There was nothing else for it – Reggie Nolan had to go.
All during the evening and through the night, Pamela had stewed over the situation and by morning she’d reached a decision: she would speak to her uncle and ask him to send Reggie packing.
If not, she’d reasoned, I’ll be forced to stop visiting Fred at home. I won’t even be able to call at the bungalow to see my own mother and father for fear of running into the wretched man. I must stick by what I said and avoid him at all costs. I can’t trust myself to remain civil, not after our last conversation. Full of a mixture of anger and dogged determination, Pamela had risen early. She couldn’t shake the exact wording of Reggie’s swaggering boasts. ‘Master plan’? Then there was ‘getting somewhere’ and the insult that she was ‘wet behind the ears’. Pamela dressed with mounting fury, then vigorously ran a brush through her hair. And the sneers that had accompanied the boasts and the viciousness of his lies! She brushed again until static crackled through her hair. Her mind was made up – she would seek out her uncle the moment she arrived at the timber yard.
‘Something’s the matter,’ Fred had observed when he and Pamela had got together the evening before. He’d noticed that she seemed upset and had heard raised voices on the driveway. Was Reggie causing trouble yet again?
‘No,’ Pamela had insisted. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ This was an action she was determined to take without involving Fred. She owed him this at least.
If only I hadn’t been so naive. I ought to have stood my ground and not carried on dancing with Reggie in the first place. Why, oh why didn’t I take a leaf out of Connie’s book? In this defiant mood, she marched down the stairs, buttoning her coat as she stepped out on to King Edward Street, to the cacophonous roar of buses, bikes and cars. She found herself carried along by the throng setting out on foot for shops and docks, offices and warehouses. It was a cold morning for May, with a touch of frost in the air, so everyone was muffled up in heavy coats, scarves and hats, walking head down and with hands in pockets, shoulders hunched and shuffling like snails to school and work.
Pamela crossed the market square with a glance in the direction of the Anchor – there was no sign of Sally. She continued along the harbour-side towards St Stephen’s dock, where she caught up with two girls who worked in Anderson’s canteen. Deirdre Howard and Marjorie Dean were chatting with Lionel Simmons, who worked in the cutting shed.
‘We just keep rolling along, eh?’ Lionel winked at Pamela as he quoted lines from the famous American slave song. He was known at the timber yard as a loudmouth who tried too hard to impress the girls, and Pamela remembered him as the troublesome bully who, along with his father, had caused problems during the Hefty Hermann evacuation of St Joseph’s church. ‘You and me, we sweat and strain, eh, Deirdre?’
‘Horses sweat,’ the canteen worker reminded him with a dig of her elbow.
‘Perspire then.’ Lionel nudged Pamela and winked again.
‘No – we glow.’ Marjorie put in her cheeky two penn’orth.
Pamela tuned out from the conversation long before they reached the machine that stamped their cards. She stood apart and focused on what she planned to say to her uncle – how she would phrase her request and the reasons she would give. She would keep it short and to the point. Hugh would understand and agree that Reggie’s departure was for the best.
When, having stamped her card, Pamela made her way to the cloakroom, she ran into Sally, who told her that she’d seen Mr Anderson leave the yard minutes earlier. He’d been driving through the gates as Sally had arrived and the gateman had told her that the boss had a meeting with a wholesaler in York and wouldn’t be back until midday.
‘Dash it.’ Pamela’s plan was put on hold. ‘I wanted to speak to him urgently.’
‘What about?’ Sally and Pamela went upstairs together.
‘Promise you won’t tell?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘I want to ask Uncle Hugh to get rid of Reggie Nolan,’ Pamela confided. ‘I can’t bear the man or what he stands for. It turns out he’s one of those bigots baying for the blood of all German Jewish refugees.’
‘Of which Fred is one.’ Settling down behind her typewriter, Sally understood immediately. Fred’s background was common knowledge, as were the vicious attacks that had taken place the previous year. ‘I thought that nonsense was over and done with.’
‘I only wish it were.’ Pamela remained fired up by the unfairness of it all. ‘The truth is, there will always be these groups – men and women who follow Oswald Mosley and his Blackshirts, even though Mosley is safely behind bars these days. Reggie makes no secret of his views, so I don’t see why Uncle Hugh should carry on providing a roof over his head.’
‘He doesn’t know about Reggie’s political leanings?’ Sally had listened carefully without expressing an opinion.
‘Not yet. But I intend to tell him.’ Pamela shuffled papers in her in-tray, arranging them in date order. ‘Keep it under your hat,’ she reminded Sally. ‘If Reggie found out that it was me who got him turfed out of his billet, Lord knows what he might do to get his own back.’
She was on tenterhooks all morning, constantly looking out of the window for Hugh’s car as the hours ticked by. When at last it appeared, sleek and shiny as it pulled into the yard, it coincided with the sound of the klaxon signalling the dinner break.
‘Here he is!’ Pamela ran to the window to check the busy scene. She made out her uncle in his smart overcoat and trilby hat among the crowd of men in overalls all making a beeline for the canteen.
Sally joined her and peered down at the yard. ‘Maybe it would be best to wait a while,’ she suggested uneasily.
Ignoring her advice, Pamela hurried out of the room and dashed downstairs. She found Hugh talking to her father by the canteen door, catching snatches of their conversation as she picked her way between workers. Apparently mines had been discovered in the estuary and St Stephen’s dock faced a fresh threat. Supplies from the Baltic were likely to be held up as a result.
Should she interrupt? Frowning, she decided to hang back until the two men had finished their talk. There was a tap on her shoulder and she turned to see the squat, square figure of Lionel Simmons grinning at her and offering her a place beside him in the queue.
‘No thanks – I’m waiting to talk to Mr Anderson.’
‘Please yourself.’ Lionel shrugged and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lighting up as the queue moved at snail’s pace towards the door.
‘Yes, Pamela?’ Seeing her hovering, Hugh muttered a quick goodbye to Harold then advanced towards her. ‘What can I do for you?’
A deep breath. Keep it brief. ‘Reggie Nolan,’ she began in a low voice.
‘Is he still bothering you?’ Hugh had weightier matters on his mind so he got straight to the point. ‘You’d like me to ask him to leave Sunrise after all?’
‘Yes,’ Pamela breathed, blushing furiously and aware that her uncle had spoken too loudly. It hadn’t even been necessary for her to mention Reggie’s unpalatable views on Jewish refugees. ‘Please,’ she added.
‘Consider it done. Nolan will be gone by the end of the week.’
And that was it – Hugh turned towards the office block and the queue parted to allow his passage across the yard.
‘The princess speaks, and lo, her wish is granted!’ Lionel’s cynical remark, issued through a cloud of blue cigarette smoke, caused smirks up and down the line. ‘If we speak nicely to Pamela, maybe she can persuade her kind uncle to give us a wage rise. How about it, m’lady? Tell him an extra shilling a week would do nicely, ta very much.’
Thank God for the ARP. The act of changing into her battledress then arriving bang on time for the start of her shift sharpened Connie’s focus and for a few valuable hours she hoped to concentrate on placing roof spotters on tall buildings along College Road before taking action against a junior warden caught asleep at his post. She checked that five rescue and repair squads were in place on North Street for tonight, Wednesday 6 May. A demolition gang had at last finished work on the Harbourmaster’s; now it was the turn of a decontamination party to check for gas leaks and other noxious substances. Leafing through the paperwork at the Gas Street post, she was able to pretend that life went on as normal.
‘Would you mind distributing these new safety leaflets after your tea break?’ Connie called upstairs to Pamela. ‘And while you’re at it, please can you update any changes to the household register? I know for a fact that Ben Simmons at number eight Valley Road has recently taken in a new lodger.’
‘Right you are.’ Pamela washed out her mug at the sink, secretly hoping to avoid Ben’s son Lionel during her visit. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘No hurry – take your time.’ Connie turned her attention to an updated training pamphlet issued by the local authority – there were to be further small changes to blackout regulations and a venue must be arranged for a training lecture on the eighth that new volunteer wardens should attend. Where would Connie get hold of a 16-millimetre projector and a white screen at such short notice?
Ah yes; she knew just the man! Picking up the telephone to liaise with Ronald Atkinson at the town hall, she was aware of Pamela setting off with the leaflets. At the same time, the Fraser brothers returned from Tennyson Street: they’d been manning a new IIP – an Incident Inquiry Post – set up in a greengrocer’s shop for the purpose of reassuring the anxious public. The boys went upstairs for their break and their relaxed chatter drifted downstairs as Connie finished her call.
What next? It was important to keep busy. But instead of flying on to the next task, she faltered and in that split second of indecision she plummeted to earth. It was all a pretence. Nothing was normal. She was expecting a baby.
‘Connie, shall I make you a cuppa?’ Simon called down the stairs.
She was pregnant and scared, drowning in uncertainty after her weekend visit to Mavis Coulson’s house. It was all very well being told to take her time and consult with the other party involved; had Mavis any idea how hard that was to hear? Had she been through this torment herself? If not, how could she dish out advice to others? As for the physical side, Connie had become alert to every small change in her body. Obviously it was too soon for the pregnancy to show, but she might expect morning sickness to kick in at any time and she dreaded this. It would have to be explained away, and Lizzie would have to cover for her with their father, as she had when they’d switched roles in the bakery, giving Connie the extra hour in bed. But the pressure to reach a decision was growing to the point where Connie felt she would explode. True, Mavis’s door stood open – a calm, clean end to the problem lay behind it. But Connie shuddered whenever she considered it. A life was at stake; the fact that a baby was growing inside her had become undeniable.
There must be another way. Women in her situation were known to continue with their everyday lives until they went away and had the infant in secret before handing it over for adoption. Such things could be arranged; there were Christian hostels for unmarried mothers where few questions were asked and childless couples queued up to adopt a baby. Again, she shuddered.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Simon commented as he brought a mug of tea downstairs and placed it on the counter. ‘I made you one anyway.’
Connie drifted towards the door and stared out into the darkness.
‘I’ll leave it here.’ Puzzled, Simon went back upstairs. ‘I don’t know what’s got into Connie lately,’ he told his brother. ‘She acts like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.’
Outside on the street, Tom approached the Union Jack that fluttered in the breeze above the entrance to the post. His eyes were accustomed to the dark and he saw Connie standing at the door before she saw him, so he had time to prepare himself. ‘I’ve just come from North Street,’ he informed her.
‘Good Lord, you made me jump,’ she gasped.
He cleared his throat, then went on. ‘The road’s been closed because of a new water leak outside the bus station. I’ll log it then be on my way.’
‘But you’re not on duty.’
Her lame objection felt like a slap in the face. ‘No – I happened to bump into Norman Riley – I said I’d pass on the message.’
‘You knew I was here?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted awkwardly, then went on in an undertone. ‘I’m doing what we agreed – trying to carry on as if nothing is wrong.’ Bloody impossible – just looking at Connie now made Tom’s heart thump like mad against his chest. ‘Shall I go ahead and log it?’
‘If you like.’ She stood aside to let him pass, watched him take off his gloves, pick up a pencil and start to write.
The letters seemed to float across the page – 21.00 hours. North Street; burst water main. Road closure until further notice. His usually neat writing was an untidy scrawl.
Connie observed how Tom’s familiar physical presence filled the small room – his shoulders were broader than ever in his overcoat and his back was long and straight. She drew a deep breath, waiting for him to finish.
‘Have you heard anything of Ron Butcher lately?’ He turned as casually as he could and steered the conversation away from the seemingly bottomless void that had opened up between them.
‘No – why?’ she answered cautiously.
‘We – Bill and I – suspect that he set fire to Annie May out of spite. But now he’s done a vanishing act.’
‘Wait – Pamela did mention something when she reported for duty. Apparently, Ron started a fight with Frank Hopkins and was dragged off up Tennyson Street in a drunken stupor.’ The details were unclear – Connie hadn’t been concentrating.
‘When was that?’
‘Last night, I think.’
‘Why Tennyson Street? Is that where he’s holed up?’
‘Pamela didn’t say. She was there, though – she saw the fight with her own eyes. She’s worried about what Ron might do to Sally but Sally refuses to go to the police. It’s a proper mess.’
‘Tell Pamela not to worry about her friend – we’ll track Ron down sooner rather than later.’ Squeezing past Connie as he made his way to the door, Tom sensed that she had more to add.
There was a pause, filled by sounds of the Fraser brothers clearing away their tea things in the room above.
‘What?’ Tom prompted. They were so close he could smell the soap she’d used to launder the cotton blouse that she wore under her uniform.
‘If – when – you find him, remember he’s a ticking time bomb. He could easily blow up in your faces,’ she said softly.
‘I’ll remember.’ Hope stirred. Did this mean Connie still cared?
She put a hand on his arm, then quickly removed it, her tone changing from gentle to brisk. ‘I don’t want my sister’s fiancé to end up in hospital over the loss of Annie May, so watch your step, both of you.’
How flat life felt for Lizzie now that there was no wedding to look forward to.
She worked alone in the bakery, following a routine she’d known for most of her life. It had still been pitch black when she’d left Elliot Street and driven the van through the mostly deserted streets, following a route that had taken her past St Joseph’s Church and the school next to it. At the end of College Road, a newspaper delivery boy had appeared in her dimmed headlights. She’d swerved to avoid him then overtaken a milk float parked outside Benson’s music shop, hearing the clink of bottles and the cheery whistle of the milkman as she’d passed by.
Now, inside her warm, brightly lit workspace, she measured flour, yeast, a pinch of salt and warm water into the pancheon, mixing the ingredients well before kneading the dough then leaving it to prove. Next, she turned to a batch that was ready for the oven. She checked that it had reached the right temperature, slid in the trays and set the timer.
Normally, sealed inside this sweet cocoon, Lizzie would have taken pleasure in the familiar work – but not today. Worries niggled at her: would her father remember his doctor’s appointment, and would Connie hang the washing out to dry as Lizzie had requested? Her sister was impossible to talk to these days, and Lizzie understood why. A massive decision hung over Connie’s head and every passing day seemed to make matters worse.
‘Don’t ask,’ Connie had said the previous evening when she’d returned home after her shift and mentioned to Lizzie that Tom had turned up unexpectedly at Gas Street. ‘Like a bad penny,’ she’d muttered as she’d flung off her clothes and slid into bed.
‘I only wanted to know how you dealt with seeing him,’ Lizzie had objected. ‘And how Tom acted towards you. Did you talk about … it?’
‘It’ – that was as close as Lizzie dared come to mentioning the unmentionable. ‘No,’ Connie had snapped, turning off the bedside light. End of subject.
As Lizzie weighed ingredients for the next batch of loaves, her mind strayed inevitably towards Bill. He popped into her thoughts at all times: in the middle of brushing her teeth this morning, or passing the ambulance depot at the old brewery on King Edward Street on her way here, or glancing up at the two blimps on the headland, shining silver in the moonlight. In fact, there wasn’t a moment of her day when she wasn’t aware of her sweetheart and what he might be doing, thinking or saying. As her fists pummelled and kneaded dough and clouds of white flour rose from the wooden board, Lizzie recalled the look of devastation on Bill’s face when he saw the burnt-out wreck of Annie May. His dream was shattered and hers with it. Now they stepped carefully through the fragments of that dream, afraid that the jagged pieces would cut through the tender bonds of love that united them.
‘I’ll find something,’ Bill had promised the previous evening. ‘Even if I have to go as far as Hull to find work, I’ll do it. The big trawlers there need experienced men. I’ll get a job in no time.’
Hull wouldn’t be the same as Kelthorpe – he would have to leave his cottage and instead of stepping straight out into the harbour and on to Annie May he would have to travel at least thirty miles on his motorbike, which meant that Lizzie would scarcely see him. Also, she knew that those large trawlers were at sea for days on end. She’d voiced none of these fears, merely nodding her head and continuing to hide her own disappointments as best she could.
No spring wedding – that was the sharpest, most cruel cut that she was forced to endure. She, Connie, Sally and Pamela had finished sewing the dresses. She’d bought white satin shoes. She’d chosen flowers to decorate the church and picked hymns for the choir to sing.
Not this coming Saturday but the one after would have been their big day, organ music filling the church and the rustle of blue satin and the smooth feel of white silk against her skin as she and her bridesmaids processed down the aisle. Now none of that would happen. The day of May the sixteenth would be empty, the horizon flat and featureless as far as the eye could see.
Sighing, Lizzie opened the oven door to a blast of intense heat that forced her to concentrate on the task in hand. She donned a pair of thick oven mitts, then tapped the bottom of each tin before tipping the freshly baked loaf on to a wire tray. Hearing the muffled tinkle of the shop bell, she stopped what she was doing.
‘Lizzie, are you there?’ a familiar voice called.
‘Bill?’ Alarmed, Lizzie hurried into the shop. ‘What brings you here?’
He stood in his second-hand airman’s jacket, holding a letter and frowning deeply. He was unshaven and his hair was uncombed. ‘I got this in the post,’ he said with a tremor in his voice.
Lizzie took off the mitts with a rising sense of dread. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Those corvettes – the ones in dry dock that they’ve been refitting …’ The words stuck in his throat.
‘What about them?’
‘They’re ready for relaunch.’ He should’ve warned her earlier, as Tom had nagged him to. But Bill had been guilty of putting his head in the sand, of believing that the call-up papers would never arrive; that he’d jump straight into a job on a Hull trawler and be back on the list of reserved occupations.
‘So what does that have to do with you?’ Lizzie clutched the bib of her apron with both hands. Her question hung in the air but she already knew the answer.
‘Those minesweepers need experienced crew – sailors who know these waters, men like Tom and me.’ Bill hung his head. ‘You know the drill.’
All too well! Lizzie felt every drop of colour drain from her cheeks. ‘When?’ she whispered.
‘Here, see for yourself.’ Bill thrust the letter at her.
She took it with trembling hands.
‘Go on, read it.’
Scanning the RNPS letter head, Lizzie’s eyes fixed on the short paragraph below.
William Evans of 6 Harbourside Cottages, Kelthorpe, is hereby transferred from voluntary maintenance work to full-time minesweeping duties on board HMS Northern Lights commencing Monday 18 May 1942. Report for duty at St Stephen’s dock at 0.600 hours.
Averting his gaze, Bill heard Lizzie gasp and imagined her look of dismay. ‘I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, it was bound to happen. I just couldn’t bear to think about it.’
‘You and me both.’ He clenched his jaw and tried to put his arms around her. ‘We’ll cope with this,’ he promised. ‘We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again.’
No! Every atom of her being wanted to protest at this latest news. She pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. ‘I don’t know if I can get through more days of waiting for news or the sleepless nights not knowing if you’re alive or dead. You don’t realize how hard that is.’ Lizzie knew that Jerry wasn’t the only enemy; it was the sea itself – the restless, angry sea.
‘Best not to think about it.’ Bill drew her close and this time met no resistance. He hugged his Lizzie tight. ‘That’s what I try to do – I stuff those dark thoughts into a bottle and jam the cork in tight. That way, I get on with doing what I have to do. It’s the same when you drive your ambulance, acting as if nothing can touch you, as if you’re invincible. Otherwise you’d never be able to do it.’
She rested her head against the fleecy collar of his jacket. ‘You’re right,’ she murmured. ‘We all do that – Connie, Pamela and me.’
‘You three girls have come through a lot together.’ Bill kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m proud of you, Lizzie Harrison.’
‘And I’m proud of you too, Bill Evans.’ She gazed up at him and felt the touch of his lips on her forehead, cheeks and mouth. They would keep the bottle tightly corked, honour King and country and do their best to take one day at a time.