Everyone was quiet as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
It seemed fitting that it was Ralph and his diving team who were in charge of the task. Walter and Kenneth, the two linesmen, had probably lowered Arthur down into the Wear a fair few times over the years. This time, however, they wouldn’t be bringing him back up.
‘In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’
Reverend Winsey spoke the words of Genesis 3, verse 19. He then picked up a small handful of freshly dug soil and threw it onto the coffin.
Mr Havelock, who had clearly taken on the mantle of chief mourner, took his cue to do the same. He picked up a mound of dirt, walked over to the open grave and let the slightly damp earth filter through his fingers onto the solid oak casket.
Helen watched, knowing her grandfather would be inspecting the craftsmanship, making sure it was up to scratch; he had paid for it, after all. She looked at her mother, who was next in line. For some reason, she had a handkerchief over her mouth.
Helen watched as Miriam daintily picked up the smallest amount of dirt in her gloved hand. She threw it into the grave as if she was throwing a penny at a group of beggars she wanted shot of.
Since she was next, Helen took the few steps necessary to reach the small pile of soil. Bending down, she purposely took a generous handful before dropping half of it onto the coffin. She paused, then let the rest fall.
She turned and stared at her mother.
She didn’t need to tell Miriam that she had just done her father’s bidding.
As the rest of the mourners made their way over to the graveside, Mr Havelock and Miriam turned away and started back to the funeral car. They had fulfilled their obligation. As they walked carefully across the wet grass, Helen’s immediate boss, Harold, and a few other shipyard bigwigs hurried across to shake Mr Havelock’s hand. A few, she knew, would be asking him for favours. Or for money. Or both.
A photographer from the Sunderland Echo seemed to appear out of nowhere. There was a flash of a light bulb as he took a photograph of her grandfather and her mother. Then another with the Wear Commissioner in the shot. Helen thought her mother would be cheered up no end. Seeing herself in the local paper would make the whole laborious day worthwhile.
Helen moved back to allow the other mourners to say their final goodbyes. She recognised quite a few faces from Thompson’s – from the past and the present. A little further away from the grave were Joe and Major Black, as well as some of their Home Guard unit looking smart in their khaki uniforms.
She watched as Polly, who had been chatting to Hannah’s aunty and the old woman she knew to be called Vera, stepped forward and added to the earth now building up on top of the coffin.
Agnes came next.
Then Bel.
Helen subtly scrutinised the woman she was now convinced was a Havelock, squinting as the sun made a sudden appearance from behind pewter-grey clouds. Bel was holding Lucille’s hand as the little girl crouched down to take her offering of earth, the hem of her pretty yellow dress just touching the wet grass. She sprinkled soil onto the casket as though it were icing on a cake.
Rosie followed, but her sister held back. As they walked away from the grave, Helen caught Charlotte taking hold of Rosie’s hand. The gesture gave her a lump in her throat, although she was unsure why.
Last in the line of mourners were Gloria and Hope.
Taking a scoop of soil, Gloria held her palm out so that Hope could copy what she had seen the adults do.
Hope was still too young to grasp the meaning of death, but Helen knew she would be aware that the old man, whom she had seen almost every day of her short life, was no longer a part of it.
As Gloria turned to leave the graveside, she jigged Hope up onto her hip.
‘Let me take her off you.’ Helen stepped forward and stretched out her arms to relieve Gloria.
Gloria hesitated, her eyes flicking across to Miriam and then back to Helen.
Helen clocked her reticence.
‘Come here, Hope, darling,’ Helen said, beckoning.
‘’Elen!’ Hope’s little face creased up into a joyful expression. She, too, stretched out her pudgy little arms, mirroring her big sister’s show of love.
Helen saw her mother and grandfather turn and look as Hope’s voice sounded out over the muted chatter of those still milling around. It suddenly occurred to Helen that this was the first time they had been within spitting distance of Jack’s mistress – and the child they only ever referred to as ‘the bastard’.
Helen hoisted Hope onto her hip, and she in turn wrapped her legs round her big sister’s waist.
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Gloria spoke quietly so only Helen could hear.
‘I’m not doing anything wrong, am I?’ Helen turned her back on her mother and her grandfather but could still feel their steely glares. Providing she never let on that Hope was her sister, or Gloria her father’s mistress, she could do what she liked.
‘I’m simply being sociable with my workers – and their families.’ She brushed a thick strand of Hope’s black hair to the side. ‘I think this little girl needs a haircut.’
Then Helen turned her attention back to Gloria, who was now looking very worried and very uncomfortable. ‘All right, I give up,’ she said, handing Hope over.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Gloria said, her eyes darting to Miriam. To the woman who had changed the course of her life all those years ago when she had conned Jack into marriage. To the woman who was still controlling her life now, all these years later.
Stop it! Gloria reprimanded herself. Stop being a bloody victim.
Defiantly, Gloria looked Miriam straight in the eye for a brief moment, before turning and walking over to Dorothy and Angie, who were chatting away to Beryl and her daughters, Iris and Audrey.
Helen watched the unspoken exchange. She looked over at her mother and grandfather. They were putting on a good show, but she knew that underneath their veneer of calm cordiality, they’d be spitting feathers.
Looking at the women welders and then over to her mother and grandfather, Helen felt a sudden, overwhelming feeling of isolation. She didn’t belong in either camp.
‘Are you coming to the wake?’ Polly suddenly appeared at her side.
Helen knew there was to be a bit of a knees-up at the Tatham. A celebration of Arthur’s life, which would inevitably turn into a party to see in the New Year.
‘Bill’s managed to get an extended licence,’ Polly explained. ‘Thanks to your grandfather.’ The two women looked over to Mr Havelock, now being helped into the back of the funeral car by the chauffeur. Miriam was already settled in the back and was glaring out of the window, her face as dark as the clouds gathering overhead.
‘And thanks to everyone chipping in with their rations, Ma’s made enough sandwiches and sausage rolls to feed the five thousand, so there’ll be plenty to eat,’ Polly said, bringing her attention back to Helen.
‘Yes, I’ll be there,’ Helen said. She saw that the chauffeur was standing by the car door, waiting for her. ‘I’m nipping back to work to make sure everything’s all right. While the cat’s away and all that. Plus, Crown’s launched Empire Demon today, so I just wanted to check that went off all right.’
Polly nodded. They all knew the owners of Thompson’s were planning to buy Crown’s sometime in the not too distant future.
Helen looked at Polly. ‘How are you feeling? I know how close you and Arthur were.’
‘Sad,’ Polly admitted. ‘I’m going to miss him terribly.’ She looked at the grave, which had been positioned right next to Flo’s. ‘I wish I’d had a chance to thank him for everything he did.’ She felt the tears welling up and swallowed them down. ‘It was really thanks to Arthur that Tommy and I got back together.’
‘How so?’ Helen said. She was curious.
‘Apparently, they were both here.’ Polly looked round at the cemetery. ‘Tommy was saying to Arthur that he didn’t know what to do – whether it was better to let me go and be free of him.’ Polly shook her head. ‘As if that’s what would have made me happy.’ She rolled her eyes, glistening with the beginnings of tears. ‘And Arthur suddenly said that he had this image of Flo standing, hands on her hips, telling Tommy that if he wanted something, he had to go and get it. That no one else was going to get it for him.’
Helen thought that it was good advice.
‘And that’s when Tommy came to the yard and got me,’ Polly said.
Helen remembered the scene well. Had watched them kiss and make up from the office window, along with Bel and Marie-Anne and the rest of the admin staff. The women had all ahhed. Some had said how jealous they were of Polly and Tommy’s romance, and Helen had been surprised that she hadn’t felt even the faintest stirrings of the green-eyed monster. She’d seen it as proof that she had finally let go of Tommy. That she was no longer in love with him. She doubted whether she ever really had been.
‘I’m guessing Tommy knows about Arthur?’ Helen asked.
‘Yes, I wrote him a letter,’ Polly said.
Helen saw the main bulk of mourners start to disperse. ‘Do you want a lift back?’
Polly shook her head. ‘No, thanks anyway. I’ll go back with my lot.’
Helen looked over to the funeral car.
The engine was running.
Time to face the music.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Miriam’s voice was a hissed whisper.
She turned and checked that the glass partition dividing the driver from the passengers was properly closed.
‘What do you mean, Mother?’ Helen made a good show of looking genuinely puzzled.
‘Now, now, my dear.’ Mr Havelock kept his voice low. ‘I think you know what your mother is referring to. Do you think it’s wise to be seen to be so friendly with Gloria and your father’s bastard?’
Helen looked at her grandfather. ‘That “bastard”, Grandfather, is called Hope. And Hope is my sister. She might not be a Havelock, but she is a Crawford. As am I, don’t forget.’
‘Yes, my dear.’ Mr Havelock’s voice was placatory. ‘That’s exactly the point. You clearly take after your father in looks. As does the bastard.’
Helen looked at her grandfather. It was obvious by his tone that he wasn’t trying to be offensive by calling Hope a bastard. He simply saw her as just that – an illegitimate child, and therefore totally insignificant. If not a hindrance. And that was what Helen found most perturbing.
They were quiet for a short while.
‘As your grandfather is saying, Helen.’ Again, Miriam was speaking in a half hiss, half whisper. ‘You and the brat look alike. You’re both the bloody spit of your father. People might well put two and two together.’
No one spoke. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
Miriam finally broke the stand-off with an almighty sigh. ‘For the life of me, I really can’t understand how it is you’ve gone from hating Gloria and her motley crew of women welders to being the best of buddies.’
‘And why,’ Mr Havelock raised an eyebrow, ‘you risked your own life a few months back getting Gloria and the bastard out of that bombed house in Tatham Street.’
‘I didn’t know anything about that.’ Miriam’s tone was sharp. She looked from her father to Helen.
‘Perhaps, Mother, if you didn’t spend so much time swilling gin at the Grand with that lush Amelia, you might know more of what’s happening in the real world.’
Mr Havelock extracted a cigar from his top pocket. ‘Your daughter has a point there, my dear.’
‘Perhaps if my daughter actually talked to her poor mama occasionally, I might know what’s happening “in the real world”,’ Miriam jibed back.
Helen looked out the window. Thank God, they were nearly at Thompson’s. She felt as though she would explode if she didn’t get out of this car.
Leaning forward, she yanked open the glass partition.
‘Can you pull over here, please?’ she said to the driver, before turning to her grandfather. ‘I can walk down to the yard. The fresh air will do me good.’
The chauffeur looked to Mr Havelock for permission. The old man nodded his assent and the car pulled over.
Helen climbed out.
Before shutting the door, she leant back in.
‘On the way back home, Mother, you might want to tell Grandfather about the lovely little postbox you had put up. And about all those letters that were sent to the house but mysteriously went missing. It might go some way to explaining why your daughter doesn’t talk to her “poor mama” much these days.’
And with that she slammed the door and walked off down the embankment to work.