Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  DEDICATION

  For my great-grandfather Walter, who survived to tell the tale.

  And for his daughter Muriel, my grandmother, who kept his story alive.

  EPIGRAPH

  In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.

  —Winston Churchill

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The RMS Lusitania

  1915

  January 4

  February 12

  February 24

  March 10

  April 15

  April 25

  April 30

  May 1

  May 2

  May 3

  May 4

  May 5

  May 6

  May 7

  May 8

  May 11

  May 12

  May 14

  May 15

  May 16

  Author’s Note

  Walter and Alice Dawson with two-year-old Muriel

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Selected Bibliography

  About the Author

  Also by

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The RMS Lusitania arrives close to port, circa 1912. Photo courtesy the Mike Poirier Collection.

  1915

  JANUARY 4

  Sydney Sinclair, New York City

  It was half past nine in the morning when Sydney stepped out of the taxi wearing her most drab topcoat. It was plain boiled wool in a dark rust colour that provided a comforting camouflage amongst the worn-out browns of the tenement buildings and bustling pushcarts of Orchard Street.

  She picked her way through the maze of foreign languages being shouted about her. Italian, Hebrew, Polish and other unfamiliar tongues swirled around her, the speakers no doubt haggling over the price of potatoes and root vegetables, of articles of clothing, perhaps even of the live birds and rabbits on display. She glanced at the scrap of paper in her hand. The tenement she sought was directly across the street. She crossed cautiously, the heels of her lace-up boots squishing into the dirty snow.

  They were expecting her. She followed a small woman wearing a tartan skirt up five flights of stairs and down a hallway, stopping at a black door marked 5C. There was no ceremony upon entering the flat. No one to greet her with deference or offer her a seat, tea or even a glass of water. That she was a young woman of independent means from one of New York’s wealthiest families meant nothing here. Well, not entirely.

  “You must be Miss Sinclair?”

  The tartan woman who had led her inside had swiftly disappeared into another room, leaving Sydney alone by the door. Sydney smiled at the woman who spoke now. She was young, at least young enough to still be considered pretty, which was saying something considering the dour nursing uniform she wore. The cap wasn’t especially flattering either.

  “Please call me Sydney,” she said, and offered her hand but the nurse shook her head.

  “We don’t shake hands in here. It’s not sanitary. I’m Gretchen.”

  “You worked with Margaret Sanger?” Sydney asked.

  Gretchen nodded. “Still do work for Margaret, if you ask me. What we do here is all because of her.”

  Margaret Sanger was a notorious and controversial advocate for women’s reproductive rights; she was also Sydney’s heroine, and someone she wanted to emulate, which had created a bone of contention between Sydney and her sister, Brooke. Tension between them was nothing new but it had risen substantially since Brooke had become engaged to an English aristocrat, Edward Thorpe-Tracey. Even the name was pompous to her. Several bitter arguments over Sydney’s politics, which conflicted with his traditional views, had resulted. And this was before she’d even met the man. Edward wasn’t due to arrive in New York until the end of April to escort his fiancée and her only remaining family to England for the wedding. Of course an American wedding wasn’t grand enough for Brooke. So Sydney was travelling overseas to stand with her sister as she wed Edward on his estate, Rathfon Hall. The only silver lining for Sydney was the opportunity to meet with Sanger, now exiled and living in London, having broken too many laws in America.

  Gretchen led Sydney through the flat. In its previous life it would have been a family home with three rooms. Two for sleeping and one for living. But now it was a makeshift hospital. Bed after bed took up most of the floor space. She counted three nurses including Gretchen; the others were occupied with inventory and cleaning. Despite the activity there were only two patients. One sat up reading a novel, a very ragged and dog-eared copy of Anne of Green Gables. Sydney got a closer look at the girl reading it. She can’t be older than fifteen, thought Sydney, who was only twenty-one.

  “She’s recovering nicely,” Gretchen whispered, and walked well out of earshot of the patients. “She had a nasty infection after her procedure. Whoever did it used a crochet hook.”

  Sydney tried desperately not to react. Squeamishness wasn’t what was needed here. “Who did this to her?” Sydney asked, not sure if she wanted the name of the back-alley abortionist or the cad who had impregnated the child.

  “She worked in a garment factory. I think the man was her boss, poor thing,” Gretchen said as though reading her mind. “I don’t think she went to a doctor but she wouldn’t tell us. Whoever did it butchered her insides getting rid of the fetus, that much we know. We don’t need her telling us that. But she’ll be fine.”

  Sydney looked at the woman in the next bed. She had her eyes closed and her forehead covered with her arm. Her hair was tangled and dirty.

  “Has she been here a long time?” Sydney asked, indicating the other woman by a nod of her head.

  Gretchen sighed. “She tried to abort the baby herself.” Sydney winced. “She succeeded in the end but she turned septic. We’re not sure if she’ll make it. And if she does, she won’t be able to bear any more children.”

  “How awful for her.”

  “It’s not too awful,” Gretchen said coldly. “She already has nine children at home. Catholic, you know. Husband won’t leave her alone.”

  Sydney didn’t want to stare at the stricken woman and turned again to the young girl reading Anne of Green Gables. The girl turned a page and giggled.

  “Will she return to her job in the garment factory?” Sydney asked.

  Gretchen shrugged. “What choice does she have?”

  Sydney felt light-headed. It was very hot in the flat. She staggered a few steps. “I need water.” She swooned.

  Gretchen took her by the arm and led her to one of the beds. Sydney lay down and closed her eyes. She heard a commotion not far from her and then Gretchen was back with a glass of water and a cool cloth for her forehead.

  “I didn’t really faint,” Sydney said, and struggled to sit up.

  “Stay put,” Gretchen ordered. “You’re not the first visitor to react this way.”

  Sydney sat on the edge of the bed and Gretchen left her alone a moment. When she was able to focus she looked up and saw the young girl staring at her. Sydney looked away, feeling self-conscious.

  “Hello, Miss. I’m Mary,” the young woman said. “Did you get rid of your baby too?”

  Sydney looked carefully at the girl. She was so young. Her cheeks still had the rosy glow and baby fat of childhood. Yet her eyes lacked all innocence. To think this child knew more about the intimacy between man and woman than she did.

  “I did not, Mary,” Sydney said simply.

  “Better to wait until you got here,” Mary said. “They know what they’re doing.”

  Her words made Sydney wonder. “How did you come to be here?”

  Mary smiled. “The man who got rid of my baby, w
ell, when he saw the blood he went crazy. Practically carried me all the way. I was lucky someone was here. Almost died.” She stopped smiling and went silent.

  “You’ll be fine, Mary,” Sydney said, knowing full well she had no idea if that were true.

  Minutes later Gretchen walked with Sydney down the steps to the front door. “So will you help us? We could use the money.”

  Sydney was surprised by her boldness. In her world people didn’t speak of money so nakedly. But she nodded. “I will send a cheque,” she said.

  “Cash,” Gretchen said bluntly. “We can’t have any records, for obvious reasons.”

  They had reached the front door. She still smelled the antiseptics from the clinic. Then again maybe it was Gretchen who carried the odour with her.

  “I will see to it you get cash,” Sydney said. “Goodbye.”

  Back on Orchard Street the aromas from the pushcarts wafted up to her and rescued her senses. She lifted her chin to take in the soothing smells. The scent of smoked meat and roasted potatoes was more pleasing than iodine and other hospital chemicals. Sydney had stayed longer than she had realized. But it was difficult to walk away from such a place. She pulled on her gloves and headed north, as fast as she could under her own power before hailing a taxi. She was expected at home any minute. It was a bad habit of hers to be late, especially when it came to meeting her guardian. But her guilt only went so far. He’s well paid to put up with me.

  Isabel Nelson, London

  Isabel stood staring up at the old Admiralty Building. It was an intimidating three-storey U-shaped structure complete with columns and an imposing archway. The building stood on Whitehall and was one of the power centres of the British government and yet she, of all people, was standing on its threshold working up the nerve to cross it. She’d been in London but two days and already she felt sure the city would eat her alive. The crowds, the filthy streets and the fumes in the air smelled unlike anything she’d encountered before. How did people stand it? But she had come for a fresh start and that must be enough to put up with any amount of discomfort. The first week of the New Year was especially cold and a thin veil of wet snow billowed down from the grey murk above. It suited her mood.

  Isabel straightened her felt hat and took a deep breath. She was early. It was a habit of hers formed in childhood by a mother who arrived everywhere thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Being late was a sin in the Nelson household. Mind you, she’d since been guilty of greater crimes than tardiness. Why else was she standing in the freezing damp in the capital? She glanced at her wristwatch and felt a familiar panic rise up from her belly. The time had come and she would go from being early to late if she dawdled any longer. She imagined that naval officers agreed with her mother on tardiness being a grave sin. With gritted teeth Isabel stepped forward and marched into the Admiralty.

  You must be Isabel.” It was Mrs. Burns, who was in charge of all the women typists, clerks and stenographers, who spoke to her, with a stern and assessing gaze. Several other young new hires stood shoulder to shoulder alongside Isabel in the small space that was Burns’s office. She was a stout older woman with a few errant whiskers on her chin and grey frizzy hair poking out of its bun.

  Blimey. The government isn’t too fussy about appearances, thought Isabel. She had taken great care to dress, first impressions and all that. While the other young ladies painted their eyelids and cheeks with pots of colour and stained their lips to have that “bitten” look, Isabel had forgone this fad and instead used only a translucent powder. And unlike these other girls, who wore their hair in chic chignons with wisps or loose waves softly framing their faces, Isabel’s hair was drawn severely off her face and imprisoned in a tight bun guarded by a dozen bobby pins. Her skirt, blouse and jacket were plain but clean and tidy. Not that she was against prettying herself up; that morning she had stared at her lipstick and pot of rouge on the vanity at the boarding house in Kentish Town. But pretty was no longer her role to play. London was a fresh start to be launched with a fresh face.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Mrs. Burns was staring at her.

  “No, ma’am. I’m Isabel Nelson, from Oxford.”

  “Is that so?” she asked. “And what did you read up in Oxford then? Ancient history? Latin?”

  The other young ladies stifled giggles. Isabel hated Mrs. Burns.

  “I didn’t say I went to the university, ma’am. But the house where I worked was in the city centre.”

  The older woman pursed her lips, not even bothering to try to hide her disdain. “All right, ladies. It’s time for a tour and then you will go to your assigned offices.”

  “I heard that she’s nice enough once she gets to know you,” one of the girls explained to Isabel.

  She shrugged. “I don’t plan on knowing her.” The girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. Isabel quickly changed tactics. “I mean I’m here to do a job, an important job for the war effort. As we all are.”

  “I think we’re here to type and file,” the girl answered, and walked away.

  Mrs. Burns gave the newcomers a tour of the old Admiralty Building, which was full of history as expected and had the added distinction of having had the body of Lord Horatio Nelson lie in repose there the night before his burial. Lord Nelson was of no relation to Isabel. She had checked, of course. There was no noble blood in her veins. No heroic ancestors to lay claim to. Yet she wasn’t the only one who made the connection.

  “Are you related to him, then?” asked one of the girls a little too loudly for comfort.

  Isabel hesitated. “I’m not sure,” she answered quietly. She hadn’t denied it outright. But that wasn’t the same as lying. Unfortunately Mrs. Burns heard their exchange and rolled her eyes for all to see.

  “What would the great-granddaughter of Horatio Nelson be doing typing and filing at the Admiralty?” the older woman rightly pointed out.

  The group’s next stop was the Admiralty Board Room. Mrs. Burns took great pride in pointing out a wind dial above the fireplace. “It’s operated by a metal vane on the rooftop,” she’d explained to the bored faces that stared back. “It’s from the original 1695 building.” That didn’t impress them. There were also elaborate carvings of ancient nautical instruments around the fireplace. But it wasn’t until Mrs. Burns brought their attention to a diagram that Isabel really paid attention. The diagram itself meant nothing to her. It was only when Mrs. Burns spoke the word telegraph that her interest was piqued. “It’s a shutter telegraph,” she explained to her captivated audience of one. “The Admiralty sent important messages to signalmen who were stationed throughout the country. Think of it as the wireless of the eighteenth century.”

  “I prefer not to think of it at all,” whispered one of the other girls into Isabel’s ear. Isabel shunted her off with a disapproving glare. Telegraphy was an interest of Isabel’s. In Oxford she had had the opportunity to listen in as amateur radio operators intercepted foreign messages. She had begun to learn Morse code too but there hadn’t been time to become fluent . . . and now she was here.

  That had been the morning gone by. Now she tried her best to appear confident as she made her way down the corridor toward her assigned post—Room 40 OB. Isabel was not at all impressed that the room she was given to work in was so inconveniently located from the main entrance. It was on the main floor but hidden down a dimly lit hallway and tucked in a corner. You’d think they didn’t want to be found, she grumbled to herself. When she arrived at her destination the door was closed. She stood and waited. For who or what she didn’t know. How stupid I must look, standing here staring at a door. But for some reason she was afraid to knock.

  “You lost, Miss?”

  Isabel turned to see a young man, about her age, behind her. “I’ve been assigned to this office. I’m a secretary.” Isabel held out her written assignment letter as proof she was in the right place. The man skimmed it quickly.

  “I’ll take you in then.”

  He opened the door. Isabel ste
pped inside and was immediately transfixed. For one thing the room was smaller than she expected. Though perhaps it wasn’t the actual square footage that made it seem so, rather it was the fact of its being cramped, as though the men who occupied it had been stuffed inside an envelope and sealed, its creases bulging against the pressure. Paper was everywhere. Neat piles on a table. Haphazard stacks on the floor. Willy-nilly mounds in a corner. There was no obvious order, no apparent system. Nestled inside the mess were several men seated at a table laden with enormous books and still more masses of paper. The men were as silent and intense as seminary students studying for their ordination. None of them looked up at her.

  “Do come in, Miss.” The young man spoke again, jolting Isabel from her paralysis.

  She took another step when there came a crash that made her jump. A loud “Oh!” escaped her lips. Then she saw the source of the crash; it was a tray into which several metal tubes had clattered from a pneumatic system. It was a startling sound but the others seemed accustomed to it.

  “So what’s your name, then?” the young man asked.

  Isabel smiled and shook his hand. “Isabel Nelson.”

  “I’m Henry Phillipson.”

  “You’re not in the navy?” she asked him quietly.

  He shook his head and smiled. “Just a civilian volunteer.”

  Isabel saw that there were a few other girls in the room. They looked about her age but unlike her these girls wore fashionable clothes and cosmetics and styled their hair. They were clustered around several typewriters on one side of the room. Underwood No. 5s, to be exact. She had learned on the same model in Oxford. These machines were things of beauty to her. Like musical instruments that could play prose and poetry (or spew vile remarks if one gave in to impulses), in the right hands, beneath the right fingers, they were freedom and power.

  One of the girls walked by with an armload of files and stopped when she saw Isabel. She studied her in a friendly way. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

  “My name is Isabel,” she said.