by Kim Izzo
“Isabel?” It was Henry. “Are you coming tonight?”
She could guess why he was asking but wanted him to say it. “I could stand to get out and have a drink,” she answered. “There isn’t a problem, surely?”
“Of course not,” he said, and paused. She reached for the cigarette pack. Then thought better of it. “I was going to bring Mildred.”
Isabel snatched the pack and clawed a cigarette out of it. Henry waited for her to light it and take a drag.
“What does that have to do with me?” she asked. She could see she was making Henry uncomfortable but she didn’t care.
“Nothing, really,” he said. “You two don’t get on. I just wanted you to know.”
“Is that all?” she asked. Her fingernails pinched the end of the cigarette.
“Yes. That’s it,” Henry said, and smiled. He seemed relieved to have their exchange over.
“I hope you two have a lovely time,” she lied. Henry nodded and walked over to the table with the codebooks.
“Isabel, please type these transcripts up.” Curtis placed a load of new paperwork beside her.
“Of course,” she said. She stamped the cigarette to smithereens and violently stuffed a sheet of paper through the carriage. Her fingers smacked at the keys so hard the tip of her index finger jammed between the j and the h.
“Blasted machine!” she yelped, and pulled her finger out slowly. The tip of the nail was torn clean off.
“Careful, luv,” said Violet who had only sat down at the typewriter next to Isabel’s a moment before. “We aren’t meant to do battle with it.”
Isabel forced a smile. “Do you have a nail file?”
Violet opened a desk drawer and handed an emery board to Isabel.
“Thanks.” Isabel gently ran the coarse file across the edge of her tattered nail. Now she would have to cut all the others to match. Damn Mildred. She ruins everything.
Sydney
The ship rolled up and down and side to side like a demonic carousel horse. Sydney lay in her berth, willing the motion to stop. They had been at sea a couple of hours and her stomach wouldn’t settle. When she stood her body swayed, when she walked it wasn’t in a straight line. She had never been drunk but she had witnessed plenty of drunkards staggering on the streets of the Lower East Side. Maybe if she knew how to be drunk she wouldn’t feel as ill from the ship. The thought of eight days at sea only made the nausea worse. Then there was a knock on the door. She didn’t even attempt to get up.
“Yes?” she called out, wishing she was less polite and could say Go away instead.
“It’s me, Miss. Sarah.”
“Oh,” she answered faintly. What did she want? No doubt Brooke had sent the poor girl to pack her things and bring them and her upstairs. Well, there was no way she’d let that happen. “Come in, Sarah.”
The door opened and Sarah tentatively emerged from behind it. She found Sydney stretched out on the berth with her complexion an odd shade of green. “Miss Sydney!” Sarah gasped. “You don’t look right. Should I get the ship’s doctor?”
Sydney exhaled deeply and managed to sit up just as a fresh wave sent the ship falling deep into the water. She swallowed. “I’m terrific. What makes you think otherwise?” Sarah stared dumbfounded. Sydney forced a smile. “I’m teasing, Sarah. How did you find me?”
“I asked a steward, Miss,” Sarah explained. “He said you were down here.” The maid was doing her best not to examine every last detail of the berth. “Miss, this is the lowest deck on the ship. It’s not right that you’re here. My berth is two levels up!”
Sydney forced a smile. “Then you must enjoy the advantage.”
Sarah studied Sydney’s face and bit her lip. “You don’t look well.”
“I don’t feel well,” Sydney agreed. “Mal de mer, they call it. I asked.”
“Mal de mer?”
“Seasickness. It’s all the rage,” Sydney said, and pointed to the parcel in Sarah’s hands. “Is that for me?”
Sarah nodded and unwrapped the tissue, revealing the silken fabric. Sydney’s eyes widened at the golden dress.
“I thought you might need it for dinner,” Sarah said.
“I’m not sure third class passengers need to dress in silk,” she replied with a faint laugh.
“I suppose not,” Sarah answered glumly. “But I thought you should have it in case you change your mind.”
“About?”
“About staying down here. You don’t belong here, if you don’t mind me saying so,” she said as forcefully as a lady’s maid could get away with.
Sydney laughed despite herself. “What? You don’t think I can tolerate a mere week in steerage?” She stared at the girl until Sarah gave in and shook her head. Sydney sighed. “You underestimate me. As does my sister.”
“I think she’s upset,” Sarah explained. “You should have heard her before. Telling her fiancé that you were napping.”
Sydney exhaled impatiently. “I was napping. I take it she hasn’t told Edward where I’m staying?”
“No, Miss. He expects to escort you and Miss Brooke to dinner this evening,” she explained. “From the Regal Suite.”
“Does he?” Sydney grinned. “That certainly puts Brooke on the spot. But to be honest even if I did want to make up with my sister I’m not sure I feel up to food and frivolity.”
“That’s what she told him.”
“Well, then she won’t be lying, will she?”
Sarah continued to stand there, awaiting instruction. Sydney stroked the gown. “It is beautiful,” she said.
“It’s gorgeous,” Sarah agreed, staring once again at Sydney’s green pallor. “You know, my uncle was a seaman.”
“Is that so?” Sydney wanted nothing more than to be left alone to be sick in peace but the girl seemed determined to overstay her welcome.
“And he used to say that if you were seasick it would be better to be on deck, facing the bow, so your eyes can see the motion of the ship, as if you were the one steering. It tricks the mind.”
Sydney contemplated this. Anything would be better than the constant swaying sensation. “It’s worth a try. Thank you.”
“I can assist you onto the deck,” Sarah offered.
“Yes, that would be helpful,” admitted Sydney.
Edward
The ocean’s surface was whipped up into froth. White-capped waves cascaded into each other, their foamy lather dissipating just as another wave formed, like an endless parade of mermaids performing a high-seas dance. Edward watched the water repeating its pattern over and over, yet each wave was unique, an indefinite number of possibilities, like snowflakes. His thoughts drifted to Rathfon Hall. As a child he had played in its great rooms, hid in its many nooks and alcoves, fallen off his pony in its fields and had his first kiss in its garden (with Lady Amelia Clarke who went on to marry a duke). It seemed his destiny that Rathfon Hall would be his only love. His time in New York had not yielded much optimism that he and Brooke would find happiness beyond surface appearances. Marrying her would save the estate but not him. It was the right decision but he couldn’t completely bury his true self for the sake of his family. Passion was what he wanted. Maybe after the war, if he survived, he would find it, if not in the arms of his wife, then in reviving the estate. Yet it would be nothing like the life he had dreamed of when he was a boy. No trip to the Amazon. No daredevil flying. But what did a boy understand of duty? As a man he knew all too well. His mother had been right to ridicule his dreams. And second thoughts about Brooke were a luxury he literally couldn’t afford.
When he’d had enough of self-pity—deeming it unfitting for a man in his position—he climbed up to the Boat Deck, the highest deck on the ship, where the lifeboats hung, one level below the bridge. It was less crowded than the Promenade because of the lifeboats blocking so much of the walkway, making it harder for pedestrians to navigate. He strolled along to the farthest point forward until he was overlooking the forecastle. Stretc
hed out ahead of him was nothing but an undulating carpet of ocean.
He caught sight of a lone woman on the bow below. She walked to the far end of the forecastle, and stood still as a statue, staring out at the sea. He couldn’t see her face but there was something familiar about her—how she moved, her carriage. Edward was transfixed. She wore no hat and her hair had fallen out of its confinement of pins and was cascading down her shoulders where the breeze lifted it up. Then with her hands gripping the railing she tilted her head back, which loosened more of her hair. It was a bold display of wanton freedom. Edward had read about modern women who travelled alone but he knew no such beings within his own circle. As he continued to watch her he thought with amusement how the future Lord Northbrook conversing with such a feral creature would scandalize his mother to no end, which was no doubt partially responsible for his walking down the staircase and toward her.
Sydney
From her periphery she saw the man approaching. Sydney had been happy to discover this unoccupied portion of the deck and was relishing the solitude in case she needed to be sick overboard. Fortunately Sarah’s uncle’s advice had helped; she felt much better. But the last thing she wanted was a stranger attempting to get acquainted. She fixed her gaze on the shimmering waves, not wanting to avert her eyes, thankful for the veil the few loose strands of hair provided. Perhaps if she continued to stare ahead he’d pass by. No such luck. The man stopped a couple of feet from her and was staring out to sea alongside her. How irritating. Sydney was determined to ignore him. Then he spoke . . .
“Do you sail often?” the man asked pleasantly in an English accent.
Sydney looked straight ahead and answered coolly, “This is my first voyage.”
“The Lusitania is the finest ship of her kind,” he continued. “You’ve picked a very good first go at the North Atlantic.”
He took a step closer so that she had no choice but to face him. She turned and gasped.
“Edward!” she exclaimed.
He stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “Sydney!” he returned, and offered his hand in greeting.
“I didn’t know it was you,” she said, and they both laughed. “I must admit I’m relieved. I thought you were some shipboard Lothario on the make.”
Edward stopped laughing abruptly. “I saw you out here alone,” he said, instantly formal in his address. “I was worried for your safety.”
Sydney smiled. “But you didn’t know it was me?”
“Not at all. Your hair . . . it’s rather wild at the moment,” he said, and gestured to her head.
Her hands went up and felt the loose hair. She was horrified to find so few pins remained; they must have come out when she was lying down. Edward continued to watch her and she felt self-conscious. He seemed to be expecting her to fix her hair, to put it in its rightful place so that all was in order, neat and tidy. Instead she was gripped by an overwhelming urge to show Lord Muck what an independent American girl was made of.
“Oh these pesky pins. I thought I’d gotten rid of them all,” she said, and pulled the remaining ones out, allowing her long blond hair to blow freely in the wind like she was a girl of ten. Edward appeared stunned by her lack of propriety.
“They must have loosened when I was lying down this afternoon,” she continued. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier.”
“So I hear,” he said. His composure restored, he gazed out to sea, which despite the rolling waves was a much calmer view.
An awkward silence fell between them. He looked melancholy. Either that or he was also inflicted by mal de mer. “Did you enjoy your week in New York?” Sydney asked.
He smiled politely. “It is a spectacular city. Very exciting, even more so than London, I think,” he said. “I can see why you love it.”
“It’s home,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.”
The silence fell again. Then . . . “I’m fortunate that Brooke doesn’t feel as you do,” he said.
“That would make for a cold marriage,” she said. His expression darkened. She had said the wrong thing. “I mean it would be unbearable to be away from the person you love for long periods of time.”
“Yes. It would,” he agreed, the darkness lingering over his face. “Since you’re well now I take it you’ll join us for dinner?”
Should she risk telling him her decision to travel in third class? The revelation would only elicit more questions. He had a severe opinion of her already after the engagement-dinner-party disaster. “I prefer to dine alone tonight.”
“That is too bad. Brooke will be very disappointed, as am I,” he said. “The dining saloon is of the highest standard. All the passengers are anxious to make introductions and connections. Your sister is looking forward to making an entrance and I’m sure you are too.”
Sydney bristled. What an assumption to make. He knew nothing about her. Which was why she chose not to take offence, or at least, not too much of it. “To be honest, Edward,” she began, “I’ve little interest in parading around in first class to be appraised like a prize show horse. That’s Brooke’s domain, not mine.”
He stepped back like he’d been shoved. She despaired that a week at sea, let alone a lifetime, would be long enough to bring this uptight Englishman around to see her point of view. “What I mean, Edward,” she said warmly, “is that we are very different women.”
“So your sister tells me,” he said curtly. “May I give you a piece of advice?”
Sydney scowled a little. “If you think it necessary.”
“You should consider wearing a hat when on deck,” he said sternly. “To prevent your hair becoming so unkempt. It’s not becoming.”
Then he bowed slightly and marched away. Sydney covered her mouth with her hands, trying to stifle a giggle. But it was no use. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when she burst out laughing.
Isabel
The backroom at the Coach & Horses was spilling over with Room 40’s usual crew: Denniston, Rotter, Curtis, Parish, Norton and about half a dozen others as well as several of the women. Their solemn work left behind in the Old Admiralty Building, the group had turned boisterous and was singing out of tune and swaying side to side, drinks in hand.
“For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
And so say all of us!”
The end of the song brought rapturous applause as the object of the crowd’s affection bowed his head in an exaggerated gesture of gratitude.
“Hear! Hear!” Norton shouted. “So how old are you today, Parish?”
Parish smiled. “Why, I believe I’m thirty-two.”
Dorothy and Isabel sat at the farthest corner of the table and sipped whisky. Lately Dorothy had developed a favouritism toward Alastair Denniston. He had situated himself at the opposite end of the room but now and then could be seen to sneak a glance in Dorothy’s direction, and when caught, smile attentively.
Isabel had observed all of this and while she didn’t disapprove exactly, she cautioned her friend on the pitfalls of a romantic entanglement. “I see the way Denniston looks at you, Dorothy. And you, him,” she chided. “Take care. You don’t want a reputation.”
Dorothy laughed. “Isabel, you are like a headmistress.”
“I want you to be cautious,” Isabel warned affectionately. “You are a dear friend and I would hate to lose you.”
Dorothy squeezed her hand. “You’re a lovely girl, Isabel. But you really ought to try and loosen up a bit. You can have fun and be respectable.”
Isabel knew that was a sweet lie that Dorothy and the other girls told themselves. She’d heard it said often enough that the war would change things for society and for women. But Isabel fretted that if such changes came at all they would be too late for her.
The team had an arrangement with the publican that no one from the general public would enter this part of the pub while they were there. It was one further assu
rance that their top secret work remained just that. It did mean that when more drinks or food were needed they had to fetch it for themselves when it was ready at the bar.
“Mind if I come and join you, Isabel?” Rotter asked, and moved toward her. Isabel felt a shyness wash over her and into her cheeks.
A fact not lost on Dorothy who whispered, “You look quite pretty when you blush. Now try and have fun. Mr. Rotter is a handsome devil.”
Isabel focused on her whisky. Rotter sat opposite her and Dorothy. She did find Rotter attractive, not only his good looks but his mind. She admired him more than she desired him.
“Mr. Rotter?” Isabel asked.
“Yes?”
“Will the Admiralty tell the shipping company about the U-20?”
Dorothy kicked her under the table. Isabel flinched but her gaze remained steady.
“Which shipping company?” Rotter sipped his whisky.
Isabel took a sip of hers. It burned her throat, a sensation she enjoyed because it meant she was tough enough to take pleasure in manly activities. His question was worrisome. He had been as concerned as she was. Now he acted like it was a thing of the past. Or was he telling her to keep such thoughts to herself? She wasn’t about to oblige.
“Cunard.”
The word punched the air between them and Rotter sat back against the chair as though he’d been hit by it. “Oh yes, quite right,” he said dismissively. “We passed the message along as is our job.”
Isabel was gripping her glass tightly now. “But will they give it to the right people? Will the ports at Queenstown and Liverpool be told? And Captain Turner: Will he be informed?”
Rotter rolled his whisky glass between his fingers and stared into the amber liquid as though the answer lay inside. “It’s not up to us, Isabel. We have to trust those in charge. You know that.”
Isabel knew it was useless to push. As had been explained on her first day in Room 40, the so-called charter that Churchill had written was to be upheld day in and day out by each of them, and in it he stipulated that the cryptographers could not interpret the information from the transcripts themselves, nor decide who should be given that information. They were to decode, catalogue and pass it up the chain of command, nothing more. The reminder made Isabel want a cigarette.