by Leah Fleming
‘I mean it, May, write to me. Tell me how things are, paint me pictures of my home town. I would be so grateful for your correspondence. I do get homesick sometimes.’
‘I’ll do my best. Never had much use for pen and paper, just lists and stuff like that. I’ve never had anyone to write to before but I’ll give it a try. I just hope this thing floats better than the other.’ May glanced up with a wry smile on her face. ‘I never thought I’d make a joke like that. What’s happening to me?’
‘Change, that’s what. None of us will ever be the same because of what happened. But we survived and we will continue to. Look how brave you’ve been, and so determined, going back over the very ocean that . . .’ she hesitated. ‘Good luck and bon voyage.’ Celeste felt tears welling up as she kissed the baby and then hugged May tightly. ‘Go on before I make a fool of myself. I will never forget your courage and will to make a new life after such a tragedy. God be with you on your journey. You’ve given me so much to think about.’
May walked away and Celeste stood until she was just a speck in the distance, then lost amongst the bustle of the docks. ‘Will we ever meet again?’ she sighed, turning towards the gate.
28
Every day since his recovery, Angelo took his well-trodden path to the offices of the White Star Line. Surely someone somewhere had news? He’d heard of mistakes on the passenger lists. The clerk with the furrowed brow and weary eyes looked up and sighed heavily on recognizing Angelo.
‘Not you again, son. Now listen, I’ve told you before, if we had any more news we’d send you a wire. We have your address.’ The clerks had been sympathetic at first, but over the weeks they grew impatient as Angelo pleaded daily for them to recheck the survivors list. ‘They embarked at Cherbourg, your wife and baby but they didn’t make it. The numbers all tally. Sadly they’re not on any list.’
‘But I heard some gave false names.’
‘Rumours and press speculation, that’s all. You have to accept they went down like so many other poor souls on that night.’
‘But look at this shoe . . . My wife was skilled with lacework, like my mother. In our region they make special lace and she told me she was bringing it over to New York to sell. No one else could do this work, no one.’
‘Maybe someone bought it from her on the ship, one of the passengers. Maybe it got stolen. There are all manner of possibilities,’ the clerk replied, deliberately turning to the mountain of paperwork on his desk and thereby signalling to Angelo that he considered the conversation closed.
People behind him started tutting impatiently. Angelo knew his dishevelled appearance – the days’ worth of beard growth, his wild-eyed stare – made him look deranged. He could quite see how he would be mistaken for a madman. In truth he questioned his own sanity. He turned round to show the little shoe to the other folk in the queue.
‘Who would steal a baby’s shoe?’ he asked them.
‘There are passengers who’d steal the fleas off a dog, given half a chance,’ muttered a man behind him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the clerk. ‘Go home and write to your folks, wherever they live, that the news is bad.’
‘How can I tell her mamma that I caused her daughter’s death? It was me who said it would be a good life here. It will kill them to discover this.’
‘Look, sonny, face facts. They’re gone and you have to break the news as best you can.’
‘What if they are wandering the streets looking for me?’
The clerk took off his horn-rimmed glasses and wiped them, shaking his head. ‘You Italians have your own newspapers and shops. They’d find you.’
‘I’ve stuck cards everywhere I can: in the church, lodging houses, on billboards, even on the sidewalks. I have this feeling. I must keep looking just in case someone knows something,’ Angelo pleaded. He couldn’t give up, not now. He was haunted by the thought of Maria and the child stuck in the city somewhere, alone in a foreign land, unable to make themselves understood.
‘Your effort does you credit, but we’ve also done everything we can at this end. Talk to your priests and city folk, but you have to face the truth.’
‘What is true? They say that the ship went down with only enough lifeboats for half the passengers, that Third Class were left until it was too late . . . I’ve heard rumours, people shot on deck. Can you imagine what my wife went through and with no one to help her?’ He was shouting now.
‘Calm down, rumours won’t help you. What happened happened, and that is what the public inquiry is for, to make sure nothing like this ever happens again.’
Someone listening interrupted. ‘And how many steerage men have been called to bear witness? Only three out of hundreds, I’ve heard. It was mass slaughter. How can this boy ever get justice? It’s a disgrace!’
‘I am not judge or jury. I’m just doing my job. So don’t take it out on me. You have to get on with your life. There’s many worse off than you.’ The clerk was rattled by the support Angelo was getting. ‘Any more of this and I’ll call the manager.’
There was nothing more to say, but Angelo pulled out the tiny shoe once again, showing it to the audience. ‘I will have to live with this for the rest of my life. I killed my baby,’ he whispered. ‘And I didn’t even get to hold her. She was born after I left.’ He pulled out a tattered photo. ‘This is all I have, this photo of my Maria and Alessia.’
‘Such a pretty name,’ said a woman pityingly.
‘It was my grandmother’s name,’ he said, crossing himself.
‘Now go and find yourself a stall, have a coffee and calm down,’ the clerk said. ‘You can’t keep taking time off work to come here.’
‘How can a man work when he’s lost his world? Why did this have to happen to us? What did they do to deserve such an end?’
‘Beats me, son, beats me. What sort of an Almighty lets some live and some die? I’m sorry but you must go. There’s others waiting in the queue.’
As Angelo turned to leave the clerk hesitated. ‘Good luck! Maybe one day the truth will out.’
Someone patted him on the back. Another squeezed his arm. None of it comforted him.
Fingering the shoe in his pocket Angelo bent his head and pulled his cap over his face to hide his distress. He would never stop looking for Maria and Alessia. But first he needed more than strong coffee if he was going to write a letter home that would break all their hearts.
29
The journey back to Akron was a sullen affair. Celeste stared out of the window while Jack Bryden chattered on about the Wells family who’d lost both their men in the sinking. They were now five days later than planned, partly out of Celeste’s defiance and disappointment that Grover hadn’t rushed to New York to greet her. It might have made their reunion easier if he had been waiting, full of concern for her safety. All those cries of raw emotion she’d witnessed brought home how unmissed she had been, how life in Akron went on smoothly without her. Even Roddy sometimes saw more of his nursemaid, Susan, than he did of his mother. All that must change. All she’d got was poor Jack waiting in his mackintosh as if she was a mere client visitor to the Diamond Rubber Company. She’d wanted to scream at him but you didn’t shoot the messenger. What was she thinking? Where was this fierce rage coming from?
Those meetings with Margaret Brown and her friends had filled her with zeal. She must continue her campaigning no matter what, and then there was the Carpathia reception to organize. She had telephoned Grover two nights earlier with their change of plan. He informed her that a welcome home soiree in her honour had now had to be rescheduled. He was clearly far from pleased about this delay. There would be a car waiting for them at the train station.
Celeste thought once again of May on the high seas and hoped her journey back was trouble free. How brave she was to trust herself to another ship. How would she find life in the Midlands? Would she settle there? She shook her head to clear her mind, her thoughts spiralling. She must concentrate on her duties. Only the thought of R
oddy’s welcome warmed her heart.
As they drew into the driveway of the large house off Portage Hill, its ivy-clad turrets in each corner making it look more like a fortress than a home, she wondered what sort of reception would be waiting for her. Looking up, she saw Grover staring at her from an upstairs window, and she shivered.
The maid was standing at the door. ‘Welcome home, Mrs Parkes. We are so glad you are safe.’
‘Thank you, Minnie,’ Celeste smiled. ‘Where’s Master Roddy?’
‘Out with his nurse. We didn’t know what time the train would arrive. The Master told Susan to take him out into the sunshine. I’m sure they won’t be long.’
Celeste felt bitter disappointment stinging her.
‘The Master’s in the study. He’ll see you in there when you’re ready.’
Celeste’s heart sank at this command. She was in disgrace. Everything had its price, and staying in New York would be viewed by Grover as defiance of the first order. With leaden feet she climbed the wide oak staircase to his study like a child before the headmaster. Her new-found courage was fast deserting her.
‘At last. Close the door.’ Grover strode across the room from the window. The look on his face would melt steel.
‘How dare you arrive so late? I gave Bryden strict orders to bring you straight home, and you defy me,’ he roared, his florid face growing even redder.
‘I know, I’m sorry, but there were people I needed to help, survivors. It was terrible, Grover. You wouldn’t have believed your own eyes. I couldn’t desert them.’
‘I don’t want to hear your excuses.’ He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. ‘You were able to desert your own family for weeks. That didn’t bother you.’
‘My mother died. I had to go back.’
‘You took your time to return. Go and get changed. We need to leave soon.’
‘I want to see Roddy first. I’ve missed him so much.’
‘He’s out with Susan. She’s more a mother to him than you are. He’ll barely even notice you’re back.’
‘How can you say that? I wanted to take him with me to England but you wouldn’t let me. My mother never even got to see him. Now it’s too late.’ She was close to tears. She was arguing and she knew that was unwise when Grover was in this mood.
‘Do as I say and get those drab things off. You look like a common shop worker.’
‘I’m in mourning.’
‘Not here, you’re not. Black doesn’t become you.’
‘It suits my mood after what I saw, what I’ve been through,’ she snapped.
The blow to her shoulder knocked her sideways into the bureau. She staggered.
‘I will not stand for disobedience in this house,’ Grover roared. ‘You ignore my instructions, my driver, my timetable. You know what happens when you do that.’ He was standing over her with flint in his grey eyes. Celeste tried to stand upright.
‘I nearly drowned and you expect me to dress up for a party? Grover, please . . .’
‘You should be grateful. My mother has been preparing this soiree for days. The cream of Akron society will want to hear your story first-hand.’
Celeste touched her shoulder, which hurt terribly. She felt dizzy and disoriented with the speed of her fall. ‘I’m tired. I don’t feel like celebrating anything.’
‘What you feel and what you want is of no importance,’ Grover barked.
‘Please, another night,’ she pleaded.
‘Go to the bedroom. You need to be taught a lesson, one you won’t forget in a hurry.’
Celeste saw the furious gleam in his eye and knew what was coming next. ‘Oh, not now, please. Can’t you see I’m hurt? For the love of God, don’t take me now.’
‘You are my wife and I won’t be denied my rights. Get to the bedroom before I drag you by the hair. I would’ve thought by now you’d know who is master in this house. I will not be made to look foolish by a disobedient wife.’
30
May kept to her cabin on the Celtic, out of sight from prying eyes. She knew the other passengers were dying to ask her questions about her experience and to pet the baby. There were toys for Ella; a First Class passenger sent a beautiful teddy bear for her to play with and a doll dressed in pink velvet with gold lace ribbons. People meant well but May was too exhausted to appreciate it. There were at least five other female survivors on board, some with children, and she’d seen they were fussed over and passed around as if they were famous. She avoided their company when she could. People wanted them to pose for photographs but she shied away from the fuss and attention from the start. Slowly people were starting to get the message.
She’d been upgraded to Second Class and was sure that Celeste had something to do with this. She didn’t deserve such a friend, one who’d saved her life. Their few days in New York she would never forget, riding in a carriage around Central Park, tasting ice-cream sodas, shopping in Macy’s, trying not to gawp at the luxuries on the counters and the elegant ladies in cartwheel hats who sipped tea in the restaurant and admired Ella. It wasn’t real. Nothing had been real since they’d set sail nearly two weeks ago. Could it really have been such a short time since she’d sailed into a new world, seen the bustle, noise and dust of the city? It wasn’t for the likes of her. She was pleased to be heading home. If not to her real home, then to her own country where all would be more familiar.
Not for the first time she wondered if she was in some strange dream waiting to wake up. In a matter of days, she’d travelled from Bolton to London, Southampton to New York, and now back again into the unknown; days and days of living in borrowed clothes, carrying a baby she hardly knew. Then in the small hours of darkness reality dawned, the pain hit and her mind felt like it would explode. It was as much as she could do to make up a bottle for the baby.
Ella suckled on it unheeding. As long as she was fed and changed, she was no bother. I have taken someone else’s baby. God forgive me! Willingly at first she’d clung to this child just for comfort but now there was no going back. She was her responsibility. For better or worse.
‘I don’t know you,’ she whispered in the baby’s ear. Ella grinned with such an appealing smile, and May shook her head. The innocence of the young. ‘But we’ve plenty of time to get to know each other, lass.’ There were days ahead to sit in peace, sing nursery rhymes and walk the decks before they must face the years to come.
Ella looked so different from Ellen, petite limbed, with long delicate fingers, and so dark skinned. She was foreign, no mistake about that. There’d been so many nations on board in steerage, families, women in headscarves jabbering away. Did this baby understand one word she was saying?
Everything they were wearing was new, from her black coat with the velvet trim, the smart hat and handbag, her calf-skin boots, her corset and shift. Only her careworn face was the same, but ravaged by sorrow, pale and drawn.
In her pocket was Celeste’s letter of introduction to one of the clergymen of Lichfield Cathedral, Celeste’s own father, Canon Forester. He would help her find a suitable position, her friend had insisted. What was a canon? The only cannon she knew was the gun that stood in the park. She’d no idea even where Lichfield was except it was somewhere close to Birmingham, and she’d never been inside a cathedral in her life.
Every time the ship’s engine shuddered or went silent, she felt the panic rise. What if it happened again? The icebergs were still out there. She could hardly bear to go on deck to look. It was hard to sleep shut up in a cabin, however comfortable it might be.
When Ella woke for her dawn milk, May dressed her warmly and forced herself to walk her up and down the deck, looking out to sea. There was no one around to stare at them but crew, who smiled and left her to her own thoughts. They sensed she wanted no fuss, no reminders of what had happened to them.
Celeste may want to publicize their experience, to tell the world what had happened, but she never would as long as she lived and she’d begged her friend not to tell the c
anon too much of their story; only that she had been widowed by the disaster.
‘Please,’ she’d insisted, ‘I don’t want us to be pitied and pointed out in the street.’ That was the only condition she’d asked in accepting this kind offer of help. Anonymity. The chance to start afresh. Celeste had had no option but to agree.
On 25 April, under a gull-grey sky, the ship slipped into the Western Approaches; that part of the Atlantic that heralded the coast of England was getting closer and soon they would be reaching Liverpool. There was one last task May decided she must do.
If this was to be a new start for both of them, then all reminders of this terrible experience must be destroyed: her salt-stiffened nightdress, the baby’s clothes, nothing that could identify them as passengers of the Titanic. She pulled out her own things and the baby’s clothes, stuffed them in the pocket of her new coat and took them on deck. When nobody was watching, she dropped her own clothes down into the water. They fluttered on the breeze at first, ballooned and then floated away like swollen bodies in the water. She turned away horrified at such a terrible reminder.
Then she fingered Ella’s gown with that beautiful lacy border, the bonnet, the one little shoe. The other had been lost somewhere that day they’d gone ashore in New York. She hadn’t noticed the lace’s intricate pattern before. It was a frieze of Noah’s Ark with animals two by two, dogs, horses, deer and a dove with outspread wings. Such fine work. As she touched the texture, she knew this lace had been made with love and pride.
The two of them had found an ark of safety in the lifeboat and then on the Carpathia. They were still at the mercy of the waves and water. Reaching over the side of the ship, May noticed how the swell of water frothed into hundreds of white holes with patterns like lace.
How could she watch these beautiful tiny clothes float away and sink like her own little girl must have done? She shoved them back into her pocket. These were not for the sea. They must be kept. They weren’t hers to destroy, but Ella must know nothing of the secrets they held. All May knew was that you don’t throw love away, however painful the memories.