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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty Six

Tom Bennett x Bess Vaughn

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Warnings: Strong Language, Angst, Smut, Violence, Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Depictions of PTSD, Injury Detail, Era typical Sexism, Era typical Homophobia, Era typical racism, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Domestic Abuse (very brief), Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

Words: 5K

Notes: Tom and Bess are in this chapter. Not together, but very soon! Also, lots of Robina for @arcielee @semi-otaku. Not really proof read, forgive me.

It was an unnaturally warm day for late November. The smoke of last night’s raid had lifted to reveal a sun tentatively beaming down on the rubble and residents of Manchester. A few gulls picked at the debris, hoping for scraps, and a myriad of displaced dogs and cats wondered the street looking for their owners. Some small children were walking hand in hand with hurried drawings of their beloved pets, sticking them to what remained of the telegraph poles, or else rushing to scoop a stray into their arms.

Bess stayed at the family home last night. Or rather, the evening, with the night huddled amongst other families in the air raid shelter at the end of the road. In the dim light of the dug-out, she sewed the last ornamental details to Cora’s wedding dress. It was a simple thing, made during the last war for their mother. Using some tablecloths that Etta always reserved for Sunday best, Bess cut away their lace trims and affixed them to the netting of Cora’s veil.

Much had changed since that disastrous day at the hospital a month ago. Tom had departed for distant oceans to battle terrors Bess daredn’t think about. Cora was seemingly looking after the whole street while preparing for her wedding to Roger and Dot was taking all the shifts at the factory the day could offer. Fergal was stupefied with exhaustion from working the raids and drinking to forget what he saw during them. Robina was still acting as though the war didn’t exist, even now that Kasia had left to work in the Land Army with Roberta, Grzegorz was a pilot in training and Jan had been sent to a family-friend of the Chase’s in the southwest to be away from the city. “That boy has seen enough,” as Robina had put it.

Even work at the infirmary had grown tiresome for Bess. Where once she had loved her independence, the cold walls of the hospital seemed to echo with the groans of soldiers, or else memories from the night of her hospitalisation. Joan and Helen fretted over her to the point of suffocation, worried she was working too hard through her recovery. Sister Stern had taken the opposite approach. “Time and hard work heal a broken heart.”

Her only relief came at Carver Mills, in the quite of her poky flat. But now, every corner reminded her of Tom. The kitchen table where they played cards after a measly dinner of stale bread and beans. The tattered armchairs where they’d listen to the wireless, her legs stretched out of his own. The bed. God, the bed.

It was last week, while staring at the bedclothes, that Bess made her decision. She’d heard of convalescent homes popping up around the country. The wireless reported that a stately home which had once hosted balls was now hosting soldiers too ill to return to the war, but too hopeless to remain in hospital beds.

And so, on the balmy November day, Bess was cycling around the raid rubble towards Robina Chase’s for one last time with a delivery of tailored jackets and a tea dress.

The evidence of war faded as Bess moved from city to suburb to the small village that Robina lived in. Well dressed couples of late-middle age walked dogs on tight leads. Church bells pealed. A Sunday. The bells had all stopped in Manchester to deter bombers flying overhead. A huddle of old women with fresh perms were gossiping outside the green grocers, and it was here that Bess could see the reaches of rationing. The women were swapping vegetables between their baskets, checking their ration books as they did. The window of the shop, dressed with faded bunting for artificial cheer, stocked only crates of potatoes and cabbages. Piled high behind them, were tins of canned food; beans, condensed milk and spam. Bess stomach turned. What she would give for a strawberry come springtime.

“Bess!” A boyish voice was yelling to her from beside the church green. “Bess!”

She skidded to a halt on the perfectly kept gravel track that wound its way from the vicarage to Robina’s grand home. Jan, was waving at her, beaming as he did so.

“What are you doing here, little man?” Bess said, swinging her leg over her bicycle to walk beside him.

“Mrs Chase told me to come and meet you,” Jan said, taking her tailor’s box to walk beside her. “And I’m not so little anymore, I’ve grown seven inches since the summer!”

“Goodness,” Bess said with a wry smile. “I won’t have any of Albie’s clothes left if you keep growing.” Jan laughed lightly and jogged a little to keep up with her. “But why are you not in Cornwall?”

At this, Jan stopped walking. “You’ve forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?” Bess walked ahead to hide her smile.

“Bess Vaughn!”

“Janusz Tomaszeski!” She turned to face him. Her smiled couldn’t help but grow at the sight of his indignant face, the too big shorts he wore and the socks pulled high above his knees.

“It’s my birthday,” he said sadly.

Bess clapped her hand to her forehead dramatically. “I knew there was a reason I packed the sponge.”

“A cake!?” Jan all but screamed as he ran to her. “I haven’t had cake since back home.” His voice faltered a little at remembering Poland and his family, but he did his best to seem brave. Bess’ heart broke a little more and she bent to kiss his cheek.

“Happy birthday, young man. Now come on, best not keep madam waiting. Or the cake.” Together, they hurried to garden door and entered the house. Jan ran to the kitchen immediately to gather plates and almost knocked Robina over in the process. She made a noise like a startled snake and looked sharply at Bess.

“I was waiting at the front door.”

Bess was already unpacking the jackets for Robina and laying them upon the couch for her to assess. “Sorry, Mrs Chase. I was caught up in Jan’s excitement.”

Robina hummed. “Yes, it is lovely to have him back.” Her tone indicated differently, but Bess was used to her uneasy displays of affection. It was as good as a kiss. “Jan, not in the lounge.” The little boy had run back in, dropped the crockery with a crash onto the table and hastily retrieved the Victoria sponge from Bess’ bag. “We don’t want crumbs all over the carpet.”

Quick as a whip, Jan ran out of the room again, cake cradled in his arms. “How on earth did you manage to find a Victoria sponge? Even I can’t find one.”

Bess ignored this slight dig. “Cora’s been swapping with the whole street for about two weeks. Everyone’s so excited about the wedding, they’d do anything for her. We’ve been stashing butter and sugar in the outhouse. And I took a couple of eggs from the infirmary kitchen.”

Robina gasped. “You didn’t!”

Bess smiled serenely and Robina tutted. “Well, I suppose needs must.”

In a time when the rest of the country was surviving on stale food and watery broth, Bess couldn’t help but admire Robina’s desire for birthday cake as a need.

“I brought a tea dress too, for Kasia,”

“Ah, thank you. Though I suppose now trousers are the in thing.” Robina said the words as though they hurt. “Especially in her line of work. I never thought I’d have a daughter-in-law who dug cabbages for a living but I suppose-”

“Needs must.” Bess finished.

“Quite.”

A moment of awkward silence follows as Robina inspected the clothes, before Jan ran in with a crash. He placed two plates of cake on the table, mumbled something that sounded like “thank you” through his mouthful of sponge, before running out into the garden.

Robina frowned after him. “Yes, thank you. I’ll put a little extra in your pay packet, for Cora to reimburse the ingredients. And for you to buy eggs.”

“Thank you, Mrs Chase.”

A little longer, the two women looked over the garments, and Bess made adjustments here and there. Somewhere in the garden, Jan was narrating his own game of football.

A wail sounded from somewhere in the house. As it always did, the sound made Bess jump, her wartime instinct prepared for a raid. But it wasn’t the cry of a siren, but a baby.

“Damn,” Robina hastily ate the last crumb of cake and wiped her hands. “All babies are the same. They can sense others eating without them.” She hurried to the door and began up the stairs. “Have you heard from Lois? Or Tom?”

Bess’ voice wobbled. “Not for a while.” She picked at the hem of her jumper. Lois hadn’t written to any of the Vaughns since she left for Africa, and Tom’s last letter arrived three weeks ago. She’d taken to carrying Tom’s latest letter in her pocket, alongside the picture of him from their early days of nervous courtship.

From upstairs, Bess could hear Robina cooing to little baby Vera, but her steps remained circular, soothing. There was a little time before she would be back down, with or without the baby. Bess supposed she should join Jan and rid her sudden uneasiness with play, but she had such little time to indulge her feelings that instead, she moved towards the piano. It was grander than the one in her family’s kitchen. Cleaner. Newer. Tentatively, she touched the keys. The sound was like crystal. Upstairs, Vera didn’t stir.

Amusing herself, she played a quiet rendition of happy birthday. Jan appeared at the garden door, smiling. He looked at Bess’ forgotten cake on the table. “Take it,” she said quietly. Jan beamed and took it back into the garden.

Bess kept pressing keys absentmindedly, thinking of Tom as she did. Sickness flooded her when she thought of Tom at war, so she restricted herself to thinking of Tom in the past. At Longsight. Dancing with him at the Palais, that night he first kissed her. At school, when he’d defended her against her bullies. Their family days at the beach and the nights he snuck into the house. Her mind wandered, thinking of that damned smirk and his sandy hair. The day she stood scandalously close to him while altering his uniform. The times he oh so rarely flushed under her gaze, and her fingers worked loosely over the piano.

“Mack the knife, I haven’t heard that in years.” Robina said, and Bess jumped from the piano. “Guilty conscious, Bess? It’ll be those eggs.”

Bess felt sick. At the sight of Vera. With missing Tom. With the guilt of not telling him. Of not telling him-

“Say hello to Aunty Bess,” Robina said in an unusually light tone, taking Vera’s fat arm and waving it. She sat herself on one of the ornate yellow armchairs beside the fireplace and perched Vera on her knee. Bess followed, stroking the baby’s cheek as she passed and sitting opposite Robina.

“You’ll learn soon enough, Bess, with babies it’s just food, food, food. Would you like to hold her?”

“No.” Bess’ reply was sudden. Sharp. Robina hid her shock with a small smile and continued babbling at Vera. Soon enough, Jan heard the noise and came to coo over the baby too.

“When are you off to Bramworth House, Bess?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Very admirable-”

“Thank you,” Bess said quietly, watching Jan play with Vera.

“-these people giving up their homes for the war effort. Opening your home to strangers is no easy task, let alone turning it into a place for the convalescing.”

“But it worked for you, Mrs Chase,” Jan said while pulling funny faces at Vera. She looked up at him, her large eyes bright and took and almighty breath. As with any expression of profound emotion from such a small creature, Vera moved in slow motion, and Jan and Robina glowed with anticipation. A piercing laugh rent the air as Vera threw back her head with glee. Robina and Jan clapped as Vera continued to giggle. Bess, unable to contain the sadness eating away at her in front of this happy scene, sobbed.

“Bess?” Jan’s voice was quiet, scared. He watched as Bess shuddered in her chair, encircling her arms around herself to prevent Jan seeing her weakness.

“Jan, take Vera upstairs please.”

“I’m sorry,” Bess whispered, hastily wiping tears away from her face. “I’m sorry, Jan,”

“Jan, please, take Vera.” Robina’s voice was steady as she ushered Jan from the room.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Chase, I’m ok-”

“Hush,” Robina was sharp as she spoke to Bess, but not unkind. “Joyce! Joyce,” she called into the hallway before returning to sit in front of Bess. “Joyce, make a pot of tea for Miss Vaughn. Now then, Bess. I have known you what, five years now?”

“Yes, Mrs Chase,” Bess hiccoughed, not looking at Robina.

“I knew you not long after your mother died, I knew you as a girl before you made your own way in the world, I knew you when Albie died, I knew you when Douglas,” her voice caught in her throat. “-I knew you when Douglas died. I’ve watched you work yourself into knots during this war for everyone but yourself. Please do not insult me by pretending that you are fine.”

Bess swallowed and looked at Robina with wide eyes. She seemed just as uncomfortable as Bess felt, but as care overrode her deep sense of honour and decorum, Bess couldn’t help but soften towards her. Joyce, the hapless housekeeper Robina was loathe to keep entered quietly with a pot of tea, took one look at Bess’ shining red face, and hastened from the room.

“Now tell me, what has happened?”

“I-” Bess continued to look at Robina’s expectant face. The purse of her rouged red lips and one perfectly plucked raised eyebrow. She sighed. Where on earth to start. Robina took her hesitation for evasion and pressed on.

“Bess, I know you think me a stuffy old woman-”

“I don’t-”

“Don’t interrupt. I know you think me a stuffy old woman, sheltered and out of touch. And I admit, I can be severe. But I saw my father fighting in the Boer war, my husband Great war and my son through this. I have opened my home to four refugees, if you include Demba, one of whom my son married without out so much as a word and left her on my doorstep. Add to that the child he fathered out of wedlock with a socialist, both of whom have left me to raise Vera on my own. Then there was Douglas, and you and your sisters. I know you well enough that this won’t insult you, Bess, but through circumstance and luck, our worlds are very different. Yet still, I would consider each of you a friend. You see? Not so out of touch, not so sheltered. Now please, tell me. I may even be able to help.”

Bess considered her a moment, her eyes watering with tears. “I think, Mrs Chase,” she began. “That you are a good woman. And I am sorry people have led you to believe otherwise. That you’re perceived otherwise. I think those that know you, know different.”

Robina stared at Bess a moment before waving a hand in front of her face, as if swatting away a fly. Bess smiled. It was something her mother had done when trying not to cry. Cora did it still. “Thank you, Bess.”

For a time, nothing was said. Robina sipped her tea expectantly, waiting for Bess to speak. Bess, meanwhile, dabbed at her eyes as though forcing tears not to fall. When, at last, she was certain she would cry no more, Bess began.

Until the tea was cold in the pot, she told Robina of her miscarriage at the hospital, the doctor’s clinical way of telling her that she would like never carry to term, the operation that would prevent her from future miscarriages, but also from the hope of ever having her own children. She bemoaned Harry and Lois, for the gift of Vera they so desperately didn’t want. She told Lois about her argument with Tom, of his view that it was Lois’ duty to take care of Vera, and of Douglas. Her fear that he would view her miscarriage as a failure in her duty as a woman. But most of all, she lamented the fact that as Tom left the train station, she hadn’t told him. Hadn’t told him any of what she was telling Robina.

When she was finished, Bess found that the stone of grief she had been carrying around in her stomach was gone, replaced now by a galvanising disquiet. She wanted to run, as far away from Manchester as possible. Robina, it seemed, read her mind.

“Is this why you’re running away?”

“Perhaps, I don’t know,” Bess sighed. “Maybe. It’s too suffocating here. Everything reminds me of what’s gone wrong.”

Robina set her teacup on the small table beside her and leant forward on her knees. “Change, in all it forms, has a way of uprooting us. But I think you know that. You’ve always been a resilient girl. Love has come along and shaken you to the core. Shown you that, despite what may have happened in your past, you are deserving of love and affection. Shown you that despite how hard you’ve worked at it, Bess, you aren’t meant to be solitary. But that is by the by, those are lessons we all learn. It’s what you’ve been dealt recently. The sad truth is that some people are not made to be parents. Harry and Lois, for example. I myself was certainly not a natural mother. I remember one Saturday when Harry must have been about six months old. I’d taken him to the market. He’d been crying all morning, so I supposed the fresh air would settle him.” She sighed heavily. “The looks people gave me. The disdain, that I couldn’t calm my own child. So do you know what I did?”

Bess shook her head.

“I left him there. Stopped the pram by the fruit stall and went home. Of course, someone brought him home that evening, I can’t remember who, and on life went. But then there are people like you Bess, who seem destined for motherhood. You have that loving steeliness that all mother’s need. But the world is cruel and I can’t explain that. There’s nothing I can say that will make it any better. But Bess, don’t go running from your problems, they’ll just follow you there.”

“Thank you, Robina.”

“And tell Tom, when he returns. He’s many things, each one as surprising as the next.”

The gunroom was a cacophony of eager shouts and clanking metal. Between the wail of the siren and flash of red light, the cramped space was full of men, each frantically checking the torpedo turret.

“It’s jammed,” the first artificer told Tom as he poured oil over the gun’s many metallic joints. “She stuck pointing aft but we need to get her to port.”

There was no time to don his artificer’s overalls. Tom quickly set to work with the other lads attempting to push the gun into its crucial position.

“And here we were thinking this was a jolly cruise through the Med,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “It’s no use, Sir,” he called over the siren. “She’s stuck good and proper. Want me to go up and look at her mechanics?”

BANG

For the briefest of moments, each sailor tensed. Prepared for what surely awaited them the moment they signed up.

“We’re not hit,”

“Came from out there,” one indicated to abyss beyond the metal wall of the Barham.

“Get moving!” Screamed the artificer. “Tom, I’ll go up, you stay here and get her cannon working.”

“Sir,” Tom called in ascent, moving into position beneath the gun’s shining barrel. He’d learnt much since he began yo-yoing between roles as an artificer and able seaman. Which cogs led where, the names of each pin that kept the gun in place. And yet, he still didn’t know why their ships, and everything on her from the guns to the wheel, were female. He thought, as he slid his hands over the cold machine, that perhaps it was to give the men a feminine presence. Remind them of the order and decorum expected. Never in front of a lady, never onboard a ship. Perhaps it was to remind them of the women they’d left behind.

He thought of Bess as a trickle of oil ran down his forearm. The warmth of it against his skin could only ever remind him of her. Her warmth. In truth, Tom thought of her often. Always. But as on the Exeter, and at Dunkirk, it was in these moments of terror that he saw her clearer than he ever could in his daydreams or imaginings. The red light the colour of her hair. The pounding of his heart that nothing other than war and she could induce. Beneath his fingers, the gun metal clicked.

“Cannon working, Sir,” Tom bellowed up the chute towards the first artificer. Eight other men were still gathered around the gun, frantically trying to right its position. “Any news your end?” The call of his voice sounded strange echoing off the metal walls for, just as he spoke, the siren ceased.

The bright lights of the gunroom return, and each man blinked at their fellow sailors.

“What’s happened?” One whispered.

“Are we hit?”

“You’d have heard it if we were hit.”

“You lads keep working on her position, we’ll have to fix it sooner or later. Sir,” Tom called up to his senior once again. “Permission to assess?”

“Granted, but be quick Bennett, we need every man down here before Thornton and Cooke find out we’re jammed.”

Tom raced from the gunroom. Other sailors were poking their heads out from their positions, they too wondering what had caused this mid-battle pause. Up and up Tom ran, his boots echoing through the silent ship. When at last he broached the sunlit upper deck, he saw sailors walking nonchalantly to and fro, whispering in each other’s ears. Arthur Slade, Tom’s cabinmate, appeared from the radio room to lean over the rail with a pair of scouting binoculars.

“Slade!” Tom hurried to his side. “Slade, mate, what’s going on? I’m thrilled we’re not fighting but we’ve got a jammed gun downstairs and we’d love to know how long we’ve got before we’re fish in a barrel.”

Slade shrugged, still scanning the horizon. “Jervis thought it detected a submarine, ‘bout a kilometre away. Whatever it was, the thing was too wide for a sub.”

Ahead of them, HMS Jervis and HMS Queen Elizabeth were cruising easily through the still water.

“You sure it was nothing?” Tom asked, nerves prickling the back of his neck. “We thought we heard something down below.”

Slade looked at him then, and Tom saw apprehension reflected in his friend’s grey eyes. “Interference?” Slade said quietly. “Shit.” He whipped his binoculars to his eyes. “Shit!

Tom’s head turned to face the horror Slade had seen. A bow wave, metres high, was approaching the port side of the Barham. On it, a mammoth predator was riding towards them, its grey bulk broaching the clear Mediterranean water.

“CLOSE RANGE!” Screamed Slade as he ran back to the radio room. All heads turned but too late.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

With four almighty bangs, the Barham juddered. A jet of water taller than Blackpool Tower flew into the sky and through the noise, Tom could hear Slade’s voice radioing the other ships. “We’re hit, HMS Barham hit at close range. Jervis, Elizabeth, do you copy?”

Seconds later, Slade returned to the deck, fear blazing in his usually calm eyes. “Elizabeth’s hit too.” Around them, people were scrambling to ready the lifeboats. Someone from the wheelhouse above was shouting orders that no-one heard. It was each man for himself.

Slade gripped Tom’s arm. “We’ve got to get starboard, if we’re hit again it’ll be this side. The Germans can’t move round us that fa-”

The ground beneath their feet listed violently sideways. Like a wounded beast, the great ship groaned as she tipped Slade and Tom towards the ocean. Pressed against the railing, other sailors crying out in fear, Tom watched at the great turret above them blocked out the sun. In the wheelhouse, he could see Cooke and Thornton frantically shouting into a radio.

“Tom,”

He kept watching as Thornton’s rosy face turned pale. Through the glass, it was like watching a silent film at the picture house. The audience aware of the story’s deadly conclusion before the protagonist.

“Tom,” said Slade again. “We’ve got to get to starboard. We’re sinking.”

“Right,” Tom cleared his throat. “Right,” he had no time to think. Slade gripped his arm once more and began dragging him up the quickly listing deck. Looking behind them, Tom saw the railings they were just clinging to disappear into the bubbling water. They pulled themselves up the steep ascent of the deck using what ever they could reach, ropes, windows, doors, anything they could feebly hold onto.

The starboard side of the ship was more chaotic than port. Sailors were scrabbling to climb over the railing. Tom watched, mouth slack in awe as some threw themselves into the water below. He rested against the wall of the mess hall. They were horizontal now, his face turned towards the sky as the railing rose above them.

“We’re never going to be able to climb it, Slade. Slade?” He looked around. Slade was leant against the wall, his quick fisherman’s hands tying knots in a length of rope.

“Arms up, Bennett,” he said as he braced himself against the wall and slipped the rope around Tom’s chest. “I’m not losing you once we’re in.” He tied the other end around his own middle and, using his great height, jumped as the railing reached its zenith in the sky. Men slid past Tom’s feet into the water behind them as the Barham bobbed on its side.

“Fuck,” Slade had reached the railing and scrambled over. Tied as he was to the man’s waist, Tom’s feet left the floor and he dangled precariously between see and sky.

“Christ, Tom, you weigh a ton,” Slade grappled with the rope as he tried to pull Tom’s dead weight up to reach him. “I’ve hauled catches lighter than you.”

“Slade,” Tom span on the rope so that his arms could reach the length. “Brace yourself on the railing. Just lie flat.” Slade did as he was instructed and, using Slade’s weight against the boat, Tom began climbing the rope. When at last he reached the railings, Slade’s hands pulled him over. The sight below could have silenced even Dot, Tom thought.

Sailors were hanging from the rails, desperately trying not to fall into the water below, or else hit some part of the ship’s metal hull as they did. Beside them, billowing smoke blackened the sky from the Elizabeth. All around were screams of fear, cries out for home.

“You can swim can’t you, Tom?”

The question was so absurd, Tom almost laughed. “Course I can fucking swim.”

“You’d be surprised how many can’t, mate.” Slade said solemnly. “Tom, on the count of three, we’re going to jump.” At Tom’s look of disbelief, Slade continued. “We’ve got more chance of surviving in there than we do here.”

All Tom could do was nod.

“Right then,” Slade said it to prepare himself as much as Tom. “On the count of three.”

Tom looked at the water.

“One,”

He looked to the horizon.

“Two,”

He thought of Bess’ bright and bonny face.

“Thr-”

The air around them exploded. Heat unlike anything he had ever known surrounded them as they were flung into the air. Something cold pierced Tom’s arm, and he could only imagine, as the world turned black, that he had hit the water. The rope attaching him to Slade tightened around his torso and Tom gasped lungfuls of salty water as he surfaced.

“Slade?” He screamed. “Slade?” His call was met by the ringing of his ears. The black of the sky. “Slade, where are you?” He tugged the rope and it felt heavy in his arms. “Slade?” Panic gripped his voice now.

“I’m here, Tom. I’m right here.” Between the slapping of waves, Tom heard Slade panting to stay beside him. “Christ, there she goes.”

Another sting of fear ran through Tom. “Slade, I-” It was the smoke. Surely, it was the smoke from the Elizabeth. From the Barham’s deadly explosion. “Slade, I can’t see her. I can’t see.”

Notes: Woof. Only about three chapters left! The Barham disaster really happened. In the last chapter, Tom mentions in his letter to Bess that a Pathe film crew were aboard one of the other ships. Amazingly, and horribly, they got footage of the Barham exploding.

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