by Leah Fleming
‘No, please, Mrs Smith, this is a simple misunderstanding. She’s just a little girl and like so many now she has no daddy to pin her dreams on. The war has torn so many families apart. She’s too young to understand what she was saying. It’s hard to work and raise a child on your own. She is a credit to you.’
May bowed her head. ‘I want Ella to have the chances me and Joe never got. My husband and I were both orphans up north, we planned to start a new life in America. His loss was a terrible blow.’ She felt herself welling up and ferreted for her hanky sniffing. ‘And now this.’
‘Forget the whole matter. I’m so glad you told me. It will stay within these walls, I can assure you.’
‘I don’t like to think about it or care to remember the past. What shall I do about Ella then?’
‘Nothing, just tell her the truth and make sure she knows who her real father is. Paint a mental picture so she can draw him and imagine him. Tell her his story and then she won’t need to pretend.’
May left the study shaking. ‘Come on, you have caused enough trouble for one day.’ How could she be cross with Ella? But she was, for dredging up all their business and reminding her again of what she had lost and how she was lying to everyone around her. For many nights afterwards she lay awake mulling over Miss Parry’s sensible advice.
How can I tell her the truth about her dad? I don’t know who he was or is . . . or her mother, either. I have taken a child from her parents, dead or alive. How can I tell even more lies to cover this up? What do I do now?
Dear Celeste
Where are you now? Are you safe? I’ve not been able to sleep since the business with Mr Parkes. How silly of me to leave Roddy’s picture on view.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, but my nerves are all jangled. Ella’s been playing up at school, telling fibs about her father being one of the explorer Captain Scott’s crew. How his ship froze in the Antarctic and her father fell out into the ice. How can she think up such things at her age? Miss Parry said she may be pining for her daddy but she never knew him. I’ve told her what she needs to know, but not about the Titanic. She’s too young for all that.
Sometimes it is so hard to keep up with her questions. I try to keep her busy. She goes to Miss Francetti’s dancing class on Saturday mornings and to an art class after school. She has Sunday school and there is something called Brownies I have heard about in the paper. I take her to the picture house but that only makes her fancies worse. I hope she doesn’t get teased at school for having such an ordinary background. Sometimes she clings and says her tummy hurts and that she doesn’t want to go to school.
My mind has been going over and over the sinking and I keep hearing those voices crying for help from the waves. My appetite isn’t what it was. You’d find me a poor wreck if you saw me just when I thought I was getting some spark back. I find everything an effort. I don’t know what’s happening to me. If only I could sleep better, but I lie awake going over things in my head, then I’ve no patience in the morning. Tell me to pull myself together. There are others far worse off than me. Please help me clear my head.
Yours, restless in the night,
May
In the morning she read over what she’d written and tore it up. No one wanted to hear such nonsense.
58
SS Saxonia, August 1919
Roddy looked up at the huge ship in the dock. ‘Are we going on this?’
Celeste nodded, gripping his hand. ‘All the way to England to see your grandfather and Uncle Selwyn.’
‘But what about school?’
‘I’ve written to the principal and to the parents of my etiquette classes. Now all the soldiers are back from war, they no longer want ladies in the government offices. You’ll be going to a new school in the fall . . . which we call autumn, by the way.’
‘But why did we have to go away so quickly?’
It had been a long trek from the echoing noisy station to the docks, and the journey overnight to New York had left them tired. Celeste had paced up and down all night in case they were being watched. She couldn’t believe they’d got here without trouble.
‘Roderick, remember there was a nasty man following us. Well, he can’t find us here.’
‘Why was he nasty?’
‘It’s a grown-up story, darling. One day when you’re a bit older I’ll explain, but when anyone asks you about your papa you must say very politely that you haven’t got one. He died in the war.’
‘Did he?’ Roddy asked puzzled.
‘You just say you have no father now and people won’t ask any more questions. You’re not to tell anyone our business, not on board ship or when we get home. Do you understand? It’s really important.’
He nodded, not really understanding any of it.
‘Oh, and one more thing . . . you must keep this spare life preserver on at all times, no matter what anyone says.’
‘I’m not wearing that thing. It’s silly!’ he said, pushing the child’s yachting vest back at her.
‘Make sure you keep it in sight when we set sail. There’s a good reason why I’m asking you,’ she pleaded. ‘Things happen out of the blue.’ She straightened her short wavy hair and grey tweed suit with the fur collar. In her rush she’d come without a decent hat and felt underdressed.
‘Like what?’
Celeste looked up at the lifeboats, automatically counting them. ‘If you hear a buzzer, run to the lifeboats and get in, no matter what they tell you. Promise me . . .’
‘Yeah, Mom, but where’ll we live? Why are we in such a hurry?’
‘I told you, we’re going home to Lichfield to see your grandfather and we’ll stay with Uncle Selwyn until I can find work. He’ll take us in. You’ll meet my friend May and her little girl, Ella. She’ll be there to play with.’
‘Do I have to? I hate playing with girls. I’m not dressing up again.’
‘That was just a game. That nasty man was watching our house and we had to get out without him following us.’
‘Have we run away to sea?’ Roddy looked up at her and she smiled.
‘I suppose we have, Roddy. I’d never thought about it like that, but yes, I think we have.’
‘Great! That’s OK then,’ he smiled, staring up at the ship. ‘Nobody else in my class will be doing this, will they?’
Celeste was relieved to see his excitement. ‘Come on, Jim Hawkins, the adventure begins.’
On the second day into the voyage, Celeste leaned over the railings, rain beating on her face, as the Saxonia glided through the choppy grey waters. They were out in the Atlantic, far from the haven of New York Harbour. How different from the last time. The surge of relief to be homeward bound was tinged with a shiver of fear that she was putting her trust in the ocean again. She’d tried not to think about her nightmares: screaming passengers, floating bodies, the sight of the mighty ship on its end, sliding down into the watery depths.
In some strange way, Grover’s investigator had diluted her dread of coming aboard. They had to get away, but she felt sad to be telling Roddy a pack of lies, to be depriving him of his heritage. There was so much about the country she still loved and respected.
But the Titanic experience had changed her view of life for ever, as it must have done for so many of the survivors who had been left to come to terms with what they had seen and heard.
She’d even heard whispers of some of the society women divorcing their husbands for the very fact of them getting on the lifeboats in the first place. This was when, after the inquiry everyone realized how few of the steerage women and children had survived. There were rumours that Bruce Ismay, the White Star Line chairman who jumped ship into the lifeboat, had had a breakdown.
Even after all these years the sight of the tall red funnel looming above her and the smell of salt water and steam, the hanging lifeboats on the great liner, made her shake with fear. But this time she was facing east and heading for Liverpool, and Roddy was by her side as they had wal
ked up the gangway, Celeste trying not to look down or remember . . .
There was no luxurious First Class cabin this time, just a modest room, little more than a cubbyhole compared to her accommodation on the Titanic. The ship was roomy enough, basic, battered from being used as a troopship but now refurbished. But the smell of fresh paint brought back memories and she felt sick.
Roddy was darting all over the place, exploring the decks and corridors, playing hide and seek with some of the other boys on board. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight, but he was too quick and she realized she was in danger of nagging him into defiance. So she followed behind him discreetly, just in case. She’d not brought him all this way just to see him lost overboard. He was playing tag with a group of other boys and as usual not looking where he was going when he tripped over a cable and knocked down a man in a long tweed coat and trilby who’d been heading in his direction, limping with a stick. They concertinaed into each other, both collapsing in a heap and Roddy cried out with pain. The man in the trilby staggered, dazed, before scrambling to Roddy’s aid.
‘Hey, old chap, are you OK?’
She saw Roddy looking up, trying not to cry and grasping his ankle. ‘It hurts.’
‘Let me look at it,’ the man continued, pointing to the ankle.
Celeste was at Roddy’s side in a second, seeing the man about to reach for his stick for balance, looking shaken himself. ‘I’m his mother. Roderick, you weren’t looking where you were going . . . I’m so sorry.’ She turned to face a young man with a grey face, who smiled and raised his hat with a smile.
‘Another case of wrong place, wrong time, young man,’ he replied. ‘Let’s have a look at that ankle.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ Celeste asked as the man bent to unloosen the boot.
‘No, ma’am, but I did a fair bit of patching-up in the war,’ he replied, not looking at her, more intent on examining Roddy’s swollen foot. ‘Can you wiggle your toes?’
Roddy nodded, whimpering. ‘But it still hurts.’
‘It doesn’t look broken to me, but we’ll have to let the ship’s doctor see it just to be sure. You looked as though you were having fun,’ he added, then turned to Celeste with a smile. ‘Shall we carry him between us?’ He was gesturing to his stick. ‘Bit of a nuisance but it keeps this ship from listing port side.’
Celeste had to smile as she helped him to his feet. ‘The war?’ She looked at his stick.
‘The war,’ he shrugged. ‘Battered and bowed but still afloat . . . Archie McAdam, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. And this young man?’
‘This is my son, Roderick Wood. Stay put and I’ll find another deckhand to lift him,’ Celeste offered, looking round only to find they were alone now. Together they helped Roddy to his feet and he limped down the stairs to get his ankle strapped up.
‘Thank you, Mr McAdam.’ Celeste appraised the man with care. He was English, broad shouldered, with a weatherbeaten naval face with a beard. His hair was silvered at the sides. Celeste was homeward bound and in no hurry to dash away, but when Roddy appeared strapped up and he offered to take them to tea, she shook her head. ‘It’s Roderick who should be taking you to tea,’ she protested.
‘No, I insist. It will be good to give the stick a rest and you can both tell me what you two are doing on this old rust bucket. On vacation?’
‘I’m going to see my grandpa. I’ve never seen him before and Mom says—’ Roddy said but Celeste was quick to step in.
‘I’m sure Mr McAdam doesn’t want to know all our history,’ she laughed, seeing how eagerly the man was observing them. Roddy mustn’t get too familiar with strangers.
‘But I do, and it’s time for afternoon tea,’ McAdam insisted. ‘I’m starving, aren’t you? You know, I was just looking around thinking as we set sail that everyone on this ship is on a journey bound for the familiar or unfamiliar, and all the passengers have a story to tell. Then wham, I’m on the floor and the stories begin. So when I’ve found a table for three, ordered teacakes, fancies, whatever you like, young man, I shall tell you why I’m here. I bet you didn’t think I’m travelling over the Atlantic just to go back to school?’
‘Grown-ups don’t go to school. Do they?’ Roddy was curious.
‘We call it university but it’s still a school.’
‘I’ve got to go to a new school in England. My other school was in Washington.’
‘Well, there you go, you have a story to tell already. Come on then, us two old crocks will mount the stairs together.’
Roddy put his hand in Mr McAdam’s and climbed, leaving Celeste staring up after them.
‘Everyone’s got a story, indeed. Well, Mr McAdam, you’re not going to hear mine,’ she muttered, following in their wake, not sure if she was intrigued or afraid of such a sudden encounter with this Englishman who was charming her son like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Roddy was confined to quarters later to rest his swollen foot. He would have been bored, but Mr McAdam called, bringing him some peppermints, a game of draughts and some Boy’s Own Papers with pictures of ships in them. He even loaned Roddy a reading book he’d bought for his nephew.
Somehow they kept meeting in the dining room, and when the band played Celeste reluctantly allowed herself to be persuaded to have one dance, but Mr McAdam, who struggled with his stiff leg, was glad to sit down again. He’d been visiting friends in New York for his vacation and had taken the opportunity to see a special surgeon to see if he could get his legs straightened out. He said he was keen on tennis, rugby and cricket, and collected cigarette cards and stamps from his journeys. He even promised to teach Roddy to play chess. He was easy to talk to and good with her bored young son. He had a deep throaty laugh that made people turn round and smile. Celeste was on guard, though, sitting up very straight and giving little away, so that he never got beyond calling her Mrs Wood all the time.
She could sense Roddy was dying to tell him all about their own adventures, about running away to sea, but she kept giving him icy stares, reminding him about their secret and how no one must ever know their business.
‘You worked in Washington? It’s a great city. Were you a teacher?’
She shook her head but Roddy butted in, ‘Yes you were. We had classes in our house. They were so boring.’
‘Roddy, it’s rude to interrupt . . .’ She explained about the Women’s Party and their successful Votes for Women campaign.
‘We still haven’t got the full vote in England yet, but it’s coming. I think it’s a disgrace that half the human race don’t get a say in national matters. My wife used to say—’ he broke off, then smiled. ‘If men had the babies there’d soon be a change.’
‘So you’re going back to see your wife and children?’ she asked, relieved at this news.
‘I wish I were, but they were caught in a Zeppelin raid over London: wrong place wrong time.’ He suddenly went quiet.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could muster.
‘And you two? Your husband works in England?’ He looked up. Roddy was waiting to see how she would reply.
‘I have no husband now,’ she said. ‘Roddy’s my man of the house, aren’t you? We’re going back to my home town to start again, aren’t we?’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Lichfield . . . Grandpa lives in the cathedral,’ Roddy jumped in.
‘Roddy, we don’t tell strangers our business.’
She saw Mr McAdam blush and felt mean to be so secretive. He wasn’t a stranger now, just a rather pleasant young man going back to an empty house.
‘You can write to us,’ Roddy piped up, smiling. ‘You can write to us from your new school, can’t he?’ he added, biting on his sticky bun, grinning with mischief.
‘Of course, if Mr McAdam so chooses, but I expect he’ll be very busy.’
He smiled at Roddy and winked. ‘I think I might find time to put pen to paper now and again to give you my school report.’
Celeste couldn’t sleep t
hat last night aboard Saxonia, and for once it wasn’t for fear of an iceberg or Grover’s henchman: it was all Archie McAdam’s fault. Why did Roddy have to bump into him? She steered clear of drawing unwanted attentions but Roddy’s little accident brought this stranger into her path. He should have been discouraged, shaken off and dismissed.
There was something disturbing about the past few days in the company of this widower, sailor, scholar and educated man of her own class. He was the sort of man Papa would welcome at the door, but as Archie had said: ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’ Why couldn’t she just be honest with him, tell her story, such as it was. That would soon put him off. But Roddy thought him a hero, and couldn’t get enough of his sea dog stories, which she sensed were tailored and censored so as not to upset the sensitivities of a young boy. He was a man’s man with the limp to prove it, and she was keeping him firmly at arm’s length. He made them laugh and it was so refreshing to hear the fun in his voice instead of the fear Grover had instilled in her with his.
Ought she to let him write to them from Oxford? It wasn’t that far from Lichfield on the train. Was she keeping the door open until such times . . . ? She had to admit an attraction to his bright eyes and deep voice. If only she were free. All the lies she’d built around their life to protect them over the years were like a hard shell, one she couldn’t risk cracking.
Better to say nothing, to seem remote and disinterested, than to give false hope. She longed to tell him why she was so nervous, that any jolt in the ship’s engine sent her straight back to that night on the Titanic. Then there was the business of making Roddy carry his yachting vest, pointing out where every lifeboat was situated and the route up onto deck in case of an emergency. What did he make of all her fussing?
They’d had the smoothest of voyages so far, uneventful but not boring, not now she’d met Archie McAdam. Something in his no-nonsense honesty and humour attracted her to him. It was a good job they would be docking in Liverpool tomorrow.