‘It’s a shame Tommy couldn’t be there today, isn’t it?’ Charlotte asked. She was standing in front of the fire. Rosie was behind her, trying to recreate the ‘updo’ that her sister’s idol had been wearing at the christening.
‘Well, that’s war for you,’ Rosie said.
‘She must miss him, mustn’t she?’ Charlotte said, taking a sidelong glance into the mirror above the mantelpiece. Her sister was doing a surprisingly good job.
‘Yes, I think she misses him an awful lot,’ Rosie said, taking a hairpin from the mantelpiece and pushing it carefully into the French knot. ‘Not that she’ll let it show.’
‘Like you,’ Charlotte said, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and looking at the photograph of Peter on the mantelpiece.
Rosie didn’t say anything. For some reason today had been hard for her. Throughout the whole ceremony she’d kept thinking about Peter; kept seeing a vision of him smiling as he walked towards her, his mac flapping open as it always did, his grey-blue eyes sparkling as he brushed back his greying hair. If someone had asked her about the christening, she doubted she’d have been able to tell them much.
‘You must really miss Peter,’ Charlotte persevered.
Rosie patted her handiwork and turned Charlotte round by the shoulders so she could see herself in the mirror.
‘I do miss him,’ she said. ‘Now, what do you think of my skills as a coiffeur?’
Charlotte looked at herself, turning her head to one side and then the other. Rosie picked up the hand mirror from the coffee table and positioned it so that her sister could see what it looked like from behind.
‘That’s brilliant,’ Charlotte said. ‘Nearly as good as Vivian.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Let’s hope I can recreate it tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Rosie.’ Charlotte looked at her sister. ‘If I make us a hot chocolate, will you tell me about Peter?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Why do you want to know about Peter?’ Rosie asked.
‘I don’t know – I’m curious, I guess.’
Rosie looked at her little sister who was no longer little. She had shot up and was now the same height as her. She had turned fifteen in the summer, and looking at her with her grown-up hairstyle, she was clearly becoming a young woman.
‘All right,’ Rosie acquiesced. ‘You make yourself a hot chocolate – I’ll have a cup of tea – and I’ll do you a swap. I’ll tell you what you want to know about Peter if you tell me about the group of boys that hang around the school when the bell goes.’
Charlotte coloured. ‘Nothing much to tell.’
They headed into the kitchen.
Rosie sat down at the little kitchen table as Charlotte poured a cup of milk into the saucepan and lit the hob.
‘So, tell me everything – from the start,’ Charlotte said, filling the kettle.
Rosie pulled her dressing gown around her and sat back in her chair.
‘It’s rather long and complicated,’ she said.
Charlotte’s face lit up.
‘All the better. A Christmas Eve story,’ she said, getting the tray ready and putting out a plate of biscuits. ‘A Christmas Eve love story.’
One with a happy ending, Rosie prayed.
As Charlotte finished making the drinks, Rosie told her sister a little of Peter’s background – how he was a widower whose wife had died of cancer some years previously.
‘So, he’s not got any children?’ Charlotte asked. It had never occurred to her to enquire before.
Rosie shook her head.
Moving into the sitting room, they settled down on the settee with their hot drinks and biscuits and Rosie started to tell Charlotte a sanitised version of her rather tumultuous relationship, skimming over their initial meeting when Peter had come to tell her about their uncle’s death – this story was about love, not hate.
‘A few months later we bumped into each other,’ Rosie said. ‘I’d just got off the ferry and was on my way home – Peter was working with the Dock Police just a little further along the quayside.’ The chemistry between them had been undeniable – not that Rosie told her sister that.
‘After that we started to meet up for a cup of tea at Vera’s. Got to know each other,’ Rosie said.
Charlotte knew a little about their café courtship, thanks to Vera.
‘So …’ Charlotte paused, unsure how to phrase her next question. ‘It must have been difficult for you to tell Peter about everything – especially Lily’s – with him working for the police and everything …?’
Rosie took a biscuit and bit into it, giving herself time to think.
‘It was difficult when he first found out, and we didn’t see each other for a while.’
‘Really? Why?’ Charlotte said.
‘We just needed time to think,’ Rosie said. ‘But, in the end, we realised we loved each other and wanted to be together – regardless.’
‘So how was it you got back together?’ Charlotte asked.
Rosie suddenly laughed, realising why Peter was on her mind so much today.
‘Funnily enough,’ she said, ‘he was waiting for me after I’d been to a christening. Hope’s christening.’
‘So, you made up?’ Charlotte asked.
Rosie felt the rush of love and excitement she’d had on seeing Peter waiting for her outside the flat – how they had kissed and, later, made love.
‘We did,’ she said.
As Rosie continued to answer Charlotte’s questions, she realised she was enjoying talking about Peter. It seemed to bring back the happiness of that time. One of the happiest in her life. She rarely talked about Peter, perhaps because she thought about him so much. But chatting about him to her sister seemed to bring him closer. Brought the three of them closer, closer to the dream she had always had – of being a family.
A dream that would come true – if he made it back.
She just had to hope and keep on hoping.
‘I can’t wait until I fall madly in love,’ Charlotte sighed on hearing how her sister had rushed to the station to catch a train to Guildford to see Peter one last time before he left for the war.
‘Well, there’s plenty of time for that,’ Rosie said. ‘And I haven’t forgotten about the boys at school –’ she looked at the clock and saw it was nearly midnight ‘– who I will grill you about tomorrow.’
She put both their empty cups and the crumb-strewn plate on the tray and picked it up.
‘Come on, let’s get ourselves to bed, otherwise Santa won’t come.’
Charlotte laughed.
‘Doesn’t matter, I’ve got everything I want anyway,’ she said.
Rosie felt a lump in her throat.
With those few words her little sister had just given her the best Christmas present she could ever have wished for, apart from good news about Peter.
*
Bel lay awake in bed with Joe snoring gently next to her. He’d been out like a light the moment his head hit the pillow. It had been a busy day. He’d been out with the Home Guard, then helped with the christening and afterwards had gone into town to get the tree, which he had insisted on loading into and then unloading from the delivery truck. She wished he wasn’t so stubborn when it came to his leg. He tried to behave as though there was nothing wrong with it and suffered the consequences afterwards. He’d said goodnight to an excited Lucille and had crashed out himself not long afterwards. Pain was exhausting.
Thinking about their rather scabby tree, with its even scabbier decorations, Bel thought about the lush green one that had been delivered to the Havelock house, which led her to think of all the privileges Charles Havelock had enjoyed his whole life. She’d wager he had never known the constant gnaw of hunger, or the feel of a brutal northern winter biting into your very bones. That he had always been given the best medical care; any slight twinge looked at, cared for, paid for.
She thought about all the people she knew.
All the hardships they’d had to endure.
She thought about Kate and the miserable life she’d had. About Rosie and her constant fight to keep her sister safe. And Agnes, bringing up her children while grieving for her husband. Her mind wandered to Hannah, worried sick about her parents. And to the women welders and all their secrets that came with a price. And then she thought of the power Miriam had wielded over them all for almost two years.
And at the heart of it was poor little Hope – an innocent in all of it.
Suffering the punishment of others by being forced to grow up without her father.
Bel thought about the report Helen had given her. She thought about its damning contents. Contents that could possibly be incriminating – or which at the very least had the potential to ruin Mr Charles Havelock and his lily-white reputation.
And the more she thought about the report – her gift from Helen – the more she knew what she had to do.