‘And God bless all those who sail in her!’
The sound of cheers and horns was deafening as SS Chiswick slowly and with a certain majesty ploughed her way into the river. As always, the sound of jubilation dropped a little while the tugs did what they had been designed to do and coerced the newly-born around so as to avoid the other side of the riverbank, manoeuvring her with just the right amount of pull to keep her on an even keel.
Bel had not seen the launch as she had been keeping an eye on Mr Havelock and Miriam. She had forced herself to look at them, albeit surreptitiously; it was as though by acquainting herself with their every nuance, it might diminish their power and therefore lessen her own anxieties.
As SS Chiswick reached the fitting-out quay, the spectators turned to go home and the shipyard workers made their slow return to the adjacent basin, where there stood another half-built vessel that would soon follow Chiswick down the ways.
Bel thought that she and Helen might have escaped having to chat to Mr Havelock and Miriam. When they’d arrived, Helen had waved over to them, but the pair had been surrounded by the town’s dignitaries and bigwigs, all demanding their attention. Then the proceedings had begun, speeches were made, a bottle of champagne smashed, and the ship birthed. But just as they were turning to make their way out of the main VIP area, she heard Miriam call out.
‘Helen, darling, how lovely to see you!’
They both turned round to see Miriam and Mr Havelock just a few feet away.
‘I had to check it was you, I see you so little these days,’ Miriam said, leaving Mr Havelock in conversation with the mayor.
‘Hello, Mother, I didn’t think you’d be here.’ Helen made a point of looking down at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the Grand? Honestly, they’ll be sending out a search party for you if you don’t get your skates on.’
Miriam let out a tinkle of laughter that was more becoming to a young girl than a middle-aged woman.
‘My daughter has a very wicked sense of humour,’ Miriam said, squinting as she scrutinised Bel. ‘I recognise you, my dear, from Christmas Day. The welder’s wedding.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Elliot, that’s it, Mrs Elliot, isn’t it?’
Miriam threw her daughter a triumphant look before returning her attention to Bel.
‘My daughter likes to claim age is causing my memory to fast deteriorate, so I like to prove her wrong whenever I get the chance.’ She offered her hand. ‘Nice to meet you again, Mrs Elliot.’
Bel shook hands and forced a smile.
‘Helen, good to see you!’
Miriam moved aside to give her father centre stage. Charles Havelock was wearing a black three-piece suit, starched white shirt and a red tie.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while, my dear,’ he said, looking Helen up and down. ‘Where’ve you been? No, don’t tell me! I know.’ He stabbed the ground with the end of his ebony walking stick. ‘You’ve been working flat out at that yard of yours.’ He patted the back of his slicked-back grey hair. ‘Well, I certainly hope Mr Thompson appreciates you devoting your life to that place?’ Someone he knew caught his eye and he waved to them. ‘Anyway, what’s this about you learning to drive? Eddy told me you borrowed the car the other day. Good for you, my dear. Good for you!’
It was clear to Bel that Mr Havelock had no interest in hearing the answer to any of his questions.
‘I’m guessing you’re here in lieu of Harold?’ he said.
Suddenly he did a double take as his attention was caught by Bel.
‘And who, may I ask, is this?’
‘This, Grandfather, is Mrs Isabelle Elliot. She’s my secretary. We’ve got a meeting with Mr Royce in a few minutes, so we best be making tracks.’
‘Hold your horses, Helen. Where have your manners gone?’ He put his hand out. Bel noticed he was wearing a gold Masonic ring.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Elliot.’
Bel hesitated for a fraction of a moment.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t bite.’ Mr Havelock laughed. ‘Much as some might claim.’
Bel forced herself to shake hands.
As though realising her reluctance, Mr Havelock held on to Bel’s hand, squeezing it tight and clamping his other hand on top of it. She resisted the urge to yank it away.
‘We’ve not met before, have we?’ His watery pale blue eyes narrowed. Bel felt as though he could see right through her.
‘Mrs Elliot was at Arthur Watts’s funeral,’ Helen butted in, ‘with her little girl Lucille, and her husband Joe. He was in his regimental uniform.’
‘Yes, yes, Seventh Armoured Division. Desert Rat. Bad leg. Shrapnel injury. I remember him. And, of course, his wife.’ He kept staring at Bel. ‘Never one to forget a pretty face.’ He finally let go of Bel’s hand.
‘Mr Havelock! Mrs Crawford!’
They all turned to see the photographer from the Sunderland Echo standing with his camera held to his chest. He had lined up a row of suited men wearing either bowler hats or flat caps. A space had been left in the middle.
‘Duty calls,’ Mr Havelock said, giving Bel one last, curious look.
And with that Mr Havelock and Miriam turned and were gone. Much to Bel and Helen’s relief.
‘Let’s go before we get hooked in as well,’ Helen said, knowing that as soon as the photographer realised there was a third-generation Havelock in his midst, she’d be coerced into posing and playing happy families.
‘You all right?’ Helen said as they walked across the yard.
‘Yes,’ Bel said, her voice croaky as she realised she hadn’t spoken a word during the whole interaction. ‘Do you really have a meeting with Mr Royce?’ She desperately wanted to get as far away as possible from Helen’s family – from her family. She felt trapped.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll make it as quick as I can – although I have to warn you, the old man does go on.’
‘Miss Crawford! Lovely to meet you at long last!’
Helen and Bel had just been shown into the manager’s office by Dahlia, whom Helen thought seemed very chirpy and rosy-cheeked. On seeing the man who was presently greeting them, she realised why. He was the epitome of tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous.
‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said, ‘but we’ve got a meeting with Mr Royce today.’
‘I know, but I’m afraid you’ve got me instead. My father has had a minor stroke, so I’m the stand-in.’ Mr Royce’s son stood up straight, walked round the desk and put his hand out. ‘Matthew Royce, but please, call me Matthew. I have an aversion to formalities.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t have an aversion to formalities,’ Helen said, shaking his hand. ‘So, please, call me Miss Crawford. And –’ she turned to Bel ‘– this is Mrs Elliot, my secretary.’
Half an hour later, they were walking back to the car. Bel was thinking lots and saying nothing.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Helen said, looking across the yard and comparing it to Thompson’s. It was smaller and therefore, in her eyes, not as impressive.
‘What’s that?’ Bel said. She was also looking around the yard, although her reason for doing so was to check that Mr Havelock and Miriam were nowhere to be seen.
‘You were thinking,’ Helen said, ‘that I was a little hard on Mr Matthew Royce and his aversion to formalities.’
Bel smiled and nodded.
‘The thing is,’ Helen said, ‘he would never have said that to my father – or grandfather, or any other yard manager, for that matter. So why should we be any different? Just because we’re women?’
By now they had reached the car.
Helen started fishing about in her handbag for her keys.
‘And if Mr Royce thinks me rude, then I say, tough. I’m not in this business to be liked.’
Matthew Royce was standing at the window of his office looking out over the yard. He had both hands in his pockets and a big smile on his face as he watched Miss Crawford and her secretary walk over to a rather snazzy little green sports car. His eyes widened on seeing Miss Crawford walk to the driver’s side, then pull out a set of keys from her handbag.
He continued to watch with growing fascination as she very elegantly lowered her very shapely behind into the driver’s seat and swung a pair of equally shapely legs into the footwell.
‘Dahlia …’ he called out, keeping his eyes glued to the car as it slowly made its way out of the main gates.
‘Yes, Matthew?’ Dahlia stood, lipstick freshly applied, at the door to his office.
‘You know what’s-her-name … the Irish girl from Thompson’s?’
‘Marie-Anne?’
‘That’s the one. You two get on, don’t you?’
‘Yes, we do. She was just on the phone earlier.’
‘Well, wheedle out of her a list of all Miss Crawford’s up-and-coming engagements … There’s a good girl.’