When Helen opened the main door to the admin office, she could hear her phone ringing.
Who would be calling the office on a Sunday?
She felt a rush of joy that it might be John, followed by a hefty punch to the gut as her mind caught up with the present state of play.
As she strode across her office to reach the phone, a terrible feeling of depression hit home with the realisation that she had lost the only man she had ever truly loved.
She hesitated for a second. What would she do if it was John? How should she react? Should she congratulate him on finding himself a girlfriend? Or pretend she didn’t know?
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Helen spoke her frustration aloud.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up the receiver.
‘Good afternoon, Thompson and Sons Shipbuilders. Miss Crawford speaking.’ There was only the slightest tremor to her voice.
‘Ah, hello there …’
It wasn’t John. Helen didn’t know if she was relieved or gutted.
‘So sorry to bother you.’ The voice at the other end of the phone sounded very well-to-do. ‘I’m trying to get hold of one of your workers,’ the man continued. ‘I’ve tried ringing the home number and there’s no one answering. And to be honest, I’m becoming a little fraught … I know there was a bad air raid last night and I …’ There was the sound of a heavy sigh down the phone. ‘I thought there might be the slightest chance that the young lady I’m calling about might be at work. I know it’s a long shot – it being Sunday and all.’
Helen could hear the concern in the man’s voice. There’d been over seventy killed last night and hundreds injured. There was nothing to say that any of her staff weren’t among the dead or injured.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m just looking at the office now and there’s not a soul about.’
‘Oh, she doesn’t work in the office.’ The voice perked up. ‘She works in the yard. She’s a welder.’
‘Oh, what’s her name?’ Now Helen was curious. She doubted it was Rosie’s husband, Peter. Gloria had said his work was very hush-hush and didn’t allow for any kind of communication.
‘Miss Angela Boulter,’ the man said.
‘Ah, Quentin!’ A picture of a rather short, bookish-looking chap with a mop of strawberry-blond hair sprang to mind. ‘Apologies, but I don’t know your full name.’
‘Foxton-Clarke. But please, just call me Quentin.’
‘Quentin, it’s Helen here, Helen Crawford.’
The two had met very briefly at Polly and Tommy’s wedding on Christmas Day, as well as the night Polly had nearly lost her baby. Gloria had told her that Quentin, who was Angie and Dorothy’s neighbour, was giving Angie lessons on ‘how to be posh’, which Helen thought was the most bizarre form of courtship she’d ever come across – not that Angie would admit that they were actually dating.
‘Don’t worry. Angie’s here. She’s absolutely fine. I’ve just been chatting to her squad. They came in to see what they could do after the raid. The yard took a hit last night. Or rather, one of our ships did.’
Helen heard Quentin exhale heavily.
‘Good. Good. That’s a relief. I was starting to think the worst.’
Helen could hear voices in the background and wondered what kind of work Quentin did. Angie had told everyone he was a ‘pen-pusher’, but having met him – and with a name like Quentin Foxton-Clarke – she thought that Quentin might have played down his job description.
‘Sorry to be a total pain,’ he said, ‘but would it be possible for me to have a quick word with her, please?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. It’ll take me a few minutes to go down there and fetch her. Are you all right to hold?’
‘Yes, yes, this is much appreciated. Thank you so much.’
Helen put down the receiver and hurried out of the office, jumping when Winston the marmalade-coloured tomcat shot past her as soon as she opened the doors to the main entrance. Hurrying across the yard, she managed to catch the women just as they were heading across the makeshift wooden gangplank that led from the yard onto Denewood’s deck.
‘Angie!’ she called out.
Everyone turned round and stared at Helen.
‘You’re wanted on the phone.’ Helen skirted a mound of huge chains coiled up like a nest of snakes. ‘It’s Quentin.’
There was an immediate eruption of jeers and jibing. Angie scowled at the women as she pushed past Dorothy and headed over to Helen.
‘Send lover boy our best wishes,’ Dorothy heckled as they hurried across the yard.
‘Honestly, he’s just a mate, yer knar!’ Angie huffed as they stopped to let a crane trundle past on its way to the platers’ shed.
‘Well, he sounded like a very worried “mate”,’ Helen said, giving Angie a sidelong look and seeing that she had gone bright red.
When they reached the office, Angie hesitated.
‘Go on in,’ Helen cajoled. ‘I’ll let you have some privacy. Come and get me when you’re finished. And just shoo the cat off the chair,’ she added, seeing that Winston had taken her place while she’d been gone and was now looking at them both with big green eyes. ‘Honestly, as if his basket isn’t good enough.’
‘Thank goodness you’re all right,’ Quentin said as soon as he heard Angie’s voice. ‘I’ve been trying to get through to Mrs Kwiatkowski for hours and she’s not picking up.’ Mrs Kwiatkowski lived in the ground floor flat, above Quentin’s basement flat and below Dorothy and Angie’s on the first floor.
‘She went to church today ’n then she was gannin to her club,’ Angie said, holding the receiver a little away from herself, not trusting it. She had only used a phone a few times in her entire life.
‘I thought her club was in Low Street, next to Fenwick’s Brewery – or should I say what used to be Fenwick’s Brewery? By the sounds of it, it’s now just a mound of bricks.’
‘It is – they’ve gone to Vera’s café up on High Street East.’ Angie paused. ‘Anyway, how did yer knar the brewery had been hit? I thought yer were in London?’
‘I am,’ Quentin said, ‘but we got news of it earlier down the wires.’
Angie was quiet. She would have liked to ask what ‘down the wires’ meant and why it was he was working today. She thought he was a clerical worker, like Bel, and would, therefore, be exempt from working Sundays.
‘So, you’re all OK? Dorothy all right?’ Quentin asked.
‘Aye, Dor’s fine. Mind you, it was like trying to raise the dead last night. I swear she would have slept through the whole raid. I had to practically shake her awake.’
She heard Quentin chuckling.
‘Oh, ’n thanks fer leaving us the ginger nuts ’n the bottle of pop.’
‘Did you feel safe under the Morrison shelter?’ Quentin had got an indoor shelter, which was basically a steel table, delivered to his flat. He’d removed one side of the wire mesh and reinforced the top of the table with an extra layer of steel, then tied four gas masks to each leg, adding blankets, quilts and cushions for extra comfort.
‘It was that cosy, we had to practically drag Mrs Kwiatkowski out!’ Angie laughed. ‘Me ’n Dor said it was like being a bairn again – yer knar, when yer make a den.’
Quentin said he did, although he didn’t add that he himself had never been allowed to indulge in such childish behaviour as a boy.
‘And Mrs Kwiatkowski was singing yer praises, saying yer were “very kind and thoughtful” and that yer’d make someone a good husband.’ Angie hooted down the phone. ‘I said yer’ll have to gan out more if yer want to find yerself a wife.’
Quentin was quiet and Angie heard voices in the background.
‘Sounds busy there?’
‘It is, but I’m back up the week after next. Just for a couple of days. I thought you might like to have a trip to the museum. I could tell you about some of the oil paintings in there. Introduce you to a few old masters. And then we can go to the Palatine, seeing as the Continental no longer exists.’
Quentin had been going on about taking Angie to the Continental Hotel on the corner of St Thomas’ Street for a posh meal since February, but it seemed as though there had been one obstacle after another preventing them making it there, and then in March it had been bombed.
‘It’s a bit posh,’ Angie said little nervously.
‘No more than the Continental once was.’
‘All right then, yer on,’ Angie said, before quickly adding, ‘as long as it’s not on a Saturday. Dor will go berserk if I dinnit gan to the Ritz with her.’