Chapter Forty-Seven

Christmas Eve

When Dorothy woke the next morning, she said a quick prayer of thanks that Christmas Eve had fallen on a Sunday this year. She reiterated that thanks to a bleary-eyed Angie as she sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Just think, if this was last year, or next year, we’d have to go into work,’ Dorothy said, handing Angie a cup of tea before turning back to the hob and stirring a pan of porridge.

‘Ta, Dor,’ Angie said. She was particularly grateful as she was feeling a tad tender, having drunk a little too much port at yesterday’s party.

Dorothy was also feeling fragile, but was determined not to give in to it. There was too much to do today.

‘Get that down you,’ she said, ladling out a bowl of hot oats and putting it on the table. ‘You’re going to need it for what we’ve got to do today.’

Angie groaned.

‘And don’t forget that later you’ve got to make yourself look gorgeous for Quentin’s arrival.’

Angie’s face brightened up.

‘This is going to be the best Christmas ever,’ Dorothy declared.

‘And the most exhausting ever,’ Angie said, eyeing the list of last-minute chores they had to do for the Christmas Extravaganza.

Having eaten breakfast, they both went to get changed, Angie mumbling that she thought she would have had an easier time of it if they had, in fact, had to go to work.

‘Then we’d just have had twice as much to do,’ Dorothy argued back.

‘Yer weren’t meant to hear that!’ Angie shouted through from her room, pulling a jumper over her head and then pulling on a pair of trousers. Anything to keep warm. It was wonderful that the snow showed no sign of abating, but not that the temperature was below freezing.

‘Never miss a trick, me,’ Dorothy joshed back. She had also opted to wear the warmest clothes she could find in her wardrobe. They had a lot of walking and toing and froing to do today.

‘Actually,’ she added, ‘I’m thinking of going into private-investigation work when they chuck us out of the yard.’

‘They’re not gonna chuck us out of the yard, are they?’ Angie came out of her room and was standing in Dorothy’s bedroom doorway. Her friend was wearing practically identical clothes to the ones she had on. A cream-coloured jumper with high-waisted flared navy blue trousers.

‘Of course, they are,’ Dorothy said, turning round. When she saw Angie was wearing the same outfit, she burst out laughing. ‘Two peas in a pod, eh?’

Angie turned and headed for the front door, where she pulled on her ankle boots.

‘Why’re they gonna chuck us out?’ she asked again, sliding her arms into her three-quarter-length winter coat.

‘Because,’ Dorothy said, bobbing into the kitchen to retrieve her list from the table, ‘the men will be home and they’ll want their jobs back.’

‘But that’s not fair – it’ll mean we’ll be out of a job,’ Angie said, berating herself for not having thought about this before. ‘What are we meant to do? We’ve got this flat to pay rent on. We’ll have to find another job.’

Dorothy pulled on her boots and, in keeping with their identical outfits, chose her woollen coat instead of her mackintosh.

‘Exactly why I’m thinking of going into private-eye work,’ Dorothy said. ‘It sounds so exciting.’

Angie tutted as she opened the front door to their flat and they both stepped out onto the landing. ‘Seriously, though, Dor, what we gonna dee? Everyone’s saying the war will be over by spring at the latest.’

Dorothy shut the door and they made their way down the stairs.

‘I think us little women are expected to go back to the way we were before – hurry back to the kitchen sink and get on with baking and breeding.’

Angie laughed. ‘Eee, Dor, yer dee have a way with words.’

A blast of icy air hit them as they walked out onto the pavement. They both automatically buttoned up their coats and pulled out their headscarves and gloves from their handbags.

‘But what if us little women dinnit want to gan back to baking and breeding?’ Angie said mournfully.

‘Well, no one can force us, can they?’ Dorothy said, grabbing her friend’s arm as they headed to Tatham Street. ‘We’ll just have to work out what we do “wanna dee”.’

Dorothy was a little concerned, though, by her friend’s reaction to becoming a wife and mother. As she was sure Quentin would be if he had been privy to the conversation.

The walk to the Elliots’ might have taken only a few minutes, but by the time they’d reached the front door, their teeth were chattering. Yet more snow had started to fall, which Dorothy was pleased about. A white Christmas was now a guarantee.

Bobby answered the door, knowing that Dorothy and Angie would be arriving just after breakfast. He grabbed hold of Dorothy and gave her a kiss on the lips. Angie swatted him on the arm. ‘Move ower, yer git big heffalump. I’m gonna turn to ice if I stand out here much longer.’

Bobby laughed. ‘Sorry, Angie, your friend here is just too irresistible.’

Angie pushed past them and into the warmth of the Elliot household, where she was greeted by an excited Tramp and Pup, whose tails were wagging nineteen to the dozen.

‘Yer might wanna try living with her,’ she said, bending down to pat the dogs. ‘Yer might think differently then.’

Bobby looked down at Dorothy and raised his eyebrows. ‘Now, that’s a thought.’

Dorothy rolled her eyes and followed her friend into the kitchen.

For the next hour or so they sat around the table, drinking tea and chatting about what had to be done by whom. Much as everyone was enjoying calling Dorothy a slave-driver, it was clear that they too were very excited about having such an unusual Christmas Day. Agnes showed everyone the bags of woollens that had been knitted by herself, Beryl and anyone else they had been able to rope in. Those who only had basic knitting skills had been tasked with making scarfs and patchwork blankets. The more experienced had made jumpers, which, they’d all agreed, were a necessity in this northern winter weather.

As Dorothy watched Agnes show them the fruits of their labour, she thought she seemed a little different. Very well and happy. She’d always thought Polly’s ma was a handsome woman but a little worn out and jaded. That could not be said of her today. She had dyed her hair a deep chestnut brown and losing the grey had taken years off her.

Beryl bustled in just as they were getting ready to leave and triumphantly told them that the problem of the wrapping paper had been sorted. As paper was still rationed, it had been looking as though they would have to wrap the presents in newspapers, which Dorothy had found abhorrent – she’d said it would be like they were ‘handing out fish lots’. Luckily, Beryl announced proudly, her two girls, Iris and Audrey, had been inventive and had managed to get their hands on quite a substantial amount of brown paper that was apparently ‘going spare’ at the GPO, where they worked. These past two days, Beryl declared, the nursery had been like Santa’s factory, with the children taking on the role of little elves and putting their artistic talents to use by decorating the coarse brown paper with crayon drawings of anything that signified Christmas. Most of the drawings had been of Santa, snowmen, Christmas trees, baubles or even the odd reindeer, although one of the older children had done a very artistic drawing of the Nativity that Beryl and her daughters had agreed was too good to be used as wrapping paper and was going to be given as a gift.

After leaving the Elliots’ and walking back towards town, Dorothy asked if Angie had really meant what she’d said about not wanting to be a homemaker.

‘You’re not really against marriage, are you?’ Dorothy asked, worried her own change of heart might be influencing her friend.

‘Wouldn’t you be,’ Angie shot back, ‘if yer’d been brought up in a madhouse with a mam ’n dad who hated each other but kept spilling out bairns with barely two pennies to rub together?’

‘I know, but that’s not to say that would be the case with you,’ Dorothy argued back. ‘You could do it differently.’

‘I suppose so,’ Angie ruminated. ‘Which reminds me, yer dee realise we’re ganna have to pop in ’n see my mam ’n dad later?’

Dorothy had indeed realised a home visit was inevitable, but had decided not to think about it until they were there. ‘At least we’ve got an excuse not to stay long.’

‘Exactly,’ Angie agreed, suddenly thankful that she was spending Christmas Eve helping Dorothy with her chores.

Walking into Vera’s café, their senses were assailed by just about every kind of Christmas culinary delight.

‘Mmm,’ Angie said, closing her eyes and smelling all the wonderful aromas drifting from the kitchen into the main cafeteria.

Dorothy chuckled. ‘You look like one of the Bisto Kids!’

Seeing Vera bustle out the back having heard the jangle of the brass doorbell, Dorothy and Angie made their way over to the counter.

‘Before yer ask,’ Vera said, ‘we’re all set. Well, just about, anyway.’

Seeing a family come into the café, Vera looked at Dorothy and Angie and pointed to a quiet table in the corner. ‘Sit yerselves down. Me ’n Rina’ll be over in a minute.’

Hearing the kerfuffle out front, Rina appeared, waved her hello and disappeared again before returning with a tea tray that not only had a big pot of tea on it, but a couple of sausage rolls as well. The two friends were joined a few minutes later by Vera, who had seen to the family and had turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.

As Dorothy and Angie savoured the sausage rolls, which they later agreed were the best they’d ever tasted, Vera and Rina went through the list of sweets and savouries they’d be bringing to the do. Answering a question about transportation, Vera turned to Rina and said, ‘Yer have this one to thank fer that. Some bloke’s got the glad eye fer her. Said he’d be honoured to offer the use of his van ’n of himself as driver.’

Dorothy kicked Angie under the table as Rina, who had the beginnings of a blush creeping across her face, threw her boss the darkest of looks.

Leaving the café with a smattering of crumbs on their jumpers and warm, full bellies, Dorothy and Angie jumped on a tram that took them over the water to Monkwearmouth, known locally as the Barbary Coast. It was where Angie had been born and brought up. They’d decided to get the family visit done now to ‘get it out of the way’.

As usual, Dorothy was immediately bowled over by a feral band of screaming children, who, thankfully, were distracted a few minutes later by Angie putting the family’s Christmas present on the table: a load of pastries she had bought from the local bakery. Forcing down the obligatory cup of tea, they both listened as Angie’s mam and dad made no bones of the fact they were unhappy that their daughter was not coming round on Christmas Day, especially as Liz, the eldest child, was away working as a Lumberjill and had not been given leave. Dorothy knew Angie’s sister’s no-show was because of a farmer’s son she’d met, rather than her not being granted a Christmas pass. Just as she knew that Angie’s mam and dad’s unhappiness at not having either of their two oldest children back home for Christmas Day was because they wouldn’t have anyone to help cook the dinner and look after the children. Angie’s mam was particularly riled as it meant she would not be able to slip off to see her fancy man while her husband fell asleep in front of the fire at teatime.

Angie’s parents were appeased, however, when their daughter produced a ten-shilling note and they only half listened when Angie told them to make the most of it because, she said with undisguised bitterness, she had just realised that she would be booted out of the yard once the war ended.

‘When are you going to tell them about Quentin?’ Dorothy asked as they left the madness and mayhem of Angie’s childhood home and walked along Victor Street.

‘I keep putting it off,’ Angie said. ‘Besides, I dinnit want to spend the little time I get to see Quentin with them.’

They walked in silence for a short while.

‘Nothing to do with the fact Quentin’s “posh”?’ Dorothy asked tentatively.

They turned the corner and started along Dundas Street.

‘Might be,’ Angie conceded. ‘I knar they’ll say he’s just “after one thing”, and don’t expect someone who “speaks like that to make an honest woman of yer”.’

Dorothy thought her friend was spot on when it came to her family. Angie, she had learnt, saw life and people for what they were – even if the picture wasn’t a particularly pleasant one.

When they arrived at Marie-Anne’s house, they heard her and Dahlia before they saw them. They were singing Bing Crosby’s hit ‘Swinging on a Star’, taking it in turns to sing alternate lines. It sounded remarkably good and their voices incredibly harmonious.

‘How’s that gorgeous hunk of a man of yours, Dorothy?’ Dahlia asked as they sat down at the kitchen table to go over the programme. Matthew’s secretary knew how much Dorothy hated the fact that she had been out on a date with Bobby before Dorothy had started to court him. Bobby had reassured Dorothy that ‘nothing much’ had gone on between the two of them, but Dorothy knew that first off, Bobby wouldn’t admit it if it had, and secondly, Dahlia had not earned her nickname ‘the Swedish seductress’ for nothing.

Marie-Anne went through the order of entertainment, which also included Mick, a friend of the family who, she reassured Dorothy, was a very good magician. When Dahlia disappeared only to return with two crimson dresses with plunging necklines, Dorothy resolved to wear her black dress with an even deeper neckline.

After Dorothy and Angie had used the outside lavatory, they said their goodbyes and Dorothy stressed the time they were to arrive at the hospital and that they couldn’t be late as everything had been planned down to the last minute.

‘Don’t worry. We won’t be late,’ Dahlia said. ‘Not with all those brave wounded soldiers needing to be entertained and shown how much we appreciate them. It’s just a shame there won’t be any Yanks there.’

Angie had to suffer Dorothy muttering on about Dahlia for a good part of the journey back over to the other side of the river.

‘I hope she doesn’t bring the tone down,’ Dorothy bitched.

Angie laughed. ‘I hate to say it, Dor, but I think it’ll be Dahlia that brings a smile to the men’s faces tomorrow more than anything else we’ve got planned.’

Dorothy huffed, but didn’t say anything.

Their final stop was at the Maison Nouvelle, where they slumped down in the back room and begged Kate not to offer them a pot of tea. It was the best part of the day as their work was almost done and they loved going to Kate’s boutique and looking at her latest creations and trailing their hands across her rolls of fabric.

Kate showed them the decorations she had made and those she’d been given by some of her more well-off patrons who had been eager to contribute. Some of them had even gifted old suits they said their husbands wouldn’t be wearing again, either because they were not as svelte as they used to be or because they’d passed on.

Dorothy and Angie were amazed at both the amount and the quality of the decorations Kate had managed to acquire, or make, on top of doing her normal seamstress work, which was busy at the best of times, never mind before Christmas.

Before they left, Kate brought out Angie’s dress, which Dorothy had paid to be jazzed up as her Christmas present for her friend, and to thank her for helping with the extravaganza and putting up with her ‘being a right old bossyboots’.

‘Yer right there!’ Angie laughed, but secretly she was really touched by what Dorothy had done.

‘Try it on,’ Kate insisted. ‘I’ve made a few alterations, so I need to check it’s OK.’

Angie’s eyes were out on stalks looking at the dress, which now bore no resemblance to the one she’d had hanging in her wardrobe. Kate had created a stylish sweetheart neckline, which she had trimmed with lace. She had also shortened the hemline and added another lace trim.

When Angie came out of the dressing room and gave them a twirl, Kate and Dorothy agreed it looked even better on.

‘A classy, Christmassy look,’ Dorothy declared.

Kate insisted on adding a little make-up and quickly styled Angie’s hair into victory rolls.

‘Perfect,’ Kate said, standing back and surveying her handiwork.

Angie caught herself in the mirror and was taken aback.

‘Thanks, Kate.’

She looked at her best friend.

‘And thanks, Dor – this really is the best Christmas present ever.’

Dorothy chuckled, pleased with her friend’s reaction.

When they arrived back at the flat, they caught sight of Quentin as he hurried round the corner, trudging through fresh snow. As soon as he saw Angie standing at the bottom of the steps, his face lit up.

‘You look sensational!’ he said. When he reached the woman he’d fallen for the first time he’d seen her at this very spot two years ago, he held her for a moment.

‘Sensational!’ he repeated, before giving her a gentle kiss on the lips.

Not for the first time, Dorothy thought how similar the pair looked. They were around the same height – Quentin was just a smidgen taller – and they had the same strawberry-blond hair. Personality-wise, though, and in terms of class, they were at opposite ends of the spectrum.

‘I thought you normally got dropped off at the door?’ Angie asked, taking Quentin’s hand and walking up the steps to their front door.

‘Oh, I had a few errands to run,’ he said. ‘I’m parched. Cup of tea?’

Angie groaned. ‘I’ll make you a nice cuppa, but Dor and I have had enough to sink a ship.’

Leaving the lovebirds to spend the rest of Christmas Eve on their own, Dorothy popped her head in to check on Mrs Kwiatkowski before making her way up to the flat. She was exhausted. For once, she was glad she was in on her own and having an early night. She needed all the energy she could muster for the extravaganza. And she needed all the beauty sleep she could get, for she was determined to look stunning tomorrow. There was no way she was going to be outshone by the likes of Dahlia.