Poppy’s lips tightened. No, she hadn’t been about to say grace, but perhaps she should have. Daniel was no longer a believer – having lost his faith during the war – but he had always respected her right to practise her religion. But that was not enough for her parents. On her recent trip home they had probed her about Daniel’s beliefs and she had had to admit that he was an atheist. This had shocked her parents far more than the revelation that he was a widower with children. Poppy had listened to their lectures about being unevenly yoked with a pinch of salt. But perhaps they were right. Perhaps she and Daniel were unevenly yoked – religiously and in terms of her career and his family. And yet… and yet, she looked into his warm grey eyes and saw only love. How could that be wrong?
“Finished?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said and picked up her knife and fork.
Daniel pierced a dollop of butter and rubbed it over his steamed potatoes. Poppy watched it melt into a pool on his plate.
No, she wasn’t finished. She needed to tell him. She needed to tell him she was going to New York. And if he loved her, he’d understand – surely he’d understand. “Daniel, there’s something I need to tell you…”
CHAPTER 4
SATURDAY, 6 APRIL 1921, SOUTHAMPTON
Poppy and Rollo got out of the company Model T Ford at the Southampton harbour car park amidst a hubbub of travellers and their well-wishers. Ike, who had driven them there from London, hauled one trunk from the boot and unstrapped a second from the roof rack while Rollo summoned a porter. Poppy remembered the last time a gentleman had helped her with her trunk – it was Daniel, the first time she met him at King’s Cross Station. Poppy bit her lip. Rollo had asked him to drive them down, but he had come up with some photographic emergency that could not be ignored. Rollo told him it could wait; Daniel said it could not. So Rollo asked Ike instead.
Poppy and Daniel had not made an official announcement about their break-up – it wasn’t as if they’d been engaged – but it didn’t take long for their friends and colleagues at the Globe to figure out that something was wrong. Rollo had tried to speak to Daniel about it but was given short shrift. Daniel clearly blamed the American editor for luring his girl away. But this just angered Poppy even further. “I was not lured,” she told Mavis Bradshaw, when the receptionist bumped into her in the new ladies’ water closet on the fourth floor. “Rollo invited me to join him and I was free to choose whether I would or not. It was my choice, not Rollo’s, and Daniel should respect that.” Then Poppy finished drying her hands and left the small room before Mavis had time to probe her further. It was a long week of sulking and whispered conversations and sympathetic looks. But finally it was over. And Poppy and Rollo were about to embark on the RMS Olympic for a five-day cruise to New York.
They would not be travelling alone. True to her word, Delilah had arranged for her trip to be brought forward so she could accompany Poppy as her chaperone. Poppy had snorted at the suggestion that the Bright Young Thing and flapper extraordinaire had the qualifications to be her moral guide, but she readily agreed. It would be fun to have Delilah in tow and Rollo had been delighted at the suggestion. “The more the merrier!” he declared. Unlike Daniel, Rollo’s sweetheart, the admirable female solicitor Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, had wished him well and said she’d see him in three months – then turned her attention back to her latest legal brief. Poppy was in awe – and a little jealous – of how Yasmin so easily managed to balance her private and professional life. She couldn’t imagine Yasmin lying awake at night agonizing about what Rollo would think of this or that. Perhaps that’s what came with age. Yasmin was in her late thirties, Poppy and Delilah their early twenties.
Ike had offered to give Delilah a lift too, but when they arrived at her apartment and saw the two giant trunks she intended to bring with her, he quickly ascertained there wouldn’t be space. Rollo had offered to take the train so the ladies could have the motor to themselves. Delilah insisted there still wouldn’t be room for all the luggage, but, being Delilah, she had another plan.
“The other plan” arrived in the form of a brand new yellow Rolls Royce pulling a trailer piled high with far more than two trunks.
“Good heavens! Is that who I think it is?” asked Rollo, grinning from ear to ear.
Poppy chuckled, her spirits suddenly lifted as first Delilah got out of the motor, followed by the female driver. The driver then opened the back door to reveal the plump form of Dot Denby in a fabulous fuchsia pink travelling coat and hat. “Poppy darling! I hope you don’t mind, but when Delilah asked me for a lift in the new motor I thought I might as well come with you all the way to New York! So I got Gertrude here to telephone ahead and make some arrangements. She doubted we would be able to get tickets at such short notice, but” – she winked at Delilah, who giggled, while Miss King looked pained – “it turns out the captain is an old friend of mine!”
Poppy clapped her hands in delight. Oh, this was definitely going to be a bon voyage!
The RMS Olympic was the sister ship to the ill-fated Titanic which sunk in 1912 and the Britannic, which was sunk by a German mine in 1916. The sole survivor was going strong, surging back and forth from New York to Europe carrying immigrants and tourists between the Old and New Worlds. Poppy had never seen anything like it. Not even the Houses of Parliament seemed as vast. It had ten decks and could carry nearly 2,500 passengers. On the first-class deck there was a swimming pool, a Turkish bath, a gymnasium, and even a tennis court! There were libraries, smoking rooms, games rooms, and beauty spas. Compared with the only other ship Poppy had travelled on – a ferry between Dover and Calais the previous summer – this was like a small city.
Delilah and Rollo looked perfectly at ease striding up the gangplank as if it were their second home. Aunt Dot, however, her wheelchair pushed by a porter with Miss King hovering at his shoulder, was surprisingly quiet.
Poppy matched her pace to the chair. “Are you all right, Aunt Dot?”
Her aunt looked up at her from under the brim of her fuchsia hat, her mouth uncharacteristically down-turned. “Oh Poppy, I was just thinking of poor Maud. All of that business with Elizabeth last year has brought her back to mind. And now here we are on a ship just like the one she died on.”
Poppy took Aunt Dot’s gloved hand and squeezed it. Her aunt was referring to her friend and fellow suffragette, Maud Dorchester, who had died on the Titanic nine years earlier. Her daughter, Elizabeth, had been central to Poppy’s first big story for the Globe and now lived in New York. Aunt Dot must have been thinking the same thing as she said quietly: “I think I’ll look Elizabeth up when I’m there. There are things we need to settle between us.”
Poppy agreed that that was a good idea. And then, as quickly as Dot’s cloud had descended, it lifted again. “Oh my, isn’t this just splendid, Poppy?”
Poppy appraised the gleaming grey and white floating hotel. “It certainly is, Aunt Dot.” She paused, looking the ship up and down. “As long as you’re in first class, I should imagine.”
“Actually, Miz Denby, the steerage passengers don’t have it half bad either,” said Rollo, drawing level with Dot’s wheelchair. “I did a story about it when I was working on The New York Times.” He went on to explain that compared with the rival Mauretania, the third-class facilities for steerage passengers were clean and decent. Instead of open dormitories, there were small cabins for up to ten people to house single-sex passengers or families. And they also had common rooms, dining rooms, and well-designed bathrooms.
Although it didn’t sound too bad, Poppy still felt guilty that she was travelling first class. If the Globe hadn’t paid for her ticket she would have been with the line of less well-off passengers, shuffling their way up a lower gangplank at the stern of the ship.
However, she was where she was, and she and her entourage were almost at the top of the gangplank. They were about to be greeted by a line of officers and stewards. One of them, her aunt announced – while primping her hair –
was her “good friend Captain Gilbert Williams”. But before they could hand over their tickets there was a commotion behind them.
A teenage girl, wearing an unfashionably long skirt and a blue headscarf tied under her chin, pushed her way to the front of the queue. She was stopped by a steward who asked for her ticket. She cocked her head from left to right and then answered in a foreign babble. The steward looked at her curiously, then asked for her ticket again. The young woman stared at him blankly and then pushed past him. He blocked her path. When she tried again he took hold of her arm – she screamed. The man, embarrassed, looked to his captain for help. “Take the young lady aside,” said Captain Williams and nodded to some more of his men to help. But as the crew circled her, the girl kicked and yelled even more.
Poppy saw the terror on her face. “Please, let me help. She’s scared, that’s all.” She leaned over the shoulder of one of the crew members and tried to catch the poor girl’s eye. “It’s all right,” she said. “Calm down; they won’t hurt you.” But the girl continued screaming. Poppy was just about to push through the circle of men to try to take hold of the girl when someone else ran up the gangplank, puffing with exertion. It was another young woman, a few years older than the hysterical girl, with long dark hair tied back in a bun. Her eyes met Poppy’s briefly, then she turned her attention to calming the girl in the blue headscarf.
“Estie! Estie!” Then something in a language Poppy could not understand.
The younger girl stopped screaming and looked to the newcomer. She was panting, a line of drool running down her chin. “Mimi!” she said, then started to cry; great heaving sobs. The two stewards who held her arms looked confused. “Mimi” moved forward, speaking soothingly, and put both hands on either side of the younger girl’s face. Estie’s sobbing eased until it was a quiet sniff.
Then Mimi looked to the captain and said: “Let go she please. Sorry she not know. She baby.”
Captain Williams nodded to his men. “Let the lady go.” They did and Estie fell into Mimi’s arms. Mimi, continuing her soothing monologue, turned around and led the young woman back down the gangplank. The well-to-do first-class passengers parted for them, some with disdain, some with pity.
“She’ll be lucky if she gets off the island,” said Rollo.
“The island?” asked Poppy, dragging her eyes away from the pitiful pair who were now turning towards the area on the dock where the third-class passengers gathered.
“Ellis Island,” answered the American editor. “Immigration control. They’ve been known to turn away the feebleminded.”
“Turn them away?” said Poppy. “Where to?”
Rollo shrugged. The queue was moving again.
“Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen,” said the captain. “A misunderstanding; nothing more.” Then he turned his broad suntanned face to Poppy’s group. “Welcome to the RMS Olympic, the most luxurious ocean liner in the world.” The porter pushed Aunt Dot’s chair onto the deck and Captain Williams’ face lit up: “Miss Dorothy Denby! This is a rare pleasure indeed!”
CHAPTER 5
“Oh, isn’t this just the bee’s knees!” Delilah threw herself onto one of the twin beds in the cabin she was sharing with Poppy, her navy-blue silk culottes sliding across the white satin counterpane like a bobsleigh on ice. She giggled and pushed out her hands to steady herself.
“Are you sure you don’t mind sharing with me?” asked Poppy, who knew Delilah had given up a more luxurious cabin – with double bed, sitting room, and en-suite hot tub – to “room” with her chum, hence allowing Aunt Dot an upgrade. Poppy flopped onto the second bed, wriggling her shoulders to test the firmness of the mattress. Nice, very nice.
“Of course not! It’s going to be such a jolly!”
“Well, thank you,” said Poppy. “I don’t think Aunt Dot would have survived for long in that pokey little cabin. I know it’s the best Miss King could get at such short notice, but second class…” said Poppy, putting on an affected theatrical tone.
“… I think not, darlings!” finished Delilah, sounding just like Aunt Dot. The two girls collapsed into fits of giggles.
Delilah rolled over onto her side, pulling up one leg and leaning her chin on her elbow. “So what do you want to do first? Tennis? Swimming?”
Poppy laughed. “Heavens, Delilah, we’ve barely left land!”
Delilah grinned, flashing her perfectly straight white teeth. “I know! But speaking from experience, if you don’t make your mark on these cruises early, you’ll never catch up.”
Poppy screwed up her nose. “Make our mark? Whatever do you mean?”
Delilah swung her legs off the bed and sat up. “Watch and learn, old girl, watch and learn.”
The dark-haired girl unstrapped one of her trunks and rummaged through a mountain of silks, satins, and organzas. She pulled out three swimsuits with matching caps and held them up one at a time. “I assume you haven’t brought one with you…”
Poppy’s wide-eyed stare was all the confirmation Delilah needed. “So you can wear one of mine. Which do you want? The gold and green, the red, or the blue and white stripe?”
Poppy, who hadn’t worn a swimsuit since she was ten years old – and even that had just been a pair of bloomers and a long-sleeved undershirt – tried to imagine herself in one of Delilah’s flamboyant outfits with the very short shorts.
“Come on,” said Delilah. “We’ll be in New York before you’ve made up your mind. Should I choose?”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll have the blue and white horizontal stripes please,” said Poppy, quickly assessing that out of the three on offer it would show the least amount of flesh.
“Good choice,” said Delilah, tossing it to her. “Although you would look scrumptious in the poppy red!”
Delilah selected the exotic green with oriental-style gold flowers twirled across the bodice and down one leg.
Fifteen minutes later and the girls arrived at the pool wearing white towelling bathrobes over their suits. The indoor pool was heated, letting off warm steam. Half a dozen or so passengers had already laid claim to the deckchairs and benches around the poolside. Delilah paused in the doorway, striking a subtle but attractive pose, with her bathrobe open to reveal her beautiful bare legs, exposed from mid-thigh down, and waited. No one looked up. Poppy sensed the actress tense beside her. Delilah was not used to not being noticed. Poppy, though, was relieved. Frankly, she didn’t know if she’d even have the courage to take off her robe; so the fewer people who noticed her, the better.
As the girls made their way to two available chairs and draped their towels over them, the other guests’ collective gaze was riveted on a sleek, silver-clad swimmer, surging through the water like a dolphin, doing length after length. Poppy and Delilah sat down and were approached by a waiter asking for drink orders. Delilah requested a cocktail and Poppy a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
As the waiter retreated, the swimmer slowed and glided towards the pool steps. Then she – for by now Poppy had realized it was a woman – grasped the bars and pulled herself up. Gasps of admiration echoed off the tile walls. The swimmer stood at the top of the steps and slicked back her hair with both hands, allowing the other bathers to drink in her tanned skin and fantastically toned limbs.
“Good golly, it’s Annette Kellerman!” observed Delilah. “No wonder no one was looking at us!”
“Who’s Annette Kellerman?” asked Poppy, although the name rang a bell.
“Who’s Annette Kellerman?” asked Delilah, laughing. “What Women Want, Queen of the Sea…”
Poppy bit her lip in mock contrition. “Oh, that Annette Kellerman!” The famous Australian synchronized swimmer and film star. The first woman to design and wear swimming shorts that revealed her knees – and who was arrested for it! The first woman to appear completely naked on film… Poppy felt herself starting to flush.
“She’s a goddess,” swooned Delilah.
“She is that,” said an appreciati
ve male voice with an American accent. Poppy and Delilah looked up to see a handsome young man with chestnut hair and ocean-blue eyes putting his towel on the bench beside them. “May I?” he asked.
“Indeed you may, sir,” said Delilah, repositioning her legs to their best advantage.
The man was wearing a blue and white striped one-piece bathing suit; a masculine version of the one Poppy wore. The fabric stretched across his broad chest and thighs and it took all Poppy’s willpower not to stare.
He reached out his hand first to Delilah, then Poppy. “Dr Toby Spencer, Long Island, New York. And this,” he said, indicating a shorter but equally handsome man, “is my cousin, Mr Miles Spencer. In fact, he’s directed Miss Kellerman in one of his pictures, haven’t you, old sport?”
“I have indeed,” said the darker-haired cousin, smiling warmly below his trim moustache. “But goddess that she is, she does not have a patch on these beautiful mermaids.”
Delilah giggled and thrust out her hand. “Well, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Spencer. I’m Delilah Marconi and this is my good friend Poppy Denby. Poppy is a frightfully clever lady journalist and I’m –”
“A frightfully talented actress.”
Delilah’s eyes widened in delight. “You’ve seen me?”
“Indeed I have. I was in London last autumn and I managed to catch a few shows. You were sensational in The Cherry Orchard. Have you ever been on film?”
Delilah was now sitting up, her bathrobe fully open to reveal her petite figure. “I have not, Mr Spencer. But I’m hoping that might change.”
At that point the waiter arrived with their drinks. Miles Spencer insisted that they be put on his tab and then ordered drinks for him and his cousin.
The afternoon passed with lots of laughter and good-humoured conversation. Miles and Delilah spoke mostly of the film business, but Poppy, as arts and entertainment editor at the Globe, was able to contribute her tuppence-worth.
The Death Beat Page 4