desperately trying to grab the shirt that the lifeless man was still wearing.
‘Got him!’ the youngster shouted out, as he took a firm hold of the shirt before reaching out and grasping Jack’s thick leather belt. Summoning all his wiry strength, the boy hoisted Jack up, over and into the boat, landing him on deck like a monster-sized catch. But unlike the fish the men were used to hauling on board, all thrashing around and gulping for air, there wasn’t a flicker of movement from the man.
The skipper dropped the ladder across the side of the boat and threw a thickset arm down to grab his mate’s outstretched hand. Clutching the skipper’s hand, Jim managed to pull himself out of the water, clamber up the ladder and over the vessel’s railings, before collapsing on to the deck next to Jack. Water trickled from his grey-speckled black beard as he heaved to fill his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he sucked in the night’s air.
Now the skipper dropped to his knees and started pushing with all his might down on Jack’s chest.
‘Come on, man!’ he shouted. Taking Jack’s lolling head in his hands, the skipper cleared his airway before blowing into Jack’s mouth and giving him the kiss of life. But there was no sign of life.
‘Come on, yer bastard! We’ve not done this fer bugger all!’ The man’s voice was frantic as he took another gasp of air and blew once more into his lifeless catch.
The young lad was standing nearby, hands on his knees, retching with adrenaline. Jim was laid out on his back, too exhausted to even sit up. The strength was draining from the skipper’s arms, and in a fit of desperation he turned his head upwards and muttered a quiet prayer to the starless skies above. The old man hoped someone up there was listening.
Suddenly Jack’s body convulsed, and as it did so, a huge spray of salty seawater erupted from his mouth.
‘Thanks be to God in the Highest Heaven!’ the skipper voiced his relief, before rolling the sodden weight of Jack’s semi-conscious body on to its side, allowing more of the sea’s deathly liquid to spew back out and on to the deck.
He looked across to his mate, who was still breathing heavily and still flat on his back. ‘You okay there, Jim?’
Jim looked at his old friend and smiled.
‘Aye, I am, Shamus,’ he coughed, spat out seawater, then forced himself to sit up. ‘But I think we’re getting too old for this game.’ Jim let out a loud bark of laughter as the young lad hurried round, stepping over crab pots and a heap of nets to help his dripping-wet workmate to his feet.