‘So, how are your girls doing?’ DS Miller asked Rosie, taking a bite of his sandwich and washing it down with a mouthful of tea.
The pair were seated at the same small, square, wooden table they always sat at in the corner of the little teashop on High Street East. Today the café was bursting at the seams with customers: workers, pensioners, women and children – there was even a cat slinking around underneath the tables. Rosie loved this place – the clattering of cups and saucers, the gentle hum of chattering voices, even the hungry cries of a baby. And, in the midst of it all, there was Vera, busily making round after round of sandwiches, pouring countless cups of tea, and slicing up her huge home-made cakes.
Despite the sudden teatime rush, the café’s proprietor had made sure no one was sitting at the corner table, as she now did every week for the copper and the woman welder who came to enjoy her patronage every Wednesday – and who had been doing so religiously for the past six weeks.
Vera still had no idea if the odd couple were just friends, colleagues or lovers, but what she did know was that they were both as regular as clockwork with the time and frequency of their meetings, as well as with their very generous tips.
Rosie was surprised but glad that their corner table was always free, and wondered whether it was down to the bountiful gratuities DS Miller left, or whether he was actually paying some kind of retainer so that their favourite place was theirs and theirs alone for their regular weekly rendezvous. It was the only explanation Rosie could think of, as Vera was not the most accommodating of people. There had even been a few times when they had arrived to find customers standing at the counter waiting for a seat, even though their corner table was quite obviously empty, and when Vera had clocked them walking through the door, she had simply nodded in the direction of the table, signalling to them to go and sit down, before making everyone else wait until she had sorted them out with a pot of tea and a round of sandwiches.
For Rosie, these get-togethers with the detective were the highlight of her week. Sitting there opposite DS Miller, their waxed-cloth-covered table so small that their legs occasionally brushed against one another, Rosie felt as if they were in their own little world, their own bubble – chatting, laughing, and philosophising about life, their work, and, of course, the war.
Today, Vera had her little wireless on and, as was the norm, was making no effort at small talk, or any attempt to force her mouth into a friendly smile. Her customers didn’t seem to mind, though; judging by how busy it was today, her slightly grumpy, almost unfriendly attitude clearly wasn’t affecting business.
‘Sorry, Peter, what did you say?’ Rosie asked. She felt her stomach plummet to the bottom of her rubber-soled boots.
‘How are your girls?’ DS Miller repeated the question, this time speaking a little louder to make sure he could be heard over the surrounding chatter.
Rosie could feel her heart hammering. For a split second she had thought he’d meant ‘her girls’ – at Lily’s – and she’d been floored by a sense of sheer panic and shock.
Seeing the slightly confused look on Rosie’s face, the detective elaborated. ‘You know, your welders – your girls?’
Rosie wanted to slap herself. There was no way he could possibly know about her other girls.
You are getting paranoid, Rosie reprimanded herself.
‘Ah, the girls. Of course, the girls. My girls. My welders,’ Rosie tried to sound nonchalant and hide any trace of alarm the detective might have picked up on.
‘Goodness,’ she laughed, letting her body relax, ‘where do I start?’
‘How’s Gloria? Has she been having any more bother with her estranged husband?’ Now it was DS Miller’s turn to force a certain casualness into his voice.
‘No, thank the lord!’ Rosie exclaimed a little too animatedly, a delayed sense of relief flooding through her.
‘She hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him since the last time …’ Rosie paused. ‘He’s probably so ashamed about what he did that he doesn’t dare show his face – I hope so, anyway. Gloria’s got enough on her plate at the moment without worrying about him turning up again and getting nasty,’ Rosie added, her anger towards Vinnie resurfacing quickly.
Rosie wanted to tell Peter that Gloria’s plate was particularly overflowing at the moment, as she was going to have to make up her mind pretty soon about whether or not to come clean about the baby’s paternity. She had heard from the other yard manager, who was presently doing a sort of job share with Helen, that Jack was on his way back from America. No one knew exactly when, as he was travelling back by sea, and that could take weeks in the present climate. But, when Jack was back in town, and moreover when he saw that Gloria had doubled in size and it had nothing to do with her diet, she was going to have to either tell him the truth – that the child was his – or lie and say it was Vinnie’s. The woman was in an impossible situation.
Rosie wished she could share Gloria’s dilemma, but that was her friend’s secret and not hers to tell. She did feel, though, that her detective would have understood; she had got to know Peter over these past few months and could see he was naturally kind and compassionate. She also knew he had been enraged when she’d told him about Vinnie’s violence. A lot of men she knew would not have been that concerned – and some would even have blamed it on Gloria.
‘But,’ Rosie continued, ‘Gloria seems as happy as Larry on the cranes, which is a good thing. And, best of all, I think Helen’s realised that she can’t get rid of Gloria, even if she wants to. According to my union rep she could sack her at the drop of a hat just because she’s pregnant, but he reckons the big bosses have told her to take heed as Thompson’s, like all the shipyards, are crying out for more workers. He said it wouldn’t be “prudent” to be seen to be sacking women – especially pregnant women – as just about all of the town’s industry is becoming increasingly reliant on what he calls “the gentler sex”.’
DS Miller pretended to splutter on his tea. ‘Gentler? Mm, I’m not so sure about that!’
Rosie laughed. ‘Tell me about it! My girls, as you call them, certainly don’t fit that description.
‘But, anyway, the good news is that Angie’s taken to welding really well. Thank goodness. And the rest of the women are all chipping in and helping her learn the ropes. It makes my job so much easier.’
After they’d finished their tea and sandwiches, and Rosie had bought a big piece of cake that Vera put in a box for her and tied with string, the pair left, shouting out their goodbyes and, as usual, being waved off by the old woman as if she was shooing them out of her premises.
As soon as the door had closed behind them, DS Miller took Rosie’s hand. It was the part of their date she always looked forward to: the feel of his strong hand wrapped around her own as he walked her back to her flat. Neither of them ever struggled with conversation and they would chat away right up to the moment they parted, but Rosie’s mind was always focused on her companion’s touch – his warm, large, rough hand as it grasped her own gifting her a feeling of sensuality, of joy, of being cared for, and of love.
Sometimes, like today, their fingers would intertwine and Rosie would feel the deep pull of attraction – something she had rarely experienced in her life and which always caught her off guard.
Rosie was well aware that their weekly ritual of tea, chats and then walking home holding hands was a little odd. Most other couples would be dating properly by now. But she was relieved Peter had not formally asked to court her, or attempted to do anything more than hold her hand. It was as if he intuitively knew she didn’t want that. Although, of course, she did want that. Very much so.
After they both said their chaste farewells, Rosie let herself into her flat, but as she did so the feelings Peter had infused in her quickly evaporated as she came back down to earth. She reminded herself that their dalliance could never go any further, for she simply couldn’t allow herself to become involved with any man, but especially one who enforced the law of the land.
She was especially sure of this after her reaction earlier on. There was simply no way Peter could know about her other job.
The only way he could ever find out would be if he went there for any of the services offered by her girls, and Rosie was pretty sure Peter was not the type. Lily had told her that they had the occasional visit from one of the Borough’s chief inspectors, but he was always very discreet and only Lily and George knew he was a copper. No one else from the local constabulary had any idea that the beautiful three-storey town house opposite Ashbrooke’s Sports and Social Club was anything but the residence of one of the town’s more affluent inhabitants.
But her reaction to Peter’s innocent question earlier on had given Rosie a shock. It had afforded her an insight into how it would feel should he get to know about her past as a working girl, and her present as Lily’s business partner. But worst of all had been the sense of shame that had unexpectedly hit her during that short moment she had thought Peter knew about the bordello.
It’s a warning, Rosie told herself as she quickly changed her clothes, I’ve got too close to this man for my own good. It has to stop.
Rosie knew she was playing with fire, and she knew she was going to get badly hurt if she carried on seeing him.
As she dabbed make-up on to her face, covering her scars, her mind kept churning over. She knew if her relationship with Peter went any further, the pain she would inevitably feel would be a very different kind to that which her uncle Raymond had subjected her to – but it was pain all the same. And she had suffered enough hurt and torment to last her a lifetime.
‘I’ve already been burnt the once. I’m damned if it’s going to happen again,’ she said aloud to the reflection staring back at her in the mirror.
As Rosie finished getting ready, she left her flat and made her way to her old boarding house, just a few hundred yards up from the main bus depot in Park Lane. Rosie hurried up the worn carpeted stairs, taking care as she was wearing her heels and a dress which wasn’t exactly figure-hugging but that still didn’t allow her much leeway in movement.
Lily had shown her some of the latest ‘utility’ fashions and how it was becoming increasingly common for women to wear slacks for leisure and not just for work. Rosie had liked the look of them; they appeared comfortable and far more practical than a skirt. She longed for the day overalls became de rigueur but doubted that would ever happen, certainly not in her lifetime.
‘Mrs T? You up there?’ Rosie shouted out as she reached the second landing.
‘Of course I’m here, Rose! Where else is an old blind woman going to be? Out living it up? Painting the town red?’ she said with a loud laugh.
‘You don’t fool me,’ Rosie said as she pushed open the old woman’s door, which was always ajar. ‘You’re probably planning a night out on the tiles as soon as you’re shot of me!’
Rosie gave Mrs T a big hug and then put her boxed-up cake on the side table. ‘This is a fleeting visit, I’m just off out, but I wanted to pop in with this for you to have after your supper.’
Mrs T shuffled over to where Rosie had put the square cardboard box and picked it up and smelt it. ‘Ah, you’re a little treasure. It’s my favourite. Good old-fashioned pound cake. I can smell the vanilla and icing powder. Thanks, pet. You don’t have to, you know. You should save your pennies. I know you’ve not got a lot.’
‘If I couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t get it. You just look after yourself and enjoy it. I’ll do us a quick cuppa and then I’ll get off.’
As Rosie made the tea, the two women chatted about their week. Mrs T told Rosie about the new tenants on the third floor, a loud, young woman, with two small but equally vociferous children. And Rosie talked in turn about work, and how she was counting down the weeks and days before her sister Charlotte came to stay over during the school holidays.
‘I wasn’t sure whether I should let her really,’ she told Mrs T a little anxiously, ‘especially after all the air raids we’ve been having of late, but it seems to have quietened down. I think I can risk her being here for a couple of days.’
‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ the old woman said as she lifted her teacup to her lips. Rosie noticed that her hands were shaking more than usual.
‘Charlotte cannot wait to meet you too. I’ve told her all about you – and the girls at work. I think she’s quite excited.’
When it was time for Rosie to go, Mrs T didn’t ask her where she was going, which pleased Rosie, but at the same time it confirmed what she had suspected for a while now: Mrs T had a good idea where she was going and what she was doing – and had probably known for some time. After Rosie had been attacked by her uncle, and the old woman had felt the scars on her face, she’d stopped asking where Rosie was ‘gallivanting’ off to, just like she’d never mentioned the sister and family in South Shields Rosie had purported to have; that was a story Rosie had concocted shortly after she had first moved in to explain why she was coming back so late in the evening.
The women had an unspoken understanding. Rosie was pleased the old woman had some idea as to what she did but, at the same time, she was glad she also knew not to talk about it.
Her only slight concern was that if an old doddery woman, who could hardly walk and was blighted with cataracts, had sussed out what she was doing, how long would it take someone like Peter, a detective, and a naturally inquisitive person, to also work it out?
At about the same time that Rosie was leaving Mrs T’s to go to Lily’s, DS Miller was starting his shift patrolling the north side of the river, where the majority of the bombs had been dropped over the past year. His mind, as it always did when he had time to himself, was replaying his weekly tea date with Rosie.
He really had never met another woman like her. She was totally unique, but he still couldn’t quite work her out. Sometimes he felt he knew her well, other times not so well. Like this afternoon, he had picked up on something when he’d asked her about ‘her girls’, but he couldn’t interpret her slightly odd reaction. It was as if she had panicked. Which didn’t make sense.
He was usually good at reading people – years on the job had taught him that – and he was also naturally intuitive, but Rosie was different. A part of him was of the opinion that there was more to Rosie than met the eye. That she had a secret of sorts, although he had no idea what that could be. Another part of him was saying that he’d been a copper for too long and had become overly suspicious of people. What he did know, though, without a shadow of a doubt, was that he was falling in love with her. That much was obvious, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. And he didn’t want to stop it. And he felt that Rosie was also falling for him, even if she was incredibly guarded about showing it.
The woman was just so contradictory, without being aware of it. She was an odd mixture of worldliness and innocence. He had never come across a woman who gave off such maturity and experience of life, but at the same time seemed extremely young and almost naïve – certainly with regard to any kind of courtship.
Her complexity did not in any way dampen his fervour for her; if anything it fired it up even more. He had never imagined he would ever find another woman whom he loved as he had his wife. But then Rosie had come along and bowled him over.
Every minute they were together, sitting opposite each other in the café, he had to stop himself reaching over and kissing her; just like when he was walking her back home and her hand seemed to burn into his own, he had to physically stop himself pulling her into his arms and caressing her. He did not know how much longer he could keep his amorous feelings for her in check.
Part of him wished he had kissed her the first time he’d taken hold of her hand, but something had made him hold back. Was it something he had picked up from Rosie? He could not be sure. Or perhaps it was his own reticence? A residual feeling of guilt that he was somehow being unfaithful to his wife, even though she had now been gone for several years.
As he walked down Sea Road towards the beach to go and chat with some of the Home Guard manning the pillboxes on the promenade, he made a decision: there would never be a right time, and he might never know the answers to his questions, so he just had to follow his heart and show Rosie how he felt – that he loved being with her, loved her company and her conversation, but that most of all he wanted and desired her as a woman.
And there was only one way of showing her this and it was through actions – and not words.