Secrets of the Shipyard Girls Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Nancy Revell

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  History Notes

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Sunderland, 1941

  As the world war continues, the shipyard girls find themselves fighting their own battles.

  Gloria is smitten with her newly arrived bundle of joy, but baby Hope’s first weeks are bittersweet. Hope’s father is missing at sea, and with their future as a family so uncertain, Gloria must lean on her girls for support.

  Meanwhile, head welder Rosie has turned her back on love to keep her double life secret. But her persistent beau is determined to find out the truth and if he does, it could ruin her.

  And there is finally a glimmer of hope for Polly and her family when Bel and Joe fall in love. But it isn’t long before a scandalous revelation threatens to pull them all apart.

  As the shipyard girls face hardships at home, their work and friendships give them the strength to carry on.

  About the Author

  Nancy Revell is author of the Shipyard Girls series, which is set in the north-east of England during World War II.

  She is a former journalist who worked for all the national newspapers, providing them with hard-hitting news stories and in-depth features. Nancy also wrote amazing and inspirational true life stories for just about every woman’s magazine in the country.

  When she first started writing the Shipyard Girls series, Nancy relocated back to her hometown of Sunderland, Tyne and Wear, along with her husband, Paul, and their English bull mastiff, Rosie. They now live just a short walk away from the beautiful award-winning beaches of Roker and Seaburn, within a mile of where the books are set.

  The subject is particularly close to Nancy’s heart as she comes from a long line of shipbuilders, who were well known in the area.

  Also by Nancy Revell

  The Shipyard Girls

  Shipyard Girls at War

  To my mum, Audrey Walton (née Revell), who has always encouraged me to follow my dreams. With all my love.

  Acknowledgements

  Since starting the Shipyard Girls series I have been bowled over by the amount of support I have had from so many people and organisations. Special thanks must go to John Wilson, owner of Fulwell Post Office, Sunderland, and his lovely staff for their continuing support and promotion of the Shipyard Girls series; Rachel Emmett, of the Salvation Army, for helping me with my research into Ivy House – the country’s first unmarried mothers’ maternity hospital; Meg Hartford, for unearthing specific historical facts and information on my behalf; Jackie Caffrey, creator of the Facebook group Nostalgic Memories of Sunderland in Writing; the ever-supportive Beverley Ann Hopper, of The Book Lovers; the National Maritime Museum; the Sunderland Antiquarian Society, especially Linda King, Norm Kirtlan, and Philip Curtis; and journalist Katy Wheeler at the Sunderland Echo.

  I would also like to thank Pauline Martin, of South Tyneside Libraries and Dr Trish Winter, of the ‘Putting Southwick on the Map’ research project, for allowing me to indulge my passion of spreading the word about the forgotten women who worked in the Sunderland shipyards in World War Two.

  I must also say a really big thank you to my editor Viola Hayden and assistant editor Cassandra Di Bello for their invaluable editorial advice and guidance, and to the rest of the talented team at Arrow.

  As always, I am indebted to the fabulous Diana Beaumont, who really is the best literary agent anyone could wish for.

  And, of course, to my mum and dad, Audrey and Syd Walton, and my husband, Paul, who keep me fuelled with so much love, care, support and encouragement.

  Thank you.

  We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.

  Winston Churchill

  Prologue

  The North Atlantic Ocean

  Monday 4 August 1941

  Jack Crawford desperately tried to stay afloat.

  But as yet another angry wave of freezing cold seawater washed over him, his flailing body was forced back down into the darkened, soundless underworld of the North Atlantic.

  Jack fought back and seconds later he managed to battle his way to the surface, but the numbness presently creeping up his limbs told him his time was running out. As he gasped for breath, he inhaled salt water and started spluttering. Choking. With his last ounce of energy he strained his head up to the skies, frantically trying to take in the fresh, pure night air. But his thick tweed trousers felt like lead weights dragging him back down, and, despite having freed himself of his jacket shortly after being thrown – or rather blasted – into the ocean, even his cotton shirt now felt like it was tailored with metal.

  It might have been Hitler’s Luftwaffe that had caused Jack to be floundering around in a debris-strewn expanse of sea, with planks of wood from the ship’s deck bobbing next to him, and a smattering of lifeless bodies lolling aimlessly face down on the surface of the water. It might have been their bombs that had successfully sunk the steamship which had been taking him back home to the woman he loved, but, as Jack felt Nature close in – claiming him – drawing his body down into the quietness of its watery womb, his eyes closed.

  Jack had l
ived and worked within a stone’s throw of the sea his entire life and he loved it with a passion – yet, after a lifetime of adoration, it had turned on him, and like a spurned lover baying for blood, it was trying its utmost to kill him.

  And it was succeeding – slowly but surely.

  As Jack opened his eyes to take one last look at life, he saw a bright, round, yellow light. It was the middle of the night – he was in the middle of nowhere – and, until this moment, the only illumination had come from the starry sky and the waning moon above.

  Jack felt Nature close in – claiming him – drawing his body down into the quietness of its watery womb, his eyes closed.

  Jack knew he was dying.

  He felt his body closing down, but as it did so his whole being was flooded with the most comforting warmth, and all around him he could smell a sweetness; like jasmine on a sultry summer’s eve. As his grip on life loosened, the door of his mind’s eye opened and he was gifted with a wonderful vision – a beautiful, newly born baby girl. Her eyes were still cloyed with sleep, but as Jack stared in awe at this ethereal apparition, the baby’s eyes opened and looked back into his own with unguarded love.

  A ripple of surprise – then recognition – hit Jack, and he smiled, for the wide, grey-blue eyes gazing back at him were a replica of his own.

  And it was then he knew.

  He knew who the child was.

  And at that moment Jack’s world went black. And quiet. And he knew Nature had won.

  Death had come for him.

  Chapter One

  The Ford Estate, Sunderland

  Three weeks later

  Wednesday 27 August 1941

  ‘Happy Birthday to you … Happy Birthday to you …’

  Dorothy bent over the crib in the middle of Gloria’s neat front room and sang softly to the baby girl who was snuggled up on her side, her little thumb just touching her tiny bud-shaped mouth. Hope was sound asleep, her breathing only broken by the occasional snuffle.

  Gloria was putting a tray laden with two cups of tea and a plate of shortbread fingers down on the oblong wooden coffee table. As she sat down on the sofa she pushed her thick, slightly curly, brown hair back behind her ears, and pulled her favourite cardigan around herself. She’d given up trying to convince herself it had shrunk; the fact of the matter was it wasn’t only her waist that had expanded with this pregnancy, but just about every other part of her body.

  ‘Honestly, Dorothy, she’s only two weeks old. It can hardly be classed as a birthday!’ Gloria said, looking at the sugar-speckled shortbread before guiltily taking a piece and dunking it in her tea.

  Dorothy straightened up and put her hands on the belted waist of her denim overalls that had been pulled in tight to accentuate her tiny waist and womanly hips. She frowned at Gloria. Her friend. Her workmate. The mother of her goddaughter. She would never have guessed a year ago, when they’d all started working at Thompson’s shipyard as trainee welders, that it would be Gloria with whom she would form the closest bond.

  ‘I swear, Glor, if I said something was black you’d argue it was white.’ She left the side of the crib and went to her holdall and pulled out a small present, which had been neatly wrapped in pink tissue paper and adorned with a white bow on the front. She had purchased the little present from Risdon’s, which had the reputation for being the best baby shop in town.

  Dorothy handed the gift to Gloria.

  ‘You open it on Hope’s behalf,’ she demanded.

  Gloria pursed her lips, a little embarrassed, as she took the present. ‘You should be saving your money,’ she reprimanded her friend. This was so like Dorothy, as frivolous with her money as she was about life. But, she also had a heart of gold. And, more than anything, she was one of the most loyal people Gloria had ever met. Take away all the bluster and showiness and you were actually left with a surprisingly solid and steadfast young woman, someone who would stand by your side, whatever the circumstances.

  ‘I told you …’ Dorothy sighed dramatically, untying her headscarf and allowing her raven-coloured hair to tumble untamed around her face and over her shoulders ‘… when Hope was born, I was going to be the best godmother ever. That means spoiling her rotten – even if she’s not awake to appreciate it.’ As she spoke, she looked over at Hope to make sure she had not woken up.

  ‘Anyway …’ she continued, ‘I didn’t haul myself all the way over here – from the other side of the town – after an entire day spent welding the hull of a great big bloody ship together – to be told how to spend my hard-earned money!’ Dorothy pulled a comical ‘so there’ pout, sat down, picked up her cup, and took a big slurp of tea.

  Gloria watched Dorothy nestle up in what had been Vinnie’s chair, and smiled to herself. The tatty brown armchair had always been her husband’s – or rather, her soon-to-be ex-husband’s. They must have had the wretched thing for almost twenty years: it was probably as old – and definitely as worn out – as their marriage. And during all that time, no one but His Majesty King Vinnie had been able to park their bum in it. Gloria could honestly not remember a single occasion when anyone else had used it. And now, even after she’d finally found the strength to chuck Vinnie out of the marital home at the end of last year – Gloria could still not bring herself to sit in it. It was almost as if by doing so she would feel him near – and that was the last thing on earth she wanted.

  Gloria’s mind spun back four months, to when Vinnie had called round at the house after work and lost it with her; he’d smashed her so hard in the face it was a fluke her nose had not been broken. She had not seen hide nor hair of him since then and she had the sneaking suspicion that someone had put the frighteners on him. She’d heard through the grapevine that not long after he’d tried to rearrange her face, he had been given a right battering himself. He’d claimed he’d been mugged, but Gloria knew no one with half a brain would bother trying to rob Vinnie – especially after he’d been to the pub. Even if he’d had any money on him in the first place, it would be safely tucked away in the landlord’s coffers by the time it was last orders.

  Seeing Dorothy sitting there now, drinking her tea, all cosied up and still in her dirty overalls, Gloria was glad she had kept the chair. She would love to see the look on Vinnie’s face if he were to see her workmate – and a woman, at that – now commandeering his throne. His chair that no one had ever been allowed to use – not even their two grown-up boys. Seeing others sitting on it without a care in the world, especially someone like Dorothy, who, she knew, Vinnie would hate with a passion, gave her a sliver of revenge.

  Gloria held her daughter’s birthday present for a moment before carefully tearing the tissue paper to reveal the cutest, smallest brown teddy bear she had ever seen.

  ‘Ah, Dorothy, it’s lovely. Thank you. She’s going to love it. Why don’t you give it to her yourself when she wakes up,’ Gloria said, helping herself to another finger of shortbread and taking a big bite.

  Dorothy looked at her friend and laughed, ‘Eee, I see your sugar craving’s not left you then?’

  Gloria popped the rest of the biscuit into her mouth and brushed the crumbs off her skirt. ‘I know. I’ve already used up all my sweet rations. Anyway, I vaguely recall you telling me when I was in labour that you were going to buy me “the biggest cake ever” once I’d given birth!’

  Dorothy let out a theatrical sigh at the mention of Hope’s birth, when Gloria had gone into labour in the shipyard in the middle of an air raid. It had been one of the most terrifying but also most wonderful days in their lives. They’d all run around like headless chickens, with the air raid sirens screaming out their warning for everyone to take cover, and bombs dropping just half a mile away in Fulwell. They hadn’t even had time to get to the yard’s shelter as baby Hope had been determined to make her entrance into the world in the middle of all the pandemonium.

  ‘God, I think I’ll remember every second of that day for as long as I live!’ Dorothy said, helping herself to a biscui
t and casting another look over at Hope.

  ‘Same here,’ Gloria agreed, her mind immediately tripping back to Hope’s traumatic birth; it still made her feel incredibly emotional thinking of how Dorothy and all the other women welders had risked life and limb to get her to the relative safety of the painters’ shed that had ended up becoming a makeshift delivery suite.

  ‘Anyway, come on, tell me the latest gossip from the yard,’ Gloria demanded, pushing away the tears which had started to prick the backs of her eyes. She was annoyed at herself for being so overly sensitive but it was hard when she remembered Dorothy’s face after she had delivered her goddaughter, and the look of both relief and elation on the rest of the women’s faces.

  ‘How’s our “little bird” getting along?’ Gloria asked. ‘She still happy working in the drawing office?’

  Hannah had been taken on as a trainee draughtsman just a few weeks before Hope was born. It had been her saving grace as she really was like a little bird, petite and fragile, and in no way cut out to do any kind of physical work, never mind something as gruelling and back-breaking as welding. They’d all been amazed she’d stuck it out for as long as she had, as she’d struggled from the moment she had first switched on her welding machine, but, much to their amazement, she had continued to slog it out for nearly a year.

  Thankfully, Rosie had spotted some drawings that Hannah had done of one of the ships that was waiting to be launched in the dry dock and had taken it across to Basil, the head draughtsman. He had jumped at the chance of taking Hannah on, as not only were her sketches, in his words, ‘technically brilliant’, but, like just about everywhere nowadays, his department was desperately short of workers.

  Dorothy’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes, more than happy. Apparently Rosie says she’s taken to it like a “duck to water”. She’s even got some colour in her cheeks, quite something for Hannah. I’ve never known anyone with such translucent skin … But, anyway, I digress –’ Dorothy sucked in air for added effect ‘– our little bird has not only got a few roses in her cheeks – but, more importantly, she’s got quite a sparkle in those big brown eyes of hers.’