“Oh Gilbert, you flatterer! But you know I can’t dance now.”
“Nonsense,” said Captain Williams. “Come, Miss King, I shall help you get the lady into her wheelchair and we shall spin around the floor like Romeo and Juliet at the masked ball.”
A flutter of panic crossed Aunt Dot’s face. Poppy reached out and took her aunt’s hand. It was quivering. “Is that all right, Aunt Dot? Do you want to dance?”
“Of course I want to dance! But tonight is your night, Poppy, and I shan’t spoil it by drawing attention away from you. Thank you for the kind offer, Gilbert, but perhaps we can dance here instead, using words instead of steps.”
The captain nodded his assent. “My lady’s wish is my command.” Then he turned to Toby and Miles. “Now which of you gentlemen will be first to ask the birthday girl to dance?”
Toby was on his feet like a shot; he bowed with a flourish and reached out his hand: “Miz Denby, may I have the pleasure?”
Poppy looked into his sparkling blue eyes and said: “You certainly may.”
An hour and a half later and Poppy had danced with at least half a dozen gentlemen. She was relieved that the music was finally slowing down and the guests were drifting into corners to smoke and enjoy their coffee. A number of older gentlemen had already retired to the smoking room to discuss things they thought ladies had no interest in, and some younger fellows took the opportunity to select partners for the more intimate waltz. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Toby Spencer moving towards her. Nothing against him, but she would rather not.
At that moment a group of guests at the next table stood, providing a temporary barrier, and she used it to finally slip out through the sliding doors onto the deck. There were a few people already there, so she walked along until she found a quiet spot between two lifeboats and leaned on the rail.
Nine decks below her the Atlantic heaved and swelled. She allowed her breathing to match the rhythm of the ocean. It was still hard to believe that she was on this floating hotel, travelling to the other side of the world. It was something she and her brother Christopher had fantasized about as children, telling each other stories of what they would do and where they would go. Their attraction to boats and the potential they offered for adventure had begun when they visited the great Mauretania when it was being built at Wallsend in 1905. Poppy was seven and Christopher nine. Even when Poppy was carried high on her daddy’s shoulders, she still felt like a speck of dust next to the giant liner.
“I’ll go to India,” said Christopher, who was reading Kipling at school, “and ride on elephants in the day and hunt tigers at night.”
“And I’ll go to London,” said Poppy, “and have tea with the king and queen.”
“You don’t go to London on a ship,” said Christopher. “Don’t you know anything?”
The seven-year-old Poppy took offence at that and said she did. She knew lots and lots and lots. And going to India was just silly because – didn’t he know? – tigers eat people at night. Everyone knew that.
Christopher declared that was utter poppycock and he would most definitely go.
Nine years later he did travel on a ship: across the English Channel to France. And then he travelled by train to Flanders. A year later he was buried under a sea of poppies, while thousands of miles away, nowhere near India, the Mauritania’s sister ship, the Lusitania, was sunk by a German torpedo.
Poppy sniffed back the tears that were beginning to well. Oh Christopher, I miss you. And not for the first time she thought: Why did God choose to call him home? Had all her prayers for her brother’s safe return fallen on deaf ears?
Poppy’s breathing was now out of sync with the ocean. She mustn’t get herself worked up – she mustn’t. It would do no one any good and it wouldn’t bring Christopher back. And besides, raging against God was never a fair fight. He was God and – well – she wasn’t.
She watched the waves again: the rise and fall, the fall and rise, and her breathing steadied once more. Being a fair-minded young woman, she decided to consider the other side. Weren’t there times when God had listened?
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away…
A gaggle of tipsy guests spilled out of the dance hall and weaved their way down the deck. She leaned in closer to the bulwark, hoping no one would think of joining her. No one did. Once again she was alone. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Poppy, are you all right?”
Poppy turned around and saw Rollo standing behind her. She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hands.
“Birthday girls shouldn’t cry.”
“S-sorry, Rollo; it’s just that…”
Rollo pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. “You don’t have to explain. Your tears are your own, Miz Denby.”
Poppy took the handkerchief with thanks and blew her nose with an indelicate snort, for which she apologized again.
“I fear, Miz Denby, that I am going to make you cry again.”
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Because of this.” He handed a small box to her, along with an envelope. “Poppy” was written in Daniel’s familiar hand.
“He asked me to give this to you. He said that he had bought it before your… well, before the latest developments – and that he still wanted you to have it.”
Rollo’s brows furrowed and he put both hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I don’t know what happened with you two, Poppy, but I hope when you go back to London after this little jaunt, you’ll both come to your senses. Life is too short to let something as precious as love get away.”
Then he laughed. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. My reputation would be ruined.”
Poppy smiled through her tears. “Thank you, Rollo, and mum’s the word.”
She held the box and envelope in her hand, stroking them with her thumb and looking pointedly at her editor.
“All rightee!” said Rollo, taking the hint. “I’ll leave you to it.” Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
When she was alone again, she opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of notepaper. It said:
Dearest Poppy,
Today is your birthday. I so wish we were spending it together. But circumstances have conspired for that not to happen. There is so much I want to say but don’t think it is wise to do so. I do not want to say anything I will regret. I don’t want to lose you Poppy, but we both know things cannot go on the way they are. I hope that in the following three months you will think of me, as I will most definitely think of you. I hope too that when you return you will feel differently about family and work and perhaps we can then figure out a way to be together.
Until then, with my deepest love and respect,
Daniel
Then she opened the box and nestled inside was a red enamel brooch in the shape of a poppy.
CHAPTER 8
As Poppy and her friends were dining and dancing nine decks above them, Miriam and Esther Yazierska, known as Mimi and Estie, were finishing off their meal of mince, dumplings, and carrots. The sisters were seated at the end of a long wooden bench that could accommodate twelve people, running alongside a trestle table, with another bench on the opposite side. There were six tables in the dining hall, with no damask table cloths or silver candlesticks, although the wood was scrubbed clean. The steerage passengers, most of whom had sold everything they owned to purchase a ticket, were housed in simple but decent accommodation. There were no rats ’n’ rags here. Nevertheless, it was a world away from the luxurious lifestyle of the rich and famous on the top deck of the liner.
As Mimi carried her and her sister’s tin plates and cutlery back to the serving hatch, she knew that upstairs servants would be clearing up after the guests, who would not give them a second thought. She knew, because she once had been one of those servants. Not on a grand ship like this, but in a grand house, where people came on holiday when Yalta was a vacation resort
for the rich and famous, and not just a collection point for refugees fleeing the Russian Civil War.
Although the war had officially ended six months earlier, the fallout from it had not. Millions of people who had fled the fighting or been driven out of their homes for being on the wrong side of the White/Red divide were struggling to find their place in the new Russia. Some hoped to return to their homes eventually; others, like Mimi and Estie, had no home to return to.
Mimi’s parents, Jewish tailors who lived in Kiev, had been murdered in one of the many pogroms that swept Eastern Europe. Tsar Alexander II and later his son, the last tsar, Nicholas II – Mimi spat at the thought of his name – hated the Jews, blaming them for every woe that befell the Russian Empire. Mimi, then fourteen, had fortunately been out of the house with her ten-year-old sister when the hussars swept through the Jewish schtetlech settlements, burning everything in their path.
When the ash cooled there was nothing left of the family home and business, and no adults to look after them. Eventually, after wandering from town to town and village to village in search of the next Jewish settlement that might take them in, Mimi was told there might be work in Yalta, at the homes of the Russian aristocrats who spent their summers on the Black Sea. The rumour proved correct and, after a few false starts, Mimi eventually secured employment as a chambermaid – even though she had a good education and her parents thought she might become a teacher. Her sister was too feebleminded to work, so Mimi paid most of her earnings for the girl to board with a Jewish family in the town.
Life with the Pushtov family – who came and went every summer for the next four years – was not too onerous. Yes, Mimi was no longer able to go to school and finish her education, but the aristocratic family was not unkind, and the work was stable. Most of the household travelled back with the family to St Petersburg at the end of the season, but Mimi was one of the skeleton staff who remained each year to keep the house running. Work during that time was light and Mimi was able to spend more time with Estie.
Meanwhile, Mimi continued her studies in the hope of one day going to teacher training college. She sneaked into the Pushtov library in the evenings and borrowed books on everything from science to mathematics to world geography. She even started to teach herself a little English and French. It was in that library that two things happened that would change Mimi’s life forever. The first was she found a book about America and the wonderful opportunities the New World offered. It was written in English and she needed a Russian/English dictionary to help her through it; but the pictures alone – of buildings as high as mountains, streets that were lit day and night, and people from all walks of life, rubbing shoulders in a place called Times Square – cheering in the New Year – wooed her. It didn’t take her long to start dreaming of America.
The second thing that was to change Mimi’s life happened early in September 1917. The day after the family had packed up and left, Mimi finished her work airing the bedrooms and slipped into the library during her lunch break. She normally didn’t go into the library during the day, as the senior servants did not approve of chambermaids “taking liberties”, but on that day the butler had a business meeting with the estate manager, and the housekeeper was down with a cold.
Mimi closed the door behind her, checked that the gardener was not working outside any of the three windows that aired the ground-floor room, then reached for the familiar book on America. As was becoming her ritual, she held it to her nose and smelled the leather, imbibing a deep sense of satisfaction; then she kissed it and pressed it to her heart, hoping that one day she too would be transported to a new world.
But as she went to sit in her favourite leather winged armchair she dropped the book in shock. There, sporting an amused look and a riding coat, was a young gentleman. One leg, in silken breeches, was draped over an arm of the chair and the other was resting – sans stocking – on a pouffe.
“Can you get me some ice, girl?” he asked.
Mimi jumped from foot to foot as if she needed the lavatory, did a funny little bow, mumbled “yes sir”, and scampered out of the room.
When she returned, she noticed that the gentleman had reached down and retrieved the book on America. Her heart skipped a beat. Oh no; she was in trouble now.
She stood holding the ice bucket, not knowing what to do.
The gentleman peered over the leather cover and nodded to his foot, resting on the pouffe. “I’ve sprained it. Riding over. Be a good girl and ice it for me.”
Mimi looked around for a napkin or cloth to use. Nothing was available. The gentleman reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. He passed it to her. She opened it and noticed the initials “AP” – Anatoly Pushtov – embroidered in the corner; then packed it with ice.
Anatoly Pushtov was a cousin of the family who summered in the villa. In the three years since she’d been there she’d seen him no more than a couple of times. He was a handsome man in his early twenties, with wavy brown hair that flopped charmingly over his forehead. She had no idea what he did for a living – if indeed he did anything. She only knew that he was somehow related to her masters and had a right to stay in the house when he chose.
She knelt down, her hands shaking, and applied the cold compress to the visibly swollen ankle.
“Ahhhhh,” said Anatoly. Then he added, “Thinking of going to America?”
She dropped the compress to the floor, bumping his ankle as she tried to catch it.
“Careful!”
“S-sorry, sir.”
He lowered the book and took in the dark-haired young woman kneeling on the library floor.
“Sorry for hurting me, or sorry for stealing a book?”
Mimi smarted but tried to contain her tone. “I did not steal it, sir. I was just borrowing it. The family left yesterday –”
“Yesterday? By the deuce I thought it was next week! I was wondering why it was so quiet. Thought they were all out on the hunt.”
Mimi reapplied the ice compress. Anatoly sighed again.
“What is your name, girl?”
Mimi swallowed slowly before answering. “Miriam Yazierska, sir, but people call me Mimi.”
“Mi-mi,” he replied, caressing each syllable with his lips. “Well, Mimi, are you telling me you can read this?” He held the book open before her. “In English?”
Mimi swallowed again. “Y-yes, sir. A little.”
Anatoly smiled and his whole face lit up. “What a lovely surprise!”
Mimi flushed, but did not look up. She felt his brown eyes resting on her. Her chest rose and fell with the ticking of the library clock. How long was he going to keep her like this?
“Well, Mimi,” said Anatoly eventually. “Leave that resting on my ankle and then pull up a chair.”
Mimi looked up, uncertain what to do.
“Go on,” he nodded, smiling at her kindly, “get yourself seated. I want to hear you read.”
Mimi smiled to herself as she remembered that first day. Her English, it turned out, was not as good as she thought it was. But the young gentleman had been kind and helped her with her pronunciation. And then, of course, he offered to tutor her the next day, and the next… and while the rest of the staff wondered when he was going to leave, he sent a telegram to the family in St Petersburg, telling them he’d decided to stay on a few more weeks.
Soon the lessons in the library turned into walks in the garden – Anatoly leaning on a cane as his ankle healed – and, as that got better, walks further afield and down to the beach. It was an Indian summer and the sun shone on the backs of the two young people as he told her about all the wonderful places he’d visited, and she told him of her dreams of visiting the same places too. Top of both of their lists was America.
Towards the end of September they became lovers. She had been surprised at how long it had taken him to kiss her. But when he did, she was ready. She did not care about the disapproving looks from the rest of the servants; all she cared about was Anatol
y, her prince, who would take her – and of course Estie – away to the New World, where chambermaids and aristocrats and Jews and Gentiles could marry. And then, as the clock would strike midnight, together they would watch the silver ball drop in Times Square.
However, as the shadows of September shortened, news arrived at the villa that Anatoly had been summoned to return to St Petersburg. The Bolsheviks were fomenting revolts all over the empire and the White Russians were gathering their forces to quench them.
Anatoly and Mimi sat together on the private beach on the Pushtov estate while the waves of the Black Sea caressed the shore. Their clothes lay scattered on the rocks and, as the evening turned chill, Anatoly pulled a picnic blanket over their bare bodies.
“Mimi, my love, I have to leave you for a while.”
Mimi did not ask why. She already knew. She pressed her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes. She could hear his heart pounding against her ear. Then she felt him take her hand and slip something onto her finger.
She opened her eyes and saw a single pearl on a gold band. She gasped in delight.
“Is this…is this…?”
He wrapped his arms around her and inhaled the scent of her hair.
“It is a promise that I will return for you. When all of this Bolshevik nonsense is over. Will you wait for me, Mimi?”
“I will,” she said. “And then we will go to America?”
“He laughed. Yes, and then we will go to America.”
CHAPTER 9
Poppy woke the day after her emotional meltdown and stared with remorse at the black make-up streaks on her pillow. By the time she had washed her face and ordered coffee from room service for her and the still-sleeping Delilah, she had made up her mind to pull herself together and enjoy the rest of the cruise. She considered for a moment pinning on Daniel’s brooch, but instead she packed it at the bottom of her trunk. Daniel would still be there when she got back to London. And she’d have three months in New York to think what to do about him. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, she told herself. It’s not every day you get an all-expenses-paid trip on one of the most luxurious ocean liners in the world.
The Death Beat Page 6