by Leah Fleming
‘They gave you the last rites but you’re a tough son of a bitch. Still stateside.’
Angelo couldn’t understand half of what the doctor was saying. His head was fuzzy. ‘When do I go?’
‘Not so fast. You stay here until we tell you to go. First you must eat and get some flesh on those bones.’
He tried to rise up again but his head was spinning. Where were his buddies, Ben and Pavlo, all the guys he’d trained with for weeks? Now he could hardly breathe, as if there was a hole in his chest and air was in short supply. It took the nurses days to get him walking on those stick-like legs. What had happened to his tree trunks? Angelo felt only shame not to be with the other men. He was stuck in this terrible place with sick soldiers arriving every day, trading places with those wheeled out at night on the death trolleys. What the hell was going on?
His only comfort was Kathleen’s letters. This sickness was all over the eastern seaboard but particularly bad in Philadelphia and the ports where the soldiers were gathered. She was gargling with some concoction Salvi swore would cure all, and so far they were clear. Some hero he was turning out to be. Then came the final blow to his pride when the doctor examined him.
‘Discharge for you,’ he said, pointing to Angelo’s heart. ‘You’ve done some damage there. Still, better a clock with a slow ticker than getting your head blown off over the pond. You’re gonna have to take it easy, build up your muscles.’
‘How can I support my kids like this?’ Angelo cried. ‘I’m useless.’
‘Give it time, nature heals,’ the doctor replied. ‘You’re young and tough enough to survive when thousands haven’t.’
That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. How could he hold his head up when he had never fired a shot in anger? He’d prove them wrong.
It was as much as he could do to change into a suit, pick up his kit and head for New York. He felt like an old man, sitting on the train wheezing, people staring at him as if he were a deserter.
Kathleen was waiting at Grand Central station to greet him. She immediately smothered him in her arms. ‘I’ve been so worried. The flu is everywhere. I didn’t bring our babies. They told me you might die,’ she sobbed.
‘I’ll never make a soldier now.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I’ve got you back in one piece, that’s more than some folks in our block. Come on, let me give you a hand. You look done in.’
Angelo felt limp and lifeless. She mustn’t know yet about his heart and its weakness. It would worry her too much. He needed time to heal or how could he ever be a man again?
53
Lichfield
Christmas 1918
Dear Celeste,
Your parcel arrived safely and unopened this time. What treats there were. Thank you from all of us.
Our first Christmas of peace at long last. How we’ve all prayed to be released from the terrible mess this war has become. After those first days of celebration and excitement at the Armistice, there was a horrible dampening of spirits. No one who has lost boys and girls has the heart for any festivities. We remember those who won’t pull the crackers, who won’t eat plum pudding, nor sing carols round their family tree. Our food shortages still go on but I saved enough coupons for a few treats for Ella. She will have her stocking, some sweets and home-made toys, thanks to your brother’s kindness.
Selwyn is back at Red House. His face is scarred. He shuts himself in the coach house and mucks about with things that need mending. I go up with your father and tidy the garden. He doesn’t speak much to me so it was a surprise when I found a toy cot in the hall. He’d knocked it together out of scraps and smoothed it down and oiled it to a sheen. It looks brand new. Father Christmas will be sending it down the chimney on Christmas Eve for Ella’s dolls. Ella is such a one for dollies and lines them up as if she was the teacher.
Now for my big news. I did it. I gave Florrie Jessup what for and saw her off. She went too far. I was telling one of the cooks about Selwyn’s kind gift and Florrie overheard and started mouthing off about how I had earned the toy on my back. How I was always nipping off to the house to give the soldier his comforts and such like.
Did I see red? I certainly did. I gave her a right-side winder round the ear. She had it coming but the housekeeper saw the whole thing and sacked us both on the spot so that was me out of work with a child to support, just when they have the students rolling back to college. Some of them are in such a sorry state.
I was all for packing my bags but to my surprise some of the girls stood up and told Matron how things had been for years and how I had put up with rude remarks, so in the end it was Florrie who got her marching orders, not me, which is a relief.
I told your father a little of the hoo-ha. Word gets round like wildfire in the Close. He suggested I might like a change of employment, helping Mrs Allen at Red House and doing for a few of the other clergymen, which was so kind. I will think about it. I’m not sure Selwyn will want two women round his ankles. He has black moods some days.
It felt as if I’d found a bit of spark in myself I thought I’d lost and perhaps I’m not such an offcomer in the city after all.
Let us hope 1919 brings hope and relief to all of us.
Your loving friend,
M
54
New York, Summer 1919
Kathleen was keeping their apartment off Broome Street spotless. Not a speck of dust was allowed to settle, even in this hot summer. There were lace nets at the window to catch any flies daring to enter, but there weren’t many six floors up in the tenement. The family had three rooms and a living room with water on tap, and a parlour with a box bed for the little ones, Jack and Frankie. Now there was another on the way. She was praying for a little girl.
It had been almost two years since Angelo returned to them. He complained of a bad back and so she helped out in the fruit store as best she could. Kathleen showed she was no slouch, but a hard worker willing to serve behind the counter and mind their ever-growing troupe of wee ones.
It was Angelo she’d married, not Salvi’s tribe of dark-eyed, wild-haired Latinos, who raged and stormed at each other. Together the couple had raised themselves from one room to three, but the thought of another mouth to feed was daunting. Sometimes she wondered if it was right to have stayed on in New York after the sickness. Her own family pleaded with them to return back home, but to what? Picking potatoes on her uncle’s farm or in service on some English estate? And there were troubles back home too.
Here was life and hope, and now she had these darling toddlers. Her drowned sister wouldn’t begrudge her this new life. Angelo still clung to strange theories about his wife and child. He never talked about Maria and Alessia, whose little picture hung on the recess wall of their bedroom, nailed high over the shelf containing a little altar he’d made, decorated with cuttings, candles, letters and the baby’s lace shoe. He was still convinced it was his daughter’s. When it had drawn near to the anniversary, even seven years on, he had gone quiet and worshipped at this shrine, even lighted a candle as if they were ever-present ghosts watching over them by the bedstead. If she’d argued with him he would walk away not looking at her tears.
‘You have to let them rest in peace, Angelo,’ she said. ‘We’re your family now. Little Jackie, Frankie, they’re your heirs. I can’t bear to see you stare at them and not at us . . . Don’t you love us?’ Her temper flared up when he turned his back on her.
‘Let a man say his prayers in peace, woman!’
‘It’s not healthy,’ she confessed one day to Father Bernardo. ‘He worships them as if they are still alive. What can I do? I can’t compete with the ghost of a beautiful wife and mother, who’ll never grow old or sick or fat, who doesn’t get angry when the kids make a mess.’
‘Where there’s mess there’s life, Kathleen. Never forget that’s a sign that you’re living, changing and growing in a way they’ll never do. In his heart Angelo knows they aren’t real any longer but he’s still blamin
g himself for their deaths. “If onlys” are a devil to throw off.’
‘But that little shoe, it torments him. He thinks I don’t know he searches out all the lace shops with Italian imports and trimmings, just in case anyone knows if the shoe is from his region. He’s convinced it’s from his district. It makes me feel as if we’re not enough for him.’
‘Give him time, Kathleen. Time will ease his pain.’
‘But it’s seven years now, Father. I don’t want these things staring at me every day when I dust. There’s so much dust if I open the window and the children trail so much into our rooms from the streets. Then there’s all the postcards and cuttings, anything to do with the Titanic gets pinned up – newspaper cuttings, pictures. Why can’t he just let it rest? They’re gone and we’re here.’
‘Oh, if only it were that simple, my dear. Everyone has to live with their past. You have your babies. He has time to dwell on things he can never change.’
‘What can I do? I have to say something now there’s this wee one on the way,’ she sighed, patting her belly. ‘If it’s a girl he says she must be named for his Alessia.’
‘Alice is a good saint’s name,’ the priest smiled.
‘Pardon me, Father, but it’s just another reminder. This bairn must have her own name, not one for his dead child.’
‘Are you really jealous of these poor souls?’
‘Yes, Father, and I can’t help it,’ she said, bowing her head in shame.
‘Then pray and the answer will come to you, child. Go in peace now and no more fussing.’
As the summer grew hotter and her baby bigger Kathleen ignored the little shrine, never dusting round it. Sometimes she felt as if eyes were staring into her back until she got so hot and bothered one morning she threw her brush at the corner of the room and Maria’s picture slipped off the wall, the glass shattering.
‘Now look what you’ve gone and done!’ she screamed in panic. The frame must be repaired or Angelo would fret. Pulling out the sepia photograph, she shoved it into her private drawer and the tiny shoe into tissue paper in the fancy nightdress case made from Irish linen that she never used.
Yous can all wait, she thought. As for all this mess, you’ve done it now so shift the wash stand, clear the shelf and give the corner a fright.
Kathleen set to with gusto, clearing the clutter, scraping off the wax from the wood, polishing the surround and scrubbing the wooden floor. She took the yellowed cuttings off the wall with care. They had left white marks. She dragged over the crib and tucked it into the recess close to the fireplace. It fitted snugly. Nothing like shifting furniture to make a tiny room look fresh and new. She covered over the gaps in the faded wallpaper with her own sacred pictures. Now the corner was ready for the new baby.
As if waiting for this cue, that night she went into labour with a mercifully short delivery at dawn. The baby was all she could hope for, with a mass of flaming curls.
Angelo was kept out of the room but his eyes lit up when he saw the little girl swaddled in her crib.
‘A girl, Angelo, one of Mary’s angels. Father Bernardo says I’m to have the naming of her. A new girl for a new country, so she’s to have an American name: Patricia Mary. What do you think?’ To her surprise he didn’t protest nor did he notice the changes to the room until much later.
‘Don’t worry, all your things are safe,’ she smiled, pointing to the drawer. ‘You can look at them any time. The picture just fell off of its own accord,’ she added, knowing she’d have to confess on Sunday for this lie. Angelo said nothing, he wasn’t even listening, too engrossed in the beauty of his new daughter. ‘Bellissima Patrizia,’ he cooed.
‘Thank you.’ Kathleen raised her eyes to the little Madonna on the shelf. ‘Now we can really start our new life.’
Angelo smiled over the crib. He knew the score. Kathleen’s face told a picture of blushing half-truths. He could read her like a book. But for once she was right. He was blessed three times over for his loss now. Not that that would stop him thinking about his first wife for the rest of his life, but the little shrine must be hidden in his heart, not on show for Kathleen to worry over. Baby Patricia was a gift of love. Two sons to educate and a dowry to save for, now that would take some hard work and saving up. They must come first.
When Father Bernardo sought him out after Mass one morning he’d given him a gentle warning. ‘You’ll go mad, son, if you don’t let go of your grief. It’s an insult to the living, and the dead are at peace now and know no more. Be thankful for what you’ve been given . . .’
But no one could quench that little flame of hope he still felt in his heart. He’d told no one, but when he thought he was dying it was Maria who had come to him, and she’d been alone. Her arms had been empty. Somewhere someone knew something more. That was the thing that tormented him most, and no priest in this world could make him snuff out his hope.
55
Lichfield, July 1919
May hurried across Cathedral Close. It was the Friday of the National Peace celebrations and she’d meant to pick up a few bits for Canon Forester from the market: fresh bread, vegetables and cheese. She liked to make him a pot of soup to last the weekend. She’d forgotten the square was closed off with scaffolding, ready for the big parades. The bell ringers of the cathedral and St Mary’s were practising for the next day’s peals. There was going to be such a party for the children in their schools this afternoon. Ella was as high as a kite.
As she turned into the little cobbled courtyard, a tall man in a smart suit was standing looking around at the red-brick Tudor houses with their exposed beams. May was used to seeing tourists looking at these ancient buildings. He stared down at her and her basket. ‘Which one’s the canon’s home?’ he asked, his grey eyes flashing. May heard his American twang and automatically stiffened.
‘Which one would you be looking for, sir?’ She tried to smile though her heart was hammering in her chest.
‘I wish’d they’d stop that din,’ the man yelled, pointing to the spires. ‘Can’t hear yourself think . . . Forester, Canon Forester.’
‘Step along with me, I’ll be delivering these to him shortly,’ she replied, wanting to delay the knock on the door. Her heart was still thudding. She’d recognized this man from the wedding portrait Celeste’s father treasured, one she’d polished a hundred times. Here was Grover Parkes in person, come to find his wife. She prayed the canon would be in the cathedral or visiting the sick.
She had a key but that was for her to know. The stranger had not a clue who she was. Dare she take him to the wrong door, to the one where the cleric was on holiday? That might turn him away for long enough to make sure no one was at home when he called again.
‘Who else lives in these quaint little boxes? I guess there’s not enough room to swing a cat,’ he joked, looking around the cobbled courtyard, but May wasn’t fooled by his apparent friendliness.
‘Retired clergy mostly, or their wives.’
‘You live here?’ He gave a hard stare at her shabby jacket.
‘No, sir, I oblige for some of them . . . I work in the college. I think the canon will be out now, sir,’ she added, praying he was. ‘It’s the Peace weekend . . . The whole country is going to celebrate. You’ve seen the flags?’
‘You can’t move in London for the darned things. What is it with all this fuss? The war’s been over for nearly a year . . . I’m here on business in Silvertown in London. I couldn’t get anywhere for ladders and decorations. The whole country’s at a standstill . . . and as for the trains . . .’
‘We’ve waited a long time . . . out of respect for our dead soldiers,’ she argued. How dare he criticize this celebration? ‘I’m sure the canon will be out.’
‘I’ve not come hundreds of miles not to go and check . . . Show me the door.’
‘I’d better come too. He’s a little confused and hard of hearing these days.’
Parkes beat on the door with impatience and, to her horror, it opened a
nd the canon smiled out. ‘Oh, May, dear . . . two visitors at once, that’s nice.’ He looked up at the man and stared. ‘Do I know you?’
‘You sure as hell do, I’m your son-in-law . . . Where is she?’
‘I’m sorry, where’s who?’
‘Where’s my wife and my boy?’ he shouted.
‘I’m sorry, young man . . . come inside, please. May, put the kettle on; there’s some confusion here. Grover, the last time I saw you was at your wedding. Now when was that . . . ?’
‘Quit the flannel. I want to see my wife and my son. Where are they?’
‘Aren’t they with you?’ The old man was scratching his head. ‘I don’t understand. May, have you any idea what this is all about?’
She stood there trying not to blush, shaking before fleeing into the kitchen recess. This man was here on a mission; she must not let slip a word.
‘I don’t understand. I write to her. She’s in Akron. You post the letters, don’t you?’ He was staring at May, now cowering in the doorway with the tray.
‘I haven’t received any letters . . . not since—’ Grover broke off. ‘What’s going on here? Who’s being paid to shut their mouth.’ He stared at May. ‘Is this who I think it is?’
‘Mrs Smith is my housekeeper, a loyal friend to our family. Please address her with courtesy, young man. Now sit down and tell me what this is all about. Are you here on business?’
Grover turned to May, ignoring the question. ‘Did my wife pay you to deceive me?’
‘That’s enough,’ the canon interrupted, for once his hearing sharp. ‘Please explain yourself. This is my home. There’s obviously some terrible misunderstanding here.’