The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

The raids have been terrible in the Midlands, as you may have heard. We are only told what it is thought best for us to know, but we have ears and eyes, and people talk. Parts of Birmingham have been flattened – Manchester, Liverpool too – but so far no invasion barges have crashed onto our shores, nor will they, thanks to chaps like Anthony Harcourt and his courageous crew who brave the barrages of fire over the Low Countries to give them a taste of their own medicine.

  You feel so far away from us now.

  105

  February 1941

  We’ve got a whole weekend in the country, Ella sighed, looking at Anthony sleeping so peacefully. It was a glorious February morning, perfect for a honeymoon walk in the woods. She smiled to see the sun creeping up behind the bare trees. How he’d wangled the extra twenty-four hours she’d never know. It gave them until Sunday night before they must part, simply ages.

  They’d driven down in Selwyn’s Austin with petrol begged and borrowed, down the leafy lanes of Oxfordshire to a little village called Leafield, where Anthony had borrowed a cottage from a friend of a friend, someone he’d known at school.

  The cottage was perfect with its thatched roof and sloping ceilings. Someone in the village had lit a fire and aired the rooms and filled the downstairs with hyacinth bowls to mask any dampness: such a welcome gesture.

  ‘That’ll be Simon’s mother. She has a place somewhere in the village.’

  ‘Then we must go and thank her,’ said Ella, sniffing the spring bulbs.

  ‘Later,’ Anthony smiled. First things first, he said, leading her up the rickety stairs. ‘Let’s go and christen the bed.’

  Ella lay back reliving the moment when they had come together without fear of interruption or discomfort, lying together, holding each other, sampling the wonder of making love to each other. Now the bedroom was their sanctuary and she tried not to think about when Anthony would get leave again. There was no holding back the passion felt between them as they explored each other’s bodies, finding new ways to give and receive pleasure. Now sated and sleepy, she recalled every moment of their wedding, squeezed in just before the start of Lent. She’d felt like a princess arriving at the West Door in a pony and trap, wrapped in a white fox fur stole lent to her by the dean’s wife. She’d heard the organ playing their entrance twice before she got down the long aisle to the Lady Chapel. She loved the ‘Trumpet Voluntary’; it was so jolly and British and hopeful. Poor Anthony was standing stiff with nerves in his dress uniform while she grasped Selwyn’s arm to steady her excitement. All the people she loved were present wishing them well. Hazel, as matron of honour, walked behind her in a long burgundy evening gown she’d borrowed from a friend. Ella hoped her mother was there in spirit watching this most special of days.

  It was worth it all to see the look on Anthony’s face, so proud, so loving. She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect wedding with a simple reception back at Red House, a crush of uniforms, cigarette smoke, speeches and toasts.

  Celeste had insisted she wore her own mother’s wedding dress cut down and reshaped to fit her figure and the Brussels lace veil that went with it. Ella had splashed out on a pretty suit and coat with new shoes to see her through the honeymoon and beyond. Mrs Allen had made her a slip and pants in the prettiest dyed parachute silk the colour of faded tea roses and edged with cream lace. She’d wanted to weep with gratitude at the gifts showered on them at such short notice. There was even a parcel of goodies from Roddy, including a saucepan to replace the ones they had given away for the Spitfire Fund in the first flush of patriotism, earlier in the year.

  She’d have to stay on at Red House. The school were too short staffed to lose her just because she wore a wedding ring. Anthony’s parents insisted she go and live with them but it was too far north from his base. She wanted to be as close as possible, and Lichfield was so central.

  Every moment together must last an hour, time must be stretched out like elastic. Love in wartime was so unpredictable, so intense. For these precious hours there were no rules, no rationing; they owned the world. Ella shivered at the thought of Anthony’s return to base. They knew the risks but nothing was going to spoil this wonderful honeymoon.

  They took a trip into Oxford to gaze at the golden colleges and dreaming spires. They strolled along the Cherwell and ate dinner in an old inn before going to the pictures.

  The film showing was The Lion Has Wings, with Ralph Richardson and Merle Oberon. It wasn’t the happiest of films with its bombings revealing the reality of Anthony’s life. Ella, finding the film’s storyline much too close to reality for comfort, wanted to rush out into the fresh air. She wished they’d made another choice but Anthony was happy picking holes in the script and its inaccuracies, unaware of her fears. Be brave, she braced herself. Stop wasting time on what you can’t alter.

  They took a walk to the Rollright stones, such a magical place to stand and make a wish. They gave her hope, standing weatherbeaten against the elements. This war was just, a fight against tyranny, and she too must do her bit to offer her services where they were most needed. Perhaps she could join up now?

  On Sunday afternoon they made their way to a lovely thatched cottage called Pratts to say thank you to Simon’s mother for the welcome. A young girl answered the door and welcomed them in. ‘Mother’s in the garden,’ she said. ‘But do come through.’ Mrs Russell-Cooke, a statuesque woman, was busy pruning in the vegetable plot. She looked up. ‘Ah hah, the lovebirds have left their nest at last.’

  Ella blushed, ‘We just wanted to thank you for the cottage.’

  ‘Simon told us all about you, and Anthony here was always a bit of a hero of his at school. I’m glad you made good use of it,’ she winked. ‘Come inside and have a sherry.’

  They were escorted into a drawing room, beautiful artwork adorning the walls. Ella’s eyes roamed over them with interest. ‘What a lovely room,’ she said, pausing at a familiar face framed in silver on the windowledge. ‘I know that face!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s Captain Smith.’

  Mrs Russell-Cooke nodded, surprised. ‘Well spotted, young lady. He was my father.’

  ‘You are Helen Smith? It was you who unveiled his statue in Lichfield?’

  ‘Yes, but I generally use my middle name, Mel. How strange, you look far too young to have known him.’

  ‘My mother worshipped him. I only knew his statue, the one by Kathleen Scott. I was just a baby but I was there at the unveiling in Lichfield.’

  Mrs Russell-Cooke lifted the picture with a sigh. ‘Yes, frightful business all round. I was too young to know about all the furore but my mother was very upset, as you can imagine. She never got over the slur on his reputation.’

  Ella sat down, winded by the coincidence. ‘I can’t believe this. Did you know that your father saved my life? He put me in a lifeboat. I was just a baby. This is so strange. My mother was always convinced he was my rescuer.’

  ‘Good Lord! I’d heard something like that had happened. There were rumours about a rescue story, but no one ever came forward as an official witness. Perhaps your mother could?’ Mel Russell-Cooke looked up in hope.

  Ella shook her head. ‘Sadly she passed away a long time ago, but she was very angry at his treatment. It troubled her greatly that his statue was neglected.’

  ‘Me too . . .’ Mrs Russell-Cooke paused. ‘I’d have preferred he should be looking out to sea at Blundell Sands near Liverpool, not landlocked in Lichfield, but I’m so glad someone cared for him there.’

  ‘To meet the captain’s daughter . . . I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘I think this calls for something stronger than sherry,’ said the hostess. ‘You’ve given me such comfort. What a coincidence, though I don’t believe in coincidences. Perhaps this meeting was meant to be. My twins, Simon and Priscilla, were young when they lost their own father and I lost my mother the same year.’ Ella watched Priscilla standing by the window looking at the photograph with fresh eyes, listening intently to this revelation.

&nb
sp; ‘My father was always for the sea, but it was such fun when he returned home, laden with presents. Then he left one morning and never came back. Now, with a war on, we parents worry about our children. Mine have been such a gift and a consolation. Tell me more about your mother and the statue. It’s absolutely intriguing.’

  Ella didn’t know where to begin. ‘We visited him on the anniversary of the sinking every year. My mother lost her husband on the Titanic and returned to England. As for me, I spent so much time around statues and stone, living near the cathedral, that it gave me a love of sculpture. I want to make it my career.’

  ‘Believe me, dear,’ Mrs Russell-Cooke sighed, ‘by the time this war is over, there’ll be plenty of call for your services. We’ll need monuments and plaques. I’m sorry,’ she apologized. ‘No morbid talk on your honeymoon. I wish you both all the joy in the world. You brave young things. Now I’ve met one of the youngest Titanic survivors. I keep meeting up with people from time to time. No one wants to talk much about their experiences of the sinking, and you won’t even recall yours, being only a baby. But I feel you’ve given me a gift. How wonderful, I gave you a roof over your heads and you have repaid me tenfold. Thank you, and please call again. Do keep in touch. In fact, I know many sculptors of note. They may be helpful to you.’

  ‘Sadly we must be going back tonight,’ Anthony chipped in.

  ‘If you meet up with Simon, keep an eye out for him,’ said Mrs Russell-Cooke, holding out a firm hand and staring hard at him. ‘He’s the only son I’ve got and he’s so very young.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Anthony replied. ‘Come on, time to go and pack. And thank you again.’

  Mother and daughter waved them off down the lane and Ella, still spinning from this unexpected encounter, clung onto Anthony’s arm. ‘I can’t believe I’ve just met Captain Smith’s daughter. How very strange.’

  Ella couldn’t get the coincidence out of her mind as they lay in the darkness that night, back at Red House. ‘There’s something else I never told you, darling, about that night on the Titanic,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t tell the captain’s daughter the whole story this afternoon.’

  ‘Hmm . . . Go on, what dark secrets have you been keeping for all these years in the depths of that magnificent bosom of yours?’ he asked.

  Where should she begin? It was time to take in a deep breath before she revealed to her new husband what really happened on the lifeboat.

  ‘After my mother died, Celeste told me . . .’

  She repeated everything she’d been told. ‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘I really don’t know who I am . . . Anthony, what do you think?’ She turned, waiting for his response but there was only the steady breathing of a man dead to the world.

  106

  December 1941

  News of the attack on Pearl Harbor came to Roddy as it did to millions of other Americans on that Sunday afternoon in December. He was listening to a band show on the radio when suddenly a voice interrupted the music: ‘We’re getting reports that our fleet is being attacked by the Japanese. Ships are blazing.’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing and hurriedly tuned to a news station. ‘Planes have been hit on the ground . . .’ He kept switching channels, unable to take on board the full impact of this terrible news. ‘Troops were machine-gunned as they ran for cover . . .’ The images burning in his head were too awful to contemplate. A few minutes ago there was peace. Now there was going to be war.

  The phone rang, startling him. It was Will Morgan. ‘Yes, yes, I heard it too. I’ll meet you at the depot, I’m on my way.’

  As he drove down into town still with his Sunday suit on, folk were clustered on the corners talking, neighbours standing in their yards stunned, looking to each other to confirm the news they’d been dreading. Roddy suddenly felt utterly alone. There was no one in his life to share this shock with, no Grandma, no Archie or Mom. No one but Will in the office.

  He felt such rage about this invasion, such fury, utter disbelief that a nation could be so arrogant as to think it could attack another without impunity. It was Hitler’s blitzkrieg all over again but this time it was on his doorstep. There was only one course of action for a decent man without ties.

  ‘I’m going to enlist,’ Roddy said, barging through the office door where Will was standing, surveying the maps on the wall. ‘You can run things from here blindfold. It doesn’t take the two of us.’

  ‘But you’re too old,’ laughed Will. ‘There’s so much work for us. Besides, younger drivers will be enlisting so we’ll need every able guy on the block to keep the trucks on the road. Here, have a drink and calm down,’ he said, shoving a glass of Jack Daniel’s in Roddy’s hand.

  ‘So we’ll do what they did in the last war and draft in the women,’ Roddy replied, thinking back to when his mother had worked for government in Washington.

  ‘The drivers won’t stand for that,’ said Will, seating himself down on the desk.

  ‘Reckon so? You wait, it’ll be law in no time. I’m not too old to do my duty. One of us has to go and it makes sense if it’s me. You’re married with kids.’

  ‘How come you’ve changed your tune? I’ve never reckoned on you becoming a soldier.’

  Roddy sat down in the chair looking out of the window onto the truck yard, shaking his head as he thought of Uncle Selwyn’s medals. ‘My uncles were in the Great War, one was killed at the Somme and the other badly wounded.’

  ‘But they were English. They had to fight.’

  ‘You forget I’m half English. No one likes bullyboys taking over the show. It feels the right thing to do,’ Roddy argued.

  ‘And all the girls love a guy in uniform,’ Will added with a wink.

  Roddy ignored his partner’s attempt to lighten the moment. ‘It’s not that. I can’t believe what I just heard. I can’t just sit here and let some guys pound us to pieces.’ He flicked open the order book before shoving it across the desk. ‘You can manage. I trust you. Maureen would never forgive me if I let you go off to war.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of war work in Akron. You don’t have to go seeking glory. We can guess how it will affect the business. It needs two heads.’ Will shook his with a sigh.

  ‘As I said, bring in the women. They’ll want to do their bit too. I’ve made up my mind.’ He stood up as if to leave.

  ‘After just an hour listening to the news? Better to sleep on it. Have another drink.’

  ‘No thanks, I don’t need to sleep on this one. My mom and Archie and the folks in England have been going through hell these past years while we’ve had it soft. I’ve felt ashamed earning all this dough, and sending a few parcels isn’t enough. We’re all in it now. It’s time I got off my ass and signed up before they put me out to grass. I’ve had it too easy.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you so fired up. What’s got into you?’ Will looked puzzled, as if he’d seen a new side to Roddy.

  ‘Pearl Harbor, that’s what.’ Roddy was on fire with indignation at what was happening. ‘No one does that to us without getting the same back and more. I don’t want a ringside seat in this. Those Japs don’t know what they’ve just gone and done. We’ll show them we’re no sitting ducks.’

  In the weeks that followed Roddy never doubted his decision. He enlisted at the recruiting office, was subjected to a medical, had his head shaved and pounded the barrack yard, sweating through long runs and aptitude tests. It was like boarding school all over again but this time there was a purpose. He never wavered from his decision to enlist just as his uncles had done all those years ago. It felt almost his family duty to get those Japs for the carnage and havoc they’d wreaked in the Philippines and Hawaii. So many innocent civilians had been lost in the bombings. It was as if he must sort them out personally. But it was a blow when they kitted him out in standard issue rather than tropical gear. He was embarking for Europe, not the Pacific. He would have to take his vengeance out on Hitler and his storm troopers. That was not in his plan at all and yet he felt gu
ilty at the pleasurable thought that he might just see his family once more if he landed in England.

  107

  Father Frank Bartolini sat at his desk, staring out over the Harvard courtyard, listening to the lecturer drumming into them the important role of the Chaplains Corps in front line battle. They must be all things to all men and never let them down. They were God’s representatives, a symbol of His loving care, always ready to counsel, pray, give comfort, console and rescue the wounded and dying, no matter the cost to themselves.

  Frank had been given permission to leave St Rocco’s Church, New Jersey to join the teams of chaplains of all denominations responding to the call to arms.

  He’d been ordained for over six years now, working with the Italian immigrant community on Hunterton Street in a beautiful Italianate basilica-style church. It was the dream project of Father Umberto Donati who’d wanted to reproduce the church in his home town in Northern Italy.

  Now, Frank was a second lieutenant who must take orders from the military. They were studying martial law, military customs and the discipline of army life, learning how to use equipment and work in close operation with other chaplains. They were treated as one group who must be willing to learn each other’s liturgy and customs, even conducting services should it be necessary. He must learn the Seder service for the Jews and in turn they must learn the rosary and hear confessions.

  The thought of being a universal minister taking care of the religious needs of men of all faiths was daunting as well as challenging. On top of this the chaplains were expected to drill themselves to physical fitness. As one of the younger priests he didn’t find this such a problem but for some of the more mature men the hikes, physical jerks and route marches had taken their toll.

  Now Frank was waiting for his placement, wondering where he would be sent. Like many others he’d listened to the radio broadcast on that fateful Sunday in December and wondered if he should volunteer. He asked Father Donati and he’d no hesitation in encouraging him to enlist.