by Leah Fleming
She rushed out in tears and he raced after her, white with rage. ‘If I ever get my hands on Grover Parkes . . . I’m so sorry Sis, I’d no idea. Please forgive me.’
‘You can see why I don’t want him in our lives again. But this is all between you, me and the gatepost . . . please.’
Her disclosure sent her brother into his silent shell once more, shutting himself off from them in his garage, banging at his repairs as if his life depended on it. Celeste couldn’t believe the change in Selwyn. The scars on his face from the burns were superficial though the scars of war had gone deeper than she could ever fathom. But this row cleared the air and there was no more talk of giving Roddy the address when Christmas came around.
Now she was busy clearing out Ella’s home. May had so few possessions, Celeste felt ashamed of all the family clutter in Red House: the writing bureaux, cabinets, chairs, clocks, the pictures, the linen. The Foresters were great hoarders; the Smiths had lost everything.
Ella was being helpful, gathering up all her toys into a box and packing her mother’s clothes neatly into a case. At the bottom of their pine chest, stuffed under winter clothes, there was a carpetbag that smelled of mothballs.
Ella opened the bag and out spilled a pile of baby linen that Celeste recognized immediately. ‘Look, your lovely baby clothes!’ Inside the bonnet tucked into the bottom was a cloth bootee with a tiny leather sole, edged with a fine lace cuff. ‘You were so tiny. Look at the lace on your nightie, such beautiful edging. Your mother must have kept them as a memento.’
Ella was barely interested. ‘They look like old dollies’ clothes to me.’
‘You must take them to show your mother. They’re very special.’ It brought back such memories just to finger them: rushing with them to the laundry, trying to keep May and her baby warm, dry and comforted. How could May have not told her daughter about the Titanic?
‘Will it make her upset again?’ Ella’s eyes were wary. She’d seen too much for her young age, things that she didn’t understand, things that she shouldn’t have to understand. ‘Better put them away.’
‘She’ll be fine, but if they upset you, I’ll keep them safe. Your mother must explain your story, not me. I’ve said too much already.’
‘About what?’
‘Run along and check everything.’ Celeste knew she was in choppy waters again.
As they closed the door to the house for the last time she saw Ella looking at the view.
‘I like this house, I like being close to town,’ she said with a sigh, but being wise beyond her years she saw Celeste’s look and added, ‘But I like Red House too, and having my very own room up in the attic. I like going on the bus and Uncle Selwyn’s car makes such big bangs everyone jumps when it explodes.’
The girl was going to be a beauty with her dark hair and gorgeous eyes, Celeste thought. She knew nothing but this city now, nothing of her background, nothing of the Titanic. It was about time both their children knew just what had happened on that night, but she didn’t want to set May back again. She must have her reasons for not telling Ella the truth, just as she was reluctant to talk about Grover to Roddy.
They were two of a pair for holding things back. Was this the fault of what they had gone through on the Titanic? No one who was there ever talked about it much. There was so much anger inside over all the belated information about the doomed ship. The public inquiry all those years ago had revealed so many scandalous breaches in safety rules. At least now every ship had to carry enough lifeboats and practise an escape drill. What else had been covered up or glossed over? No one cared now, not since the war. It was just a piece of forgotten history.
Had the horror of such an experience claimed the minds of other survivors like May? No wonder secrets were so hard to bring to the surface when so much hope and innocence had sunk with the ship that night. It was all too deep to fathom and now was not the time. All that mattered now was making a home for the Smiths and putting a smile back on the face of this child.
67
They drove down the winding Cross in Hand Lane.
‘I like this route down to the city, it’s peaceful. Are you looking forward to your visit?’ Selwyn asked, looking straight ahead as May gathered her thoughts, clutching her handbag for comfort.
‘It’s been months; I’m not sure. I gather we’re going back to your place. I wonder what Ella will make of it all. I feel so ashamed, being so weak-minded.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish, woman, you were ill. The mind’s no different from the body when it’s sick. Look at me when I came home. I’ll tell you one thing, though: you’ll have to find something to get up for each day, something to occupy your mind. Celeste will help you.’
‘I’m not one for company at the moment. I just want to see Ella’s all right. I have to make it up to her for being away for so long.’
‘This is just a day visit to test the water. Don’t expect too much and you won’t be disappointed. Take it from one who knows. You don’t want to spend any more time in hospital than you have to, but it is its own little world and not easy to shift its routines. You’ll be fine.’
If only she could be so sure. How could she admit to being terrified of seeing her child again after what she had said? How could she have been so cruel, telling her she wasn’t hers? Would Ella want to see her again? She seemed settled with the Foresters, from what they said. She suddenly felt sick.
Ella was waiting at the door of Red House. ‘You’re back! Oh, you’re back. Come and see, we’ve made scones with jam and I’ve set the table in the dining room. Come and see . . .’
A boy was standing down the hall, hanging back, looking every inch the schoolboy in his uniform. ‘This is Roddy.’ Ella pushed her forward to meet him. He was staring at her, not sure what to do but eventually he held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ May whispered, wishing everyone would go away and leave her alone with Ella. Celeste was reading her mind and whisked the others away. ‘We’ll put the kettle on and let May and Ella have some peace in the drawing room.’
May had never sat in the big room before. It felt formal and chilly, and neither of them fitted in. ‘I’d like some fresh air,’ she said. ‘Let’s go down the tow path of the canal like old times. And I wouldn’t mind a root around in the garden. How’s it doing?’
‘It’s our den now. No one does anything in it much. I can show you where there’s a blackbird’s nest,’ Ella offered, holding out her hand. May took it with relief, trying not to grip too hard to steady her nerves.
‘You weren’t kidding, were you? It’s a right mess. Don’t they have a gardener any more?’ Then she recalled the old man had died and his son had been killed in the war.
It was a summer afternoon and the blue sky lifted her spirits as Ella chatted about school and Hazel, how Roddy and she kept falling out over who would ride Selwyn’s old horses, Bentley and Whiston. How he came out of the barn and shooed them off, saying the horses were retired and no one must ride them now.
She chattered on and May drank in her news with such relief. She is still my Ella and I am still her mother.
But then some of Ella’s news jolted her back. ‘There’s someone in our rooms now. I had to pack everything up. It’s all here upstairs. Where will we live?’
Had Celeste warned her about this flitting? She must have said something to her but her memory was like a sieve. She felt a stab of panic as they headed back for tea.
Eating wasn’t easy. She couldn’t taste much but she did her best to look grateful. Ella had her chair pulled up to the table, chattering away whilst shoving cakes on her plate. Selwyn was keeping out of their way. She watched the clock moving to the time she must leave but to her surprise she was reluctant to make for her coat and hat.
‘What do you think of the garden?’ asked Celeste. ‘I never was one for planting and harvesting. I keep nagging Selwyn but he’s worse than me.’
‘You’ll have to advertise for a gardener then,’ Ma
y offered. ‘It’s a big plot.’
‘I thought if you gave me a hand and showed me how to do things . . .’
‘I’m not rightly sure. I’ll have to be finding myself work when I get out of . . .’ She trailed off.
‘That’s what I meant, May. There’s enough room for all of us here. Ella is settled. Would you consider coming to live in, help me in the house and garden?’
May felt herself prickle. ‘You’ve done enough, you don’t want me hanging round your neck like the albatross in the poem. It’s a kind thought but I ought to stand on my own feet.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with living here and finding your feet on paths you already know? We think it’s a good idea, don’t we, Ella?’
‘So you’ve cooked this up behind my back? Don’t I have a say in how I bring up my daughter? I can see she’s made herself at home.’ May rose to leave. ‘It’s time to be going.’
‘May, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought it would be good for all of us to spend some time together, let the children have company. Please don’t get upset.’
May could see Celeste was struggling and shaken by her harsh words. She ushered Ella out into the hall and closed the door on her.
‘Just because I’ve been in the madhouse, doesn’t mean I have no pride,’ she said toi Celeste.
‘Just because you’ve been ill, doesn’t mean you can throw out my offer without giving it some serious consideration. You told me once you were a hermit. I know how you struggled with Florrie and the others at the college. We know a lot about each other. I know Ella doesn’t know she was on the Titanic, though why that is such a secret, you alone know.’
‘You know all about me but I know nothing about you except that you’ve run away from your husband. Sharing with friends has to work both ways.’
‘Then perhaps it’s time I told you what I told Selwyn. I ran away because he was a bully. The night I returned from New York, five days late, he beat me black and blue, and worse. We all have our troubles, May. Not everyone has a happy marriage as you did with Joe, short as it was. You are not the only one with secrets.’
They stared at each other and then both found they were crying, holding onto each other for dear life. ‘You helped me escape. I will be beholden to you for the rest of my life. So climb down off your high horse and meet me halfway. Come on, I’ll drive you back and we can thrash this thing out once and for all.’
Ella clung to her as she left, wanting to go with them, but Selwyn held her back. ‘Your mum and my sister have a lot of catching-up to do. Don’t worry, she’ll be home soon for good. Let’s enjoy the peace while we can.’
68
New York
If Angelo heard one more word about Frankie’s First Communion, he swore he wouldn’t go. Kathleen was determined to make a splash and kit her son out in only the best.
‘What’s wrong with a second-hand suit?’ he argued.
‘What’s right with it?’ she snapped. ‘Do you want your family shamed before the Fathers? He needs boots and stockings and a white collar. The others must look presentable, and you too.’
‘Have you robbed a bank? Where will we get such stuff?’ he said. ‘I’m not made of money.’
‘No, but you drink plenty of it away. I’ve been putting bits by for the feast and the favours. I want to show the family we can do things proper, not skimp round the edges. It is his special day.’
Why did women like all that kneeling in the old cathedral with the incense wafting, the white lace vestments, the candles flickering in the dark recesses and the statues? The sound of Latin in his ears left him cold. It wasn’t real Italian, loud and passionate and full of life, piercing the walls as neighbours rowed, shaking the Holy pictures off their hooks.
He looked at his two sons: Frankie, neat and quiet, could read billboards in the street before he went to school, and Jackie, his little brother, was a roaring child, tearing round the streets, while Patti pranced around in her second-hand tap shoes, driving them crazy with her antics while he was trying to listen to Caruso singing on the ancient wind-up gramophone they’d acquired for a debt in the shop.
There’d been such a barney about that. ‘Where did it really come from, Angelo? We can’t afford such things. There’s Frankie’s Communion suit to pay for.’
‘You could run him up a shirt and trousers. It’s only for one day. I don’t want my son spending hours in that church. It’s not right. A boy needs air and street fights. You’ll make a sissy of him. Once those Irish Fathers get their hands on his soul . . .’
‘What’s wrong with Father Reagan?’
‘What’s right with him . . . wanting him to sing in the choir at his age . . . Time was when all we Italians were fit for was to worship in the basement of Old St Patrick’s and now you are wanting my son upstairs with the Irish.’
‘He’s half Irish!’ When Kathleen got mad she lashed him with her tongue and he stormed out, uttering oaths under his breath until he calmed down. Their rows could be thunder and lightning one minute and hot and steamy the next.
Angelo made a little extra from their secret brewery in the fruit store but somehow he would find his feet drifting towards a smoky hall to play cards and to drink, and there was hell to pay when he rolled home and emptied his pockets. If they were full of winnings it was a good night; if they were empty then Kathleen went silent on him.
On Sunday she took the children to the Irish congregation for Mass. Now they must all make a show of unity for this big passing-out parade and exhibit some enthusiasm for the fancy clothes and new rosaries for which most of the families would be in debt for the rest of the year.
Angelo never came to church unless it was Easter or Christmas, even though old Father Bernardo always asked after him with a sigh. He did still honour the 15th April and told his kids all about the Titanic. He and Kathleen had taken them to see the Lighthouse Tower, on top of which there was a time ball that rose and fell, dropping to its base each midday to show the time the Titanic departed. The children knew about Maria and the baby and Ma’s sister, Lou, all of whom had drowned in the sea for want of lifeboats.
Each year he’d bring out the little shoe with its lacy frill that he believed was the baby’s own. Each year it got harder to believe the baby could be still alive, though he’d shed a tear and that made Kathleen cross.
Sometimes he found he was breathless and tired. Lifting boxes in the store made him sweat and his back ached. He would often need a stiff drink to ease the pain. Now they were scrimping and saving for Frankie’s big day, living off zuppa. Kathleen was the Soup Queen of Lower Manhattan, he’d joke. No one could stretch a bowl of broth better than she could, but he feared his kids went to bed hungry.
Sometimes they’d all walk down to Battery Park to watch the great liners sailing out of New York Harbour past the Statue of Liberty.
‘You are Americanos now,’ Angelo would say, wagging his finger at them. ‘You make this big country work for you . . . Take no notice if they call you names . . . You are born Americano boys. Baseball, football, do anything you choose but stay away from the Irish Fathers . . . Church is a cosa femminile. Do you hear me, Francisco? . . . a woman’s thing.’
Frankie was up at four in the morning on the day of his First Communion. He’d been told to fast from midnight and not touch anything until the holy sacrament touched his lips. Angelo was furious. The boy was too keen, too young not to have water.
‘It’s my special day. I can’t wait for it to come. Will I feel the Lord when he comes to my turn?’ He had laid out all his clothes so neatly. Angelo felt ashamed of his own lack of faith. ‘You’ll look like a prince in all that finery. What’s this?’ He picked up a long lace collar in the finest lacework. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘From Italy. Aunt Anna had kept it for her boys. It was Uncle Salvi’s when he was little. Mamma has washed it and pinned it out.’
Angelo fingered it, examining the stitches, the fine thread, the pattern. He’d had som
ething similar himself when he was a boy but it wasn’t that thought making him weep, it was the pattern, so similar to that of his little baby shoe. They were the same, from their region without a doubt. Just when he was coming to forget his grief there was this reminder. Perhaps it was a sign.
69
May was dog tired. It was a warm day, the marketplace was bustling and Selwyn was in one of his difficult moods. He’d been fettling up one of his motor bikes in the kitchen.
‘Get that oily rag off the table, Mr Forester, this is not a garage,’ she’d blasted in anger, seeing the mess on the floor.
‘Stop fussing, woman!’ he’d said. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus most days. Give me some peace.’
It was going to be one of his bad days. She could read him like a book. Once he’d had a pint or three in the Earl of Lichfield he’d start to spout rubbish about the government: the lack of homes for heroes, the state of the country. The more he drank the more angry and argumentative he became. It took courage for her to walk into that public house on her own to tell him it was time to shift his bum off the stool. She hated the smell of those sawdust and spittoon places, the stench of tobacco smoke and stale beer, and she hated that glazed look in his sad eyes.
She wasn’t cross with him inside, sensing his grief and pain and something of the world he’d lost. He’d never gone back into the lawyer’s office in Birmingham. She often caught him staring into the field, watching his old horses grazing.
‘I’ve been put out to grass like them, useless old bugger,’ he’d mutter.
‘What do you make of that McAdam chappie who came for luncheon on Sunday?’ he’d asked May that hot morning. ‘Looks sound enough to me. He seems pretty keen on my sister. Not sure she’s a good judge of men, though.’