The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  How terrible to be complaining to you in this month of all months when we must think of those poor souls who will never have a voice again. Forgive me for being so thoughtless. I do look forward to your letters but it seems weeks since I last heard from you. I hope you find a quiet place to mourn your dear husband. Don’t leave it so long before you write again.

  Yours in agitation and remembrance,

  Celeste

  She looked for a stamp but there was nothing in her letter case. Grover wouldn’t mind her taking one of his. She needn’t tell him it was for a letter to May. She made for his study, hesitating briefly outside, recalling the last time she’d ventured in there and the blows that followed.

  She checked his silver rack on the desk. Nothing there either. She never dared look in his drawers, but anyway, they were usually locked.

  As she bent down to check she noticed an envelope with a British stamp and familiar handwriting in the trash basket. An opened letter from May, read and then discarded. The room spun for a second as she took in the fact that it was one she’d never seen and which, according to the postmark, must have arrived only a few days ago. Of course May had not forgotten her friend on the first anniversary of the sinking.

  Celeste sat down in Grover’s mahogany chair and read the letter through carefully. It was all she could do to breathe, such was the rage burning inside her. She wanted to scream with frustration at this treachery.

  Am I not even to have privacy or friends of my own? How dare he? This was too much to bear. She sobbed as she read it again and placed the letter back exactly as she had found it. Her anger bubbled up again. Two could play this game, she thought, unsealing her own letter to add a postscript.

  PS. Your letter has just arrived. Please disregard my silly rebuke, but since you offer to help me out, I do have a request, a funny one but I’ll explain later. From now on please address your letters to Mrs Parkes c/o The Post Office at Akron and not here.

  It was the best she could do on the spur of the moment. If Grover thought their friendship was on the wane, he’d relax his guard. Little did he know what he’d just achieved. Weak as she might be, he’d touched a nerve, stiffened her resolve. No one was going to stop her writing home, or to anyone she chose. If this was war then she’d won the first skirmish. But she sensed there would be worse battles ahead before victory was hers.

  May read Celeste’s strange letter three times, trying to get the gist of it. The middle bit was all about Votes for Women and a woman called Alice Paul, who’d been in England on hunger strike and now was fighting for the suffragette cause in the States.

  I’ve joined the Congressional Union for Women’s Suffrage. I have to do something to help women’s rights here. Why should half the human population have no say in its affairs? Twenty million women are denied the vote here. Alice says each one of our efforts counts like the hymn ‘You in your small corner and I in mine’.

  She read on, confused, especially about the change of address.

  She’d seen suffrage campaigners handing out leaflets in the marketplace in Lichfield and pictures of them in the newspapers picketing outside Parliament.

  ‘Grover thinks I am doing Titanic Survivors’ Committee work, which is sort of true. I have to do something . . .’ Her handwriting was scrawled over the page as though Celeste had been in a hurry. What was going on?

  It wasn’t that May didn’t believe in votes for women herself. They’d been very hot on that in Bolton in the cotton mills, and she’d signed up with the Union years ago for Universal Suffrage. There’d been a riot when Mr Winston Churchill passed through the town and she knew many of her fellow mill workers were still active in the north. Joe believed in the socialist cause but it had all gone a bit haywire, what with Mrs Pankhurst and her scuffles with the police. The burning of Lord Leverhulme’s bungalow in Rivington recently had shocked her but she’d let it all pass over her head since her arrival in Lichfield. It all seemed so far away from her life now.

  What would Canon Forester think about his daughter gallivanting over the country with banners? Her husband must be very understanding to let her make such an exhibition of herself. But women like Celeste didn’t need to work, May sighed. They could pursue their hobbies and not worry about the cost. But something was up, she could sense it, and she was worried. Celeste didn’t sound herself.

  May reread the pages about Celeste’s busy life and felt ashamed of her own quiet existence. She did her chores at home, her domestic work. There was Ella to mind and she collected her pension with gratitude. She sat quietly in the back pew of the old parish church in Netherstowe every Sunday trying to settle her restless mind, which continued to torment her with dreams. It was hard living a lie in her letters, covering her true feelings about Ella and what she had done, but Ella was so much a part of her now she’d never let her go.

  Funny, how they were both hinting about their worries but never spelling them out. Hers were too terrible ever to be committed to paper.

  To make matters worse she’d had a set-to with Florrie Jessup, who’d caught her coming out of the Provincial Bank one afternoon.

  ‘It’s not often we see one of us with a savings book,’ Florrie smiled, eyeing the bank book in May’s basket with interest.

  May felt obliged to say something. ‘My husband died at sea and this is a pension,’ she offered, wanting to scuttle off in the opposite direction from this large nosy woman.

  ‘Is it now? We wondered how you manage to keep you and the kiddie so well turned out on the pittance we get from up there,’ she sneered, pointing in the direction of Cathedral Close and then looking back at May’s smart black coat.

  May didn’t like the sound of the ‘we’. She hoped she and Ella weren’t the subject of local gossip. ‘Ella gets parcels from America,’ she tried to explain.

  ‘So you’ve got relatives there? Is that how you got this job? You do extra for the canon now, and I heard Letty Fagan wasn’t right pleased when he let her go in favour of you. Word of advice, love, this is not how you go about getting jobs round here. People think Letty didn’t do a good job for him.’

  May flushed. ‘Well, his house was in a bit of a state when I called the first time. I thought he didn’t have help.’

  ‘What were the likes of you doing calling on the likes of him in the first place?’ Florrie was dug into the pavement now, barring her path.

  ‘I met his daughter once . . .’ Big mistake.

  ‘But she’s in America, wed to some bigwig. She was on the Titanic. How come you know her?’

  ‘Oh, friends from the church, it’s a long story.’ She made to push the pram away but Florrie stood firm.

  ‘I’m surprised you bother to turn up to work at all, what with such posh connections and a private pension.’

  The gloves were off now. How could May defend her corner? ‘It’s not like that at all. I like my work. There’s just the two of us, I have to work.’ May turned to go again but Florrie grabbed her arm.

  ‘Not so fast. That’s not what I heard. You turned down an invitation to join the Cooperative Guild.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ May was impatient to run from all these accusations. ‘I need the baby minding every time I leave the house. It costs money or favours,’ she snapped back.

  ‘Listen, Mrs Smith, if that’s what your name really is, let me give you a bit of advice for free. There’s town and gown in this city: Cathedral Close or Market Square, and it doesn’t do to mix or try keeping one foot in each camp. You are one of us or one of them, see?’

  ‘I’m not from here. I’m from Lancashire and I don’t take sides.’ May’s hackles were rising now.

  Quick as a flash Florrie dived in. ‘So? What brings a northerner all this way then?’

  ‘I was widowed,’ May said under her breath. ‘Can’t a woman have a change of scene?’

  Florrie prickled at the reply, showing not an ounce of sympathy as she stood aside. ‘Pardon me for breathing but we wondered if you weren’t ex
actly a regular widow, you know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ May looked Florrie full in the eye, catching her off guard for a second.

  ‘Well, we wondered if someone’s set you up, like . . . out of the way with you and the kiddie not exactly short of a bob or two and no visitors.’ There was a blush on her cheek as she spoke.

  ‘How dare you suggest such a thing? Joseph was my husband, my childhood sweetheart. It’s only a year since his death.’ Tears filled her eyes.

  ‘Hold yer hair on! I didn’t mean any offence but you do keep yourself to yourself. People are bound to ask questions, now, aren’t they?’

  ‘What is it to you who I am?’ May snapped back. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve still got some shopping to do.’

  ‘There’s something about you I don’t understand; a bit of a mystery, by my reckoning. But not to worry, I’ll ferret around until I know the truth of it. Pension indeed . . .’

  Florrie stormed off laughing and May felt sick. So much for peace and quiet. Tittle-tattle by the college staff was the last thing she needed. Damn you, Florrie, for stirring things up just as I was settling. Thank goodness Ella had slept through the whole episode. Let them think what they liked, they’d get nothing else from her. Perhaps it was time to find another job. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? She didn’t have to answer to an interfering busybody like Florrie, but she must be more on her guard from now on.

  It was true she didn’t mix much, but with all her jobs and the little one there was no time and she was so tired; she still slept badly at night.

  Her only friend was across the ocean and even she was acting queer. Was it a proper friendship where you never met but just the once in such extraordinary circumstances? Yet somehow that bond was a comfort and strength, her letters were a chance to pour out her feelings and speak her mind. A woman like Celeste wouldn’t keep writing if she didn’t want to.

  If only she could dare tell the real truth about Ella. Maybe she’d sleep then. But that was too much for any friend to take on board. I am a liar and a thief and a dissembler, she sighed, but what I did seemed so right at the time.

  All that mattered was Ella’s welfare. She was saving every penny so the little one could have the best she could afford: good shoes, dancing lessons, a proper schooling. When the time came Ella would take her place one day not at the bottom or the top but in the middle, with chances and opportunities in life. If others thought them both standoffish, then tough. Ella was worth all of them put together.

  In her own mind, Captain Smith had put his trust in her to do her utmost to give the baby a proper life. Not in some orphanage like herself and Joe had been but with the freedom to choose her own path. May had jumped at school learning, even as a half-day scholar at the mill. She loved a good book to read. She was interested in the cathedral and its history and liked listening to organ music and the choirboys singing. In fact, she was beginning to like this ancient city, even though it was flat with no hills around, so unlike the moors at Edgeworth.

  If she’d been born higher up the ladder, maybe she’d be like Celeste, all fired up about women’s votes. Perhaps she should join the Guild and show willing. She might learn a few tips and make friends outside her work. But friends asked questions and poked around in your life. There was safety in distance. Better simply to stick to things as they were and not go rootling for trouble.

  Ella was all that mattered now. She must succeed and have her chances so that the theft of her true identity could be justified. Only when that happened would May find some peace.

  39

  It was here, the day Angelo was dreading. He rose early for work, glancing with sadness at the little shrine in the corner with its shoe and photograph. He was sharing a room with Salvi’s boys. They insisted he live with them now that he’d lost his apartment, after complaints to the landlord about his rowdy all-night carousing with drunken friends and falling behind with his rent.

  ‘No Bartolini sleeps on the street while I am alive. My brother would kill me,’ said his uncle. ‘But you find a job and pull up your boot strings or else.’

  Slowly Angelo had sobered up enough to hold down a job again. It was a chilly clear spring morning, and from the rooftop in Manhattan he sat staring out over the city skyline, over the skyscrapers to the bridges and the river stretching out into the harbour, recalling that terrible night a year ago. How had he survived such loss, such pain and emptiness?

  He turned up to work each day and climbed onto cranes and up scaffolding, perching high above the building sites. Work was key, work was comfort and he built up his reputation once more as a stevedore who was reliable and trustworthy enough to be sought out and chosen above other more experienced local men.

  Today he would finish early, put on his best shirt and jacket, and head to Mulberry Street and Old St Patrick’s for the special Mass. There, he would light a candle for Maria and their little one alongside other grieving relatives.

  He knew many of the Irish by sight now, the old women and young girls, the red-haired navvies who kneeled alongside him. St Pat’s was like a lighthouse in the darkness, somewhere to sit and smell the incense and feel safe in this loud brash city.

  Angelo liked the old cathedral better than the big new one. It reminded him of home. The stonework was cool to his touch. Father Bernardo had seen them all through such a difficult time like a true shepherd, but this was a Mass that brought back such memories of that night in the rain last April.

  The girl in the plaid shawl sat in front of him again, her coppery curls caught up in a bunch that fell down her back. He’d seen her in the street at the parade. She was weeping so hard one of the sisters touched her arm.

  ‘Now, Kathleen, they’re all with the angels now . . . I know it’s hard but they wouldn’t want you to take on so.’

  Angelo struggled to stay in control of his own tears. He knew only too well what she was feeling right now. When the service was over he got up to leave but the sisters were directing them into the parish room. ‘What you’re needing now is a strong cup of tea. It’s laid on in the back. Come on, Angelo, you as well. After a hard day’s work you must be thirsty.’

  He would rather have downed a barrel of whiskey but he smiled and made his way with the others. They all sat around awkwardly, strangers connected by this terrible chain of events. He nearly choked on the sweet milky tea. The girl in the shawl looked across at him and smiled. She had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, like polished marble. He smiled back and her cheeks flushed.

  ‘My sister, Mary Louise, got on the ship at Queenstown,’ she whispered. ‘And you?’

  ‘My wife,’ he replied. ‘Maria and our bambina from Italy at Cherbourg.’

  ‘You poor man.’ She shook her head in sympathy. ‘It never goes away, does it?’

  Suddenly he was glad he’d changed his shirt and trimmed the wildness out of his black hair; relieved that Anna insisted he shake off the dust of the building site before he came to Mass.

  Everyone was sitting, drinking, making polite conversation in their own languages. In a few moments they’d all go their separate ways for another year.

  On the steps of the cathedral, the Irish girl hesitated, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, giving him a chance to catch up with her. It was not yet dark and he felt himself drawn to her side. ‘It’s a bella notte, a good night for a walk around the block, a passeggiata, in my country,’ he offered, towering over her tiny frame.

  ‘Yes, to be sure, it’s too nice to be indoors,’ she replied. They both looked at each other shyly, and then turned away.

  ‘I’m Kathleen O’Leary And you are . . . ?’ She paused. ‘I can’t walk with a stranger.’

  Angelo bowed, lifting his cap. ‘Angelo Bartolini,’ he replied as they took a few steps towards the sidewalk and the bustle of Manhattan at night.

  They didn’t see Father Bernardo smiling a benediction on their meeting as he watched Kathleen take Angelo’s arm, nor hear the kindly priest muttering to
himself, ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.’

  40

  November 1913

  I am sorry for the delay in writing but I’ve heard some strange news. There’s been a public subscription raised to build some memorial to Captain Smith. I thought you’d like to know. I am not sure where yet, somewhere in Staffordshire where he was born or maybe even here. It is to be a full likeness, a statue, I think. There was a piece in the Lichfield Mercury that caught my eye. I am glad they are doing something. When we are all long gone, those memorials will be there to remind people of the gallant men and women who gave their lives for our safety.

  Just the mention of our captain’s name makes me break out into a sweat. There have been so many reports blaming him for the disaster, saying he went too fast in the night, but I don’t want to think ill of that poor man or indeed about any of it. That night will haunt me for the rest of my life without my casting blame left and right. I thought once the anniversary was over I’d feel better, but I don’t. I just don’t want any more reminders, do you?

  I am so glad I have you to share these feelings with. Only someone who’s seen what we have can understand the terror of recalling it all.

  There’s been a lot of talk in the paper about building up the navy and army to face the Kaiser, should he turn his guns on us some day. There’s even a shooting range in a farmer’s field where Selwyn goes to practise his aim. If ever you were thinking of coming across on a visit, say, for Christmas, I’d do it soon, my dear friend, just in case. Let’s hope it’s all a false alarm. It would be grand to see you and your family, though.

  Celeste locked this latest letter in her bureau, unsettled by May’s news. Perhaps it was time to cajole Grover into a family trip. It was worth a try. An English Christmas would do them all good.

  She chose her moment carefully. Dinner had been perfect, with every attention to detail he liked: his favourite chicken pot pie followed by canned peaches and cream. Roddy was in his nursery and all was well.