‘I hear Polly asked you to tell Dr Parker about the christening,’ Gloria said tentatively.
Gloria and Helen were making their way to the GPO with Hope, who was in her pushchair. The weather was now so bitterly cold that Gloria’s calls to Jack were being made from the relative warmth of the telephone booths in the main post office in Norfolk Street.
‘She did,’ Helen said.
‘How do you feel about him being Artie’s godfather?’
Helen thought for a moment.
‘Tough question,’ Helen said. ‘I suppose I should have realised Polly would ask him. I mean, he not only saved Artie’s life when she nearly miscarried, but he also delivered him.’
Gloria looked at Helen. The girl was still in love. She knew that feeling. Loving someone you couldn’t have.
‘It’s going to be a bit awkward, isn’t it?’ Gloria said. ‘Especially if he brings that doctor friend of his.’
Helen laughed. ‘That doctor friend is his girlfriend, Gloria. Probably his fiancée by now. She’ll likely turn up with a great big diamond on her ring finger.’
‘You don’t want to invite anyone?’ Gloria didn’t mention any names; she didn’t have to.
Helen burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Gloria, I do love you. I’m guessing you’re talking about Matthew?’
‘I might be,’ she smiled.
Helen didn’t answer and Gloria didn’t push. Instead, she asked, ‘Do you want to come to Vera’s for your Christmas dinner?’
‘God, I think my mother would have me hanged, drawn and quartered if I dared to miss the dinner at Grandfather’s.’
‘I thought your mother usually had a big do on Christmas Day?’ Gloria asked.
‘She does, but since Dad’s gone – or rather, since she got rid of Dad – she’s not been too keen to entertain what she calls a load of boring old has-beens at home.’ She waited for a man walking ahead of them to open the door. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered as she bumped the pushchair over the threshold.
‘In reality,’ Helen continued as they looked for a free booth, ‘it’s because she can’t bear to see a lot of happy, or outwardly happy, couples around her dinner table and would prefer to get it done at Grandfather’s before hurrying off to the Grand to whoop it up with Amelia. She’s just keeping her fingers crossed that Amelia’s husband doesn’t suddenly get leave. As is Amelia, of course.’
Gloria shook her head. Her own situation couldn’t be more different. She’d give anything for Jack to be home for Christmas. Anything.
When Jack hung up, he felt a deep dark depression settling in. He knew he shouldn’t feel so down. The war was going well. The fact that they were conscripting men to work in the mines rather than sending them off to the front line spoke volumes. The Clyde and all the other shipyards in the country were churning out ships unhindered, thanks to the fact there had been so few air raids for the best part of the year. But none of that stopped his terrible feeling of homesickness. He’d fought it for so long, but after Gloria had told him about Artie’s christening, it had overwhelmed him. He’d have loved to have seen Tommy’s little boy – Arthur’s great-grandson. Gloria had said he was the spit of them both. And the thought of having Christmas dinner at Vera’s, with everyone there … it sounded such a perfect way of celebrating the day.
Jack imagined walking down High Street East with Gloria, his daughter holding his hand, or perhaps giving her a piggyback ride, hearing her giggle. Then getting home, giving Hope her Christmas present and watching her unwrap it … reading her a bedtime story, before going to Gloria, putting his arms around her, kissing her – lying in bed together without a care in the world, because nothing else mattered other than them all being together as a family.
This was going to be the second Christmas in a row that he hadn’t been able to spend with his little girl and the woman he loved.
Damn Miriam! Damn, damn, damn her!
‘I. Am. Not. Quentin’s. Girlfriend!’ Angie shouted, punctuating each word. Her face was bright red. ‘Why can’t yer get it through that thick head of yers!’ She glared at Dor, turned on her heel and stomped out of the flat.
Dorothy had made the fatal mistake of teasing Angie one too many times while they’d been clearing up after a fish and chip supper with their neighbour.
Dorothy and Mrs Kwiatkowski stood motionless, listening to Angie thud her way up the two flights of stairs to the flat. They both jumped, hearing the door slam shut.
‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Kwiatkowski said.
‘Oh dear, indeed,’ Dor said, looking at the old woman.
‘Wish me luck,’ she said, before walking out the front door and up the stairs to face the music.
‘Angie …’ Dorothy tried her hardest to make her voice sound placatory. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She walked down the short hallway and into the kitchen, but Angie wasn’t there. She stood and listened. She could hear what sounded like crying.
It couldn’t be Angie, could it?
She didn’t think she’d ever seen or heard Angie crying in the three years they’d been best buddies.
She crept to the door of her bedroom.
‘Angie …’ She gently pushed the door open.
She stood shocked at the sight of her friend laying prostrate on her bed, her head buried in her pillow, sobbing her eyes out.
‘Ah, Ange.’ Dorothy hurried over and sat on the edge of the bed. She put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t cry.’
Angie shrugged off Dorothy’s hand and continued to muffle her sorrow into the folds of her pillow.
Dorothy waited. Partly because she didn’t know what else to do. And partly because she sensed her friend just needed to cry her tears out.
Finally, Angie stopped and turned over.
‘Yer just dinnit understand, do yer?’
‘I don’t,’ Dorothy admitted. ‘Although I do think this has something to do with me being a bit of a blabbermouth and going on about you and Quentin.’
‘That’s exactly it! Me and Quentin.’ Angie sat up and dried her eyes on the cuff of her overalls. ‘There is no me and Quentin. There can never be any me and Quentin.’
Dorothy looked at her friend and saw that the sorrow had been buried and the anger was back.
‘But that’s what I don’t understand,’ Dorothy said. ‘Why can’t there be any you and Quentin?’
‘God, Dor, sometimes yer can be as thick as two short planks,’ Angie spluttered.
Dorothy continued to look puzzled.
‘Because, Dor,’ Angie said, riled, ‘people like Quentin don’t court people like me. It’s that simple. It’s the way of the world. We’re worlds apart. He’s rich. I’m poor. He’s posh. I’m not. He’s practically aristocracy.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘God, I can hardly even say the word … And I’m working class.’
‘So?’ Dor said.
‘So!’ Angie said, exasperated. ‘People like Quentin don’t marry or even court girls like me.’ Another bitter laugh. ‘They might want to have their way with them, but then they’ll cast them aside ’n marry who Mummy ’n Daddy want them to marry. That’s the way it is. Yer knar that!’
Dorothy was quiet. A part of her agreed with her friend – the other didn’t.
‘OK,’ Dorothy said, getting ready to argue the point rationally. ‘I agree with you that this is the case for many people. Perhaps even most.’ She straightened her back and looked her friend in the eye. ‘But I honestly don’t think this is the case for Quentin. He’s different. I’ve seen the way he is with you – and the way you are with him … We’re not living in the Dark Ages any more, Angie. Times are changing. People are changing. This war’s changed us all in some way or another.’ She laughed and picked at her overall. ‘Look at us two sat here wearing these manky, dirty work clothes.’
Angie smiled. Dorothy took that as encouragement.
‘I think you should both give it a go.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Or perhaps even talk to Quentin about how he feels.’
‘Yeah, right, Dor,’ said Angie. ‘Next time I see him just drop it into the conversation – “Oh, by the way, Quentin, would yer consider gannin out with someone like me?”’
Dorothy conceded the point. ‘All right … But I just don’t think you should let the fact he’s from a rich, well-to-do-family stop you from being with him, if you both want to be with each other.’
‘Dor, it’s simple. I won’t let myself fall in love with Quentin ’cos I know it can’t go anywhere.’
It was on the tip of Dorothy’s tongue to say, It’s too late, you have fallen in love with him, but she didn’t. For once she managed to hold back.
‘Anyway,’ Angie said, getting up and walking into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. ‘This is all yer fault.’ She reached into the cupboard for the biscuit tin.
Dorothy followed her and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘How do you work that one out?’ she asked, taking the tin off her friend and prising open the top.
‘Because if you hadn’t forced me to ask Quentin to Polly ’n Tommy’s wedding – because yer wanted to cop off with Toby – I wouldn’t be where I am now.’
After they’d had their tea and demolished most of the contents of the biscuit tin, Angie went to bed. Crying, she surmised, sapped all your energy.
When Dorothy heard Angie’s gentle snoring, she crept down the hallway, put the door on the latch and padded downstairs to see Mrs Kwiatkowski.
She needed to talk to the old woman.
If there was one thing in life worth fighting for – it was love.
Angie might have given up on it, but she hadn’t.