Chapter Twenty-One

November

On the first Friday of November, Dorothy got out her calendar and informed everyone it was just seven weeks and three days to the big day.

‘It’s time to sell the ring!’ she declared.

They all knew that Angie had become very attached to Dorothy’s ring. It had been her idea to hold on to it that bit longer before selling it, telling the women that, according to Quentin, the price of both gold and precious stones was going up, in which case they might get more for it the longer they left it. Angie had been humoured, but the time had come for the ring to be forsaken for ready money.

It was agreed that having such a large amount of cash in the flat was not a good idea, and they might have to accept a cheque. They were also unsure how much the ring was worth. It was therefore decided that the best option was to open a bank account, which could also be used to add any more funds they might raise for the extravaganza. There was only one problem – a woman had to have the permission of her husband or a male relative to open an account.

Dorothy was apoplectic.

‘So, we can weld ships, risk being blown to smithereens in a munitions factory or chop down trees like Angie’s sister, but we can’t open a bank account without the say-so of some bloke!’

‘I’m surprised yer didn’t know that already,’ Gloria said.

Rosie, too, was surprised Dorothy didn’t know. ‘The powers that be,’ she said, ‘seem to think women are delicate creatures, incapable of understanding money and unable to handle anything financial.’

‘But what about the comptometrists working in admin? They are nearly all women.’ Martha was equally perplexed.

‘Yes, exactly,’ Dorothy argued.

‘Tell that to the men who make the laws,’ Rosie said.

‘I might just do that!’ Dorothy said.

‘So, how’s Dor gonna gerra bank account?’ Angie asked.

‘Well, I’m guessing she’s going to have to ask Frank,’ said Rosie.

‘Frank!’ Dorothy practically spat his name out.

‘He’s your mother’s husband. That makes him a male relative,’ Rosie said. ‘I don’t think you’ve got much choice.’

Dorothy let out a strangled sound of exasperation.

When Dorothy trudged round to her family home in The Cedars, one of the grandest streets in the town, Frank was quick to point out that if Dorothy had been married, like most young women her age, she wouldn’t have had to come to him. He also took the opportunity to shake a copy of the Sunderland Echo in her face and jab a finger at a report on the inquest of a plater killed working at Bartram’s shipyard after falling from staging. His argument being that it wasn’t safe for women to work in the shipyards.

Dorothy knew, of course, that the real reason Frank didn’t want her working in a shipyard was because he didn’t like to admit to those in his circle that his wife’s daughter was a welder at Thompson’s. It was a truth she had to hold back from pointing out. It pained her to do so, but she needed his signature.

A few days later, Dorothy walked out of the Lloyds bank on Fawcett Street, linking arms with Angie, smiling like the Cheshire cat and brandishing a little blue bank book. As they passed a newsstand, they saw the main headlines about British forces distributing food in Athens, which was experiencing famine. Having watched Princess Marina, Duchess of Kent, take a cheque from the mayor last month for the Greek Red Cross, Dorothy and Angie agreed that it felt good to know the town had done its bit to help. It also spurred them on – even more than they were already – to give their wounded soldiers at the Ryhope hospital a Christmas to remember.

From the bank, they walked down a little way before cutting through Athenaeum Street and then crossing Waterloo Place and heading up Blandford Street. They were both drawing interested and admiring looks as they had dressed for the occasion and had put on their ‘poshest’ outfits.

Stopping outside one of the town’s most expensive jeweller’s, Dorothy took a deep breath. She looked at Angie, who was clearly very nervous. Dorothy was still amazed that Angie had never stepped foot in a jeweller’s shop before. But then again, like Angie had said, why would she have? It wasn’t as if she had ever owned a piece of jewellery in her life, never mind bought any. Knowing this, it went without saying that Dorothy would do the wheeling and dealing.

Walking into the quietness of the shop, Dorothy felt a little nervous. She hadn’t liked to admit it to Angie, but she had only been in a jeweller’s a few times herself. She’d always felt there was something a tad intimidating about the sombre atmosphere, the smell of polished wood and the sound of a pendulum clock.

‘Good afternoon, ladies. How can I help you?’ The man looked exactly like a jeweller should – wiry, with half-moon glasses, a waistcoat with a pocket watch – and dressed in such a way that he would not look out of place if he were suddenly to be transported back to the reign of Queen Victoria.

‘Good afternoon, Mr …’ Dorothy looked at the man and raised one perfectly pencilled-in eyebrow.

‘Mr Golding,’ the man said, regarding the two women over his glasses. ‘Proprietor.’

‘Good to make your acquaintance,’ Dorothy said as they reached the counter and she held out her hand.

Angie stared at her friend, who seemed to have morphed into royalty on stepping over the threshold.

‘We’re here to sell, not to buy,’ Dorothy said, ‘although I am sure once you see what we have, you will realise it will be to your benefit.’ She looked at Angie, who fumbled around in her handbag before finally producing the little red leather box. She placed it on the glass counter and opened the lid.

‘Put it on, Angela. Show Mr Golding how beautiful it looks.’

Angie nearly choked on hearing Dorothy call her ‘Angela’. She didn’t think her best friend had ever called her by her full name.

Angie did as she was told and took the ring out of the box and put it on the ring finger of her left hand, moving it around under the light that the jeweller had switched on and which was positioned on top of the counter. The movement under the bright white light beautifully showed off the sparkling diamond.

‘Yes, it is very lovely,’ the jeweller said. ‘May I?’ He put out his hand.

Angie gently eased off the ring and handed it over.

Taking a little round magnifier from his waistcoat pocket, he placed it in front of his right eye, squinting slightly so as to hold it in place.

‘I do believe this may well be one of mine?’

‘You might be right,’ Dorothy said, thinking that Toby would have asked which was the best jeweller’s in town and gone directly there.

‘I also believe it was sold a good few months ago.’ Mr Golding again looked at the two pretty women standing on the other side of his polished cherrywood counter. ‘That being the case, I have to ask if it has been worn?’

Dorothy glanced at Angie and saw that she had gone bright red.

‘No, never worn,’ Dorothy said. She looked at the jeweller, who was giving her a sceptical look. ‘I can reassure you it is in exactly the same condition as when it was given to me back in June this year – at the Palatine Hotel, if you must know.’

The old man’s memory was returning. He recalled the buyer. An officer. He hoped the ring had been returned because the love affair had cooled and not because the woman’s beau had been killed in action.

‘Can I ask you why it has taken so long to return the ring, if you have not been wearing it?’ he asked.

‘The gentleman who bought the ring would not have it back after his proposal of marriage was turned down,’ Dorothy answered truthfully. ‘And it has been languishing in my bedside drawer at home.’ Admitting it had been kept in the kitchen cupboard sounded a little odd.

Mr Golding nodded, relieved.

‘And just so you know,’ Dorothy said, ‘I do not intend to benefit financially from the ring in any way – I am donating its worth to the Christmas Extravaganza appeal for the Ryhope Emergency Hospital.’

Dorothy looked at Angie, who presented one of the small leaflets that Marie-Anne had designed and reproduced.

‘Oh,’ the jeweller said, putting on his spectacles and taking the leaflet from the young woman who he had thought might be mute as she hadn’t spoken a word since stepping into the shop.

‘I see, I see,’ he said, reading carefully. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you.’

‘And that is why we are asking for the full price of the ring to be reimbursed.’

The jeweller smiled. ‘Of course, my dear.’ He got out a pencil and a notebook no bigger than the ones used by waitresses and scrawled a figure.

Dorothy inspected it.

‘Add on another five pounds and you’ve got a deal,’ she said.

She snuck a look at Angie and saw her eyes were practically out on stalks.

‘You drive a hard bargain, my dear. A very hard bargain.’

‘All for a good cause,’ Dorothy said.

The jeweller took off his glasses. The price agreed was just a little less than the amount he’d sold it for. He was happy.

‘Just wait there for a few minutes,’ he said, before disappearing out the back.

‘Blimey!’ Angie whispered, looking at the ring.

She looked at Dorothy. ‘I’ve never known anyone be so kind.’

Dorothy smiled. ‘Go on – give it one last try.’

Angie slid the ring on and they both admired it.

Pulling a forlorn expression, Angie pulled the ring off her finger and carefully put it back in its leather box.

As they waited patiently for the jeweller to return with the money, an idea came to Dorothy.

When they got back to the flat, they went to see Mrs Kwiatkowski and await Quentin’s call. As always, he rang on time and the old woman and Dorothy sat in the hallway to give Angie her privacy. When Angie came out to announce she had ended the call, Dorothy made an excuse, saying that she had left something in their neighbour’s flat and she’d see Angie up in their own place in a few minutes.

Angie declared she was shattered and trooped up the stairs, happy to put on her pyjamas and get ready for the nine o’clock news on the BBC Home Service.

Dorothy hadn’t left anything in their neighbour’s flat, but instead, as agreed with Mrs Kwiatkowski, she went straight to the phone, picked up the receiver and asked to be put through to the number that had just called.

A few moments later, Dorothy was connected.

‘Hi, Quentin,’ she said, keeping her voice low just in case Angie could hear from the flat above. ‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine.’ Dorothy looked across to Mrs Kwiatkowski, who put her thumb up in excitement and muttered something in Polish.

‘I just thought you might like to know something …’ Dorothy began.

A few minutes later, she hung up, a big smile on her face.

‘Do you know, Mrs Kwiatkowski, I think I now know what it feels like to be Father Christmas.’