Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  “The ship has made the crossing to New York and back to Liverpool three times since we learned she’s a target,” Dorothy said reassuringly. “The Germans wouldn’t dare.”

  “But she set sail from New York today,” Isabel said urgently. “And we know for a fact that the submarine may be in the area she will be sailing through in a matter of days.”

  “We will keep as close track of U-20’s whereabouts as we can,” Rotter said soothingly. Isabel was deflated. If only Rotter and Dorothy knew about the letter, then they would also doubt that the Admiralty would do the right thing.

  Dorothy rose and crossed the room with Violet and began smoking near Denniston. So obvious!

  “Do you have a cigarette?” she asked Rotter.

  “Of course,” Rotter answered, and held one out for her.

  “Ta,” she said, and took it. She leaned forward as he struck a match and lit it for her. The smoke filled her lungs and soothed her nerves. Isabel reminded herself to be happy. She looked around the crowded room. These men and women were her colleagues, they were doing great things and she belonged with them.

  Back in Oxford, Mr. Chambers had been the first to encourage her to think and learn and have ambition and she was thankful for it. He had changed her life; he was the reason she was here now. Isabel indulged in a few moments of fond recollection. When George smiled at me, when he spoke to me, I felt like the only person in the world who mattered to him. Of course he had also been to blame for all the bad that had occurred too. She’d worked bloody hard to put the past behind her. To do a good job and gain recognition for it. She lifted her whisky to her lips and took a large sip. The drink was still finding its way down her throat when she saw them enter. The sight made her choke and she coughed and sputtered like a street urchin, regaining her composure just as Henry and Mildred took up residence near Dorothy and Denniston.

  Isabel stared at Mildred, who seemed to relish the acknowledgement for she smiled and waved. The nerve.

  Then to her dismay, Mildred walked over. Isabel noted the swivel of her hips.

  “Good evening, Isabel,” Mildred purred. “Mind if I join you?”

  And in that instance several weeks of avoidance were obliterated by social pressure. Mildred was challenging her. Isabel wouldn’t make a scene in front of her men. The girl plunked down where Dorothy had been. Mildred looked down at Isabel’s empty tumbler. “You want another?”

  “You don’t have to wait on me here,” Isabel said cuttingly.

  “Oh don’t worry, let me buy. Isn’t it time we let bygones be bygones?”

  Before Isabel could object Mildred had walked to the bar. She considered leaving. It was nearly ten and it was a long bus ride to the boarding house. But everyone would notice a quick departure and she didn’t want to draw attention. She couldn’t risk it. She finished the cigarette and pounded the butt into the ashtray. Rotter was engaged in a serious football chat with Curtis. She had no one to turn to for distraction.

  “Here you go, love,” Mildred cooed, and plunked the glass down. “Enjoy. Whisky’s too strong for me. You were always the tough one.”

  Isabel wanted to toss the drink in the girl’s face but why waste a good glass of whisky? “What are you doing here tonight?” she asked instead.

  Mildred appeared puzzled by the question. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you aren’t part of the team,” Isabel said coolly. “This is a team party.”

  Mildred showed her offence by snatching the whisky tumbler from Isabel’s hand. “Give me that back!”

  Her words were loud enough that several of the men within earshot glanced over, including Rotter. Isabel stared her down, unmoved by the outburst. Mildred, aware a scene was unfolding and she was a star player, gently put the tumbler to her lips and emptied its contents in one gulp. She smiled at the others.

  “I thought you didn’t like whisky?” Isabel said.

  “I lied.”

  “Of course you did.”

  The others returned to their own conversations. Mildred leaned forward and whispered, “You know what I really don’t like?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” Isabel said, trying to instill the perfect note of boredom and condescension in her voice.

  Mildred’s eyes narrowed. “You. I don’t like you. Showing off your fancy skills and parading around the office like you’re one of the men. But they don’t know the truth about you, what you did, who you really are, do they? This show of yours with the schoolmarm hair and dreary dresses? Ha!”

  The threat unnerved Isabel. But she didn’t want the girl to know she was afraid. After a moment of silence Isabel laughed. “You’ve always been amusing,” she said.

  “Is that how you want to play? I’ve had enough of you,” Mildred warned. “We’ll see how you feel come Monday.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Isabel said sternly. She didn’t appreciate being threatened.

  “Am I? You’ll see,” Mildred responded brusquely, and stood up so fast her chair tipped over. Parish picked it up and looked at them. “Everything okay, Isabel?”

  “Perfectly,” she answered, and watched Mildred stalk over to Henry.

  She was glad to be rid of Mildred for the night. Her life had moved far along from when they knew each other. The less she had to do with her the better. But as she watched Henry fawn over her it disturbed her more and more. Isabel needn’t be insecure. She had a place here now and she didn’t see it ending anytime soon, for despite what people had been saying at Christmas, the war showed no sign of being over.

  Sydney

  Back in her cabin Sydney took care to ease the brush through the tangles. Her hair was fine and she didn’t fancy losing great wads of it due to her carelessness on the deck. She had been shocked when she’d finally looked in the vanity mirror and saw the dishevelled mess. A smile spread across her face: the untamed mane, her body unadorned by jewels, the drab clothing. She was far from the ideal sister that Brooke had hoped to present to her future in-laws. No doubt Edward too was wondering what impression she’d make on his family.

  As much as she wished to laugh at the situation, in truth her father would have been horrified to see her acting this way, and the thought made her feel a pang of humiliation. To make matters worse, when she’d returned there was a note shoved under the door. It was from Brooke.

  My dear Sydney,

  I feel that I’ve indulged your whimsy long enough. You must end this charade once and for all and return to our suite. Edward is expecting to escort both of us at 6 p.m. this evening. I won’t take no for an answer.

  Brooke

  The missive didn’t generate its intended guilt. The fact of the matter was she wanted to be by herself and not deal with Brooke’s hysteria over her having an opinion on things deemed impolite or unfeminine. She scribbled an answer on the back of Brooke’s note and stuffed it in the envelope, scratching her own name out and replacing it with Regal Suite—Starboard. Sydney finished pinning her hair. Satisfied that she once again resembled a civilized woman she made her way to the third class dining saloon. But as she climbed the staircases the pangs of seasickness took hold again. She found a kind steward standing outside the dining saloon and handed him the envelope.

  “Please deliver this as soon as possible,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “Are you quite all right, ma’am?” the concerned steward asked. He glanced at the envelope. His eyebrow raised at the sight of Regal Suite scribbled on it.

  “I thought I was better,” she explained. “But the seasickness has come back.”

  “Try eating a bit of bread. It helps,” he said, and watched her slowly make her way to the saloon entrance. He tapped the envelope on his thigh and shrugged.

  She was at the doors when the sound of a piano drifted toward her. It was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. She had attended her share of recitals as a girl, and listening to the player now she thought he or she sounded too regimented, too precise, lacking the warmth of feeling tha
t a true pianist, a true artist, had. Still, it was preferable to listening to that insufferably cheery war tune the ship’s orchestra had felt compelled to play earlier.

  When at last she entered the dining saloon, she hesitated. She didn’t know what to do. Dozens of people were jostling around finding their assigned seats. Fortunately the chairs each had a numbered plaque on the back to make this easier. The passengers were lively and the sound was nearly drowning out the piano. She was so accustomed to being treated deferentially that the concept of communal dining was utterly foreign. Here one had to fend for oneself. For a moment she reconsidered her decision and wanted to chase after the steward to retrieve the note. But another lurch in her stomach changed her mind. Bread was needed immediately or else she would be sick all over the carpet or, worse, other passengers. She found her seat beside an elderly couple and another single woman. They smiled at her as she sat down. Her nausea rose and fell along with the waves of the sea. Her hand clamped to her mouth just in case.

  It was then she noticed that the source of the Beethoven was Hannah. And, not surprisingly, there was the mother, Gladys, at her side, coaching.

  A dining room steward brought a basket of freshly baked bread and placed it in front of her. Not waiting on anyone she immediately tore off a piece and placed it in her mouth. It was fresh and warm and its heavy texture felt soothing as she swallowed. She chewed another piece cautiously as she watched Hannah play. The girl’s face was intense with concentration but lacked joy. Sydney felt sorry for her. When the piece came to its conclusion the room erupted into applause. Gladys coaxed her daughter to stand and take a bow. Hannah seemed to enjoy this part of the performance and smiled and waved to the audience, a charming gesture that increased the applause and her smile.

  The stewards had begun to serve dinner and her attention turned from the little girl to the food. She and the other passengers would be feasting on roast pork. Sydney was surprised when Hannah and Gladys joined her table.

  “Sydney.” Gladys nodded in her direction. Sydney smiled back.

  “That was lovely, Hannah,” Sydney said.

  “It wasn’t her best,” Gladys responded. “But she has to get used to the ship’s motion.”

  Hannah sat picking at her food, ignoring her mother’s negative comment.

  “Are you heading to England for school?” a man at the table asked.

  “We have other plans,” Gladys said. “Hannah is going to be on the stage.”

  Sydney noticed that Hannah was eating her roast pork very slowly.

  “The West End?” asked a woman, who was dressed in a severe black skirt and matching jacket. “What show?”

  Gladys beamed with pride. “We’re considering all options.”

  The woman who had asked the question smirked. Sydney shared the woman’s doubt that little Hannah was cast in any show. But she was too polite to display her skepticism.

  “I heard Charles Frohman is on board,” the elderly man said.

  Sydney watched Gladys; from her expression Frohman’s presence was not news.

  “You don’t say?” she said, pretending it was.

  “He is. First class, though,” the man continued, unaware that he wasn’t telling the mother anything she didn’t already know. “You should find a way to have him hear your daughter play.”

  “That is an idea,” Gladys said casually. “But I wouldn’t dream of trying to get the attention of such a man.”

  Wouldn’t you, Sydney thought.

  “You might need to have her play something more modern than that old stuff,” said a younger man at the table. He couldn’t be older than twenty-five and spoke with an Irish lilt.

  “Don’t worry, Hannah can play anything,” Gladys said.

  “What do you like to play, Hannah?” Sydney asked the little girl directly.

  “Tell the nice lady, dear,” Gladys urged.

  Hannah looked up as though aware for the first time that she was the subject of the conversation. “I like ‘The Entertainer,’” she said.

  The young man grinned. “That will do! Can you play it for us after dinner?”

  For the first time Hannah smiled and nodded. But Gladys wasn’t as willing. “She has to get her rest. Maybe tomorrow.” Hannah’s eyes returned to her dinner.

  “Do you know Mr. Frohman?” the old man continued.

  “I’ve not had the pleasure,” Gladys said.

  “He’s a very approachable man,” Sydney said, then immediately regretted it.

  “You’ve met him?” Gladys asked, beaming a very artificial smile.

  “Or so I’ve heard,” Sydney corrected. “He’s supposedly very friendly.”

  Gladys sighed, as though she had always doubted that Sydney would know a man like Frohman, and with a smile laced with condescension she said, “That’s nice, dear. I’m sure he will be if he ever hears my Hannah play.”

  The dining hall had grown even louder as passengers began to relax and get to know one another. There was little formality amongst them. Children who had had their fill of supper were running up and down the aisles between tables, the stewards doing their best to avoid collisions while carrying trays stacked high with dirty dishes. The bread and the rest of the meal had done the trick. Her seasickness had abated. She stood up from the table and walked toward the door to the deck. Fresh air would solidify the cure. She opened the door and paused to check her hairpins before stepping out into the night air.

  Edward

  The orchestra was playing The Blue Danube. The after-dinner gathering in the lounge was to capacity. Ladies sat on the sofas in dresses chosen to make a striking first impression. Gentlemen, those who had not already retreated into the smoking room, listened patiently to their wives discuss the other passengers or wonder why Captain Turner had not presided over his table on the first night of the voyage.

  Edward stood behind his fiancée, his hands resting on the back of the rose velvet sofa as they listened to the music. Brooke was seated placidly beside a well-dressed matronly woman who was sailing with her daughter, a spindly thing of twenty-eight whose bare ring finger announced her spinsterhood. He observed with bemusement Brooke toying frequently with her pearl-and-diamond pendant earrings that nearly dusted her shoulders. Each time she did, the square-cut Colombian emerald-and-diamond engagement ring she had insisted on sparkled in the light of the chandelier like a beacon. He thought back to the demure diamond-and-sapphire ring that remained at Rathfon Hall unworn—while pretty it would not have garnered a reaction such as this. For despite Brooke’s subtle show, her performance wasn’t lost on the matron or her daughter, nor was it missed by a smattering of other ladies who sat nearby and were trying their best not to fixate on the enormous ring. He brought his eyes back to the nimble talents of the five-piece band and closed his eyes. But his attempt at serenity was abruptly ended by a loud outburst from a man near the lounge entrance who appeared to be arguing with a ship’s officer—Staff Captain Anderson, second-in-command of the ship. Edward moved away from the music to see what the matter was.

  Edward had never set eyes on the man before. He was middle-aged with finely trimmed moustaches carefully shaped into thick handlebars the colour of steel. His agitated eyes bore right through Anderson, who managed a polite smile in return but his body language spoke volumes of impolite thoughts. Edward had met Anderson on his voyage to New York. He had often taken Turner’s place at the captain’s table and had infinitely more patience for the needs and grumblings of passengers. This passenger’s anger could stem from some silly oversight in his stateroom. Vanderbilt and Frohman had also heard the ruckus and come forward, and watched with Edward at a respectful distance.

  “I assure you there is nothing to fear,” Staff Captain Anderson told the irate man.

  “I demand to speak to the captain!”

  “Captain Turner will only repeat what I’ve just told you,” Anderson explained politely but the man was having none of it.

  “I heard your men discovered German
spies on board! Stowaways!” he shouted. “What I want to know is what, if anything, is being done about it?”

  Anderson glanced around the first class lounge. The man’s booming voice had carried above the band’s exquisite notes and more than a few of the passengers had turned their attention if not their heads to listen.

  “We have arrested three men,” Anderson explained calmly and quietly. “And they are locked up in one of the cabins below decks until we determine who they are.”

  It surprised Edward to hear such an admission. Stowaways on the Lusitania! He looked back to Brooke who was still fanning her engagement ring like it was a feather. The majority of the guests seemed in blissful ignorance for now. But the three men exchanged concerned looks.

  “Have they been interrogated yet?” the man persisted, wiping at his brow with a handkerchief.

  “The ship has a detective inspector on board, as well as a German interpreter,” he said. “They know the job that’s to be done.”

  “What did they find out?” the man snapped.

  Edward watched Vanderbilt step forward to interject. He admired the millionaire’s easy manner and confidence, even boldness. But backbone was not the sole province of the American male and Edward followed, Frohman nipping at his heels. The man narrowed his eyes at them as though they too were spies.

  “They could be analyzing the ship,” Vanderbilt suggested. “Before the war the Germans came on board and spied on the Lusitania to learn how she was built. They were none too pleased she took the Blue Riband from them.”

  The man kept swiping his forehead like a pane of glass. Anderson gave a slight bow to Vanderbilt.

  “Good evening, Mr. Vanderbilt,” Anderson said, then greeted the others. “Mr. Thorpe-Tracey, Mr. Frohman, good evening.” He turned back to Vanderbilt. “And you are correct, sir. The men we discovered this afternoon had photographic equipment with them, to your point.”

  This wasn’t enough to satisfy the man who violently tossed his handkerchief to the floor.