Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  He was a formidable man. He ran huge companies and made a fortune with shrewd real estate deals. He also had a fine eye for horses and had purchased several of England’s best Thoroughbreds for breeding. Alfred was what Englishmen of Edward’s ancestry distrusted most: a refined American. Nothing of the crude or crass was present in Vanderbilt’s appearance or manner even though the whole world knew of the scandal that had rocked his first marriage. Yet here he was, unashamed, as though what had happened was as insignificant as the colour of socks he wore. Edward peered down. They were deep burgundy. His own were a more practical, albeit typical, dark grey. If I had a fraction of his wealth I would wear socks the colour of daffodils. And the worse part of all was, try as he might, he could not help liking the man.

  “I wanted to ask after your sister, Sydney,” Alfred began.

  Edward balked slightly at the sound of her name. Brooke put her spoon down as though her appetite had vanished. “Yes, Alfred. What about her?”

  “I spoke with her this afternoon,” he said. “She’s quite a girl, sailing in steerage.”

  The spoon Edward was holding slipped from his fingers and fell with a splash into the bowl of soup. His shirt and jacket got the worst of it and were splattered with the thick red liquid.

  “Edward! Your clothes!” Brooke gasped.

  To his credit Vanderbilt didn’t even smile; he looked on with as much concern as a stained shirt could arouse. “If you need help my valet, Ronald, is very good with stains,” he offered kindly.

  Edward bristled. “My own valet will suffice, but thank you,” he said, and began to dab his shirt with a napkin. He knew that the stain would set if he didn’t immediately get it to Maxwell and a bottle of soda but he wasn’t about to leave now.

  “Edward isn’t usually so clumsy,” Brooke said, excusing her fiancé. Then she turned to Alfred. “Yes, well, you know Sydney,” she said politely, and waved to a waiter. The waiter came at once. “Can you bring some soda water?”

  The waiter looked on the spilled soup and sodden shirt with alarm. “Yes, Miss.” When he dashed away she turned to Alfred and laughed. “She always has been independent.”

  Alfred agreed. “That she is. She got into trouble earlier by spreading the gospel about birth control to unappreciative ladies in the third class lounge.”

  Edward wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “She did what?” he asked.

  “Sydney’s a suffragette, with a keen interest in reproductive rights,” Alfred explained carefully. “But of course you know all about it, I’m sure.”

  “Of course,” Edward lied. His mind raced back to the engagement dinner and his brief exchange with Sydney about Margaret Sanger. He stared at Brooke but she wouldn’t look at him. “Is that the real reason she didn’t join us for dinner or breakfast or lunch? She prefers the company of third class to ours?”

  Alfred appeared uncomfortable. “I seem to have opened up a can of worms.”

  “Don’t fret, Alfred,” Brooke said, and turned to Edward. “Yes, I should have told you. I didn’t think you’d be interested in my sister’s odd pursuits. Sydney likes to experience life from all angles. She was curious, that’s all. This women’s voting and birth control, it’s all a phase.” Brooke laughed half-heartedly. “I’m sure she’ll be in the Regal Suite by breakfast tomorrow.”

  Edward contained his irritation. He was furious that his fiancée and her sister had concealed Sydney’s travel arrangements. It was as though his opinion didn’t matter. Like he was a child being left out of adult conversation and shooed away.

  “What difference does it make?” Alfred said cheerfully. “Let her have an adventure. Her fellow passengers are probably a lot more fun than we are. And as you say, she is independent. It’s why so many young men in New York are terrified of her.”

  Edward was taken aback by such a description. “Is that so?” he asked.

  Alfred grinned. “Positively terrified. She’s beautiful, rich and full of strong opinions, what’s more terrifying than that?”

  Edward grimaced as the waiter returned and helped to dab his shirt with the soda. “Indeed I can think of nothing more off-putting in a female,” Edward responded, hating the image he was projecting. Brooke forced a smile, which he took for approval.

  “It’s not very English, I’ll give you that,” Alfred said. His voice jolted Edward from his thoughts, which was a relief. “There are a lot of changes happening. The war with Germany is only the beginning. The twentieth century is going to rock the establishment in ways we can’t even imagine as we sit here enjoying a seven-course lunch brought to us on silver trays by waiters wearing white gloves. But mark my word, the world as we know it, that’s you and me, Edward, will be unrecognizable and sooner than we’ll likely be comfortable with.”

  Another waiter brought out lamb with mint sauce. Edward picked up his knife and fork and stabbed the pink meat with all his might. Change wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. Over the past year he’d heard enough about what the future held or didn’t hold, but he didn’t want to think of it now.

  “My, you men are all the same,” said Brooke, injecting her words with a teasing tone. “You worry so much about what hasn’t happened that you neglect what is in front of you.”

  Edward finished a mouthful of lamb and sipped wine to wash it down. “Perhaps you’re right. And in that regard, try and have Sydney move back up here with us for the remainder of the voyage,” he said flatly. “In fact why don’t I speak to her and set her straight?”

  Alfred and Brooke exchanged looks. “I think it’s best if I do,” Brooke said, and squeezed Edward’s hand. “Sisterly advice.”

  “I insist,” Edward said firmly. “I saw her only yesterday on the bow and we got on very well.”

  Brooke’s hand froze. “You never told me,” she said, a hint of accusation in her tone.

  “It would seem neither of us tell each other everything,” Edward said, and sipped wine. “It’s like we’re married already.”

  Sydney

  Two men were playing a game of shuffleboard as Sydney approached along the starboard side. In good weather the shuffleboard courts would be in constant demand but on a day like this? Those men must be very bored. As she drew closer she saw that one of them was Walter. He had seen her too.

  “Looking to spy on the saloon class again?” he called out jokingly.

  The other man stared at him aghast. But Sydney smiled and came toward them.

  “Hello, Walter.”

  “It’s not exactly a fine day for a stroll,” he said.

  “You’re here,” she pointed out. “Besides, I like this weather. Makes me feel alive.”

  “Makes me sneeze,” the other man said, and coughed to get her attention.

  “Forgive me, Sydney,” Walter said, and tossed his mate a look of disapproval. “This is my friend Frederick Isherwood.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. He was another Englishman. “You look like you’re about to start a game of shuffleboard.”

  “Pass the time well enough, I reckon,” Frederick said, and tossed a cigarette overboard.

  “You want to play?” Walter asked.

  “I would love to,” she said, finding it ironic that moments before the women who she was trying to help had summarily rejected her, and now she was being taken in by a group of hard-working men. “Can the three of us play?”

  “It’s either for two or four,” Walter explained as he smiled at his friend. “Fred here can keep score.”

  Frederick looked none too pleased being relegated to scorekeeper but he kept his mouth shut and held out the cue for Sydney.

  “Come stand here with me behind the line,” Walter explained, and Sydney did as she was told.

  When she took the cue her topcoat opened revealing a navy dress with a dropped waist. Her gloves matched the dress. She wasn’t bothered by the dampness and cold. She could feel the men watching her. A man like Walter who appreciated design and knew fabrics could probably tell her clot
hing was made to measure and from fine cloth. “So how does the game work?” she asked.

  “The goal is to use the cue to slide the weights, which are called biscuits, across the court,” he explained. “The aim is to put your own biscuit into the scoring area for points while pushing your opponent’s biscuits off the court or into the minus zone at the back of the grid.”

  She listened intently to him and when he had finished she sized up the court as though there was some secret not yet revealed.

  “Want me to take the first shot so you can see how it’s done?” Walter offered.

  “Ladies first,” Frederick said. Walter glared at him, causing a sly smile to form across his lips.

  Sydney aimed her cue at the red biscuit and with her eyes fixed firmly on the other end of the court she shoved the cue and sent the biscuit sliding down. The biscuit moved at a fair speed and settled within the lines of the bottom end of the triangle. Frederick’s eyes popped. Walter clapped.

  “That’s seven points!” he said.

  “Beginner’s luck,” she said appreciatively. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Frederick had finished smoking his fifth cigarette by the time the game was over and Sydney had been declared the winner. He tossed the butt overboard and clapped his hands as much to keep warm as to applaud.

  “You have a knack for sport,” Frederick said, obviously bored out of his skull. “Let me guess, you probably ride to hounds in the spring, skate in the winter and dance all night in the summer?”

  Sydney’s expression hardened, which made him cough again. “You seem a bit critical of a woman’s athletic abilities,” she said, and fixed her eyes on him.

  “He’s feeling sorry for himself because he didn’t play,” Walter explained.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” Frederick answered.

  “Well, you’re partially right about me,” Sydney said firmly. “I do ride and I ride as well as any man on the hunt. I’ve never ice-skated, but I can ski. I’ve even raced a few times when I was younger. Beat most of the boys in the club too. And as for dancing—”

  “You prefer to lead?” Frederick asked sarcastically.

  Sydney blinked a few times and the three of them were silent.

  “My wife likes to ice-skate,” Walter said, breaking the silence.

  “You never did explain why your family sailed ahead.” Sydney said. Walter’s face fell.

  “Because of the Germans,” Walter said. “Alice and my daughter, Muriel, she’s two, will be safely at home in Elland by now.”

  “That seems very extreme,” she said.

  “Not really,” Frederick said. “Fritz plans to blow up the ship.” Sydney looked at him, then back to Walter.

  “Frederick’s right. The Lusitania is carrying contraband, ammunition for the war effort, and I’m afraid the Germans will target her just like that warning in the paper says.”

  Sydney was stunned. “That’s a rumour.”

  Walter shook his head. “About a month back, after I’d bought passage on the Lusy, I saw it with my own eyes.”

  She did her best not to look worried. “Tell me everything.”

  Walter explained that he had gone to New York to pick up a shipment of supplies for his foreman. He despised this part of his job, and the wharfs. The shipyard docks were a haven for the disenchanted. Men who had been shipped to America in search of a new life now found they could never leave. The work was hard but it paid enough to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads, even if the roof was shared with other families from the same county or town they hailed from. But there was never enough work to go around to keep up with the flood of immigrants with little skills and even less hope.

  Walter disliked the mess of the place. The stench of rotting fish and other food that had spoiled on its journey. The roughness of the men. More than once he’d observed fights break out between immigrant factions over who would get a job that morning.

  “You need to sign for it here, Dawson,” the duty officer had said, and handed Walter a clipboard with a clearance form to sign.

  Walter scribbled his name. “Are you sure that’s everything?” The shipment was smaller than usual and he didn’t want to return to Lowell and hear about it. “Can I double-check?”

  The duty officer looked over Walter’s shoulder to the long line of men waiting for him. He scratched his chin. Walter saw that his nails were dirty and yellowed from smoke.

  “Be quick,” the man said, and hurried on to the man behind him. Walter took the list and walked back to where the shipment was sitting. He had only just begun his task when a firm grip on his shoulder told him it was about to be a very long day.

  “Dawson!”

  Walter turned to face Patrick O’Brien, a boy of nineteen he had met on the voyage over two years earlier. He had come to America trying for a boxing career. Patrick’s nose had been broken three times and by the looks of it he had given up trying to have it mended. His coveralls were smeared with what looked like flour and blood, as though he had been baking a pie made with freshly killed meat.

  “Hello, Patrick.”

  The young man helped Walter check off everything and to his relief it was all in order. There was a wagon waiting to cart the supplies to the train station and between the two of them it was loaded and on its way so quickly that Walter, checking his watch, saw he had another hour before the train left.

  Patrick removed his hat and ran his fingers through greasy hair that had already begun to recede. “The Lusitania is in port. You want to have a look?”

  Walter wasn’t sure he wanted more time with Patrick but seeing the famous ship was irresistible. They passed through the remainder of the cargo docks, leaving behind a steady stream of goods waiting to enter New York. Everywhere men were shouting and cursing to duty officers and foremen about late or missing shipments as a few policemen stood streetside surveying the mayhem with bored expressions.

  There was no mistaking her. The four black funnels rising above the pier shed caught Walter’s eye first. He quickened his pace. When they got to her starboard side Walter drew his breath at the sight of her.

  “She’s magnificent,” he exclaimed.

  “That she is,” Patrick agreed. “Now let’s get closer.” The young Irishman gestured to Walter to follow him and the two men walked nonchalantly through the Cunard gate like they belonged. Down on the dock Walter could see supplies being loaded onto the Lusitania for her next voyage. Patrick waved to one of the Cunard men who seemed to know him and came over. Walter was introduced to Dermot Eaves. He was much smaller than O’Brien and Walter was glad to be able to look him in the eye.

  Patrick wasted no time telling Dermot that Walter was sailing on the ship in May. Dermot seemed unimpressed.

  “I’m quitting once we get to Liverpool,” Dermot said.

  “Why is that?” Walter asked.

  “Don’t much like the captain,” he said bluntly. “Morale isn’t good either. Sailing through a war zone when half the men aren’t skilled seamen hasn’t helped. Many of the real sailors have gone off to fight on battle cruisers so that leaves Cunard picking up riff-raff for a ship like her. I’m not interested.”

  Walter was surprised to hear this yet it made perfect sense. He was off to fight, so too were thousands of others, all leaving their regular jobs to join the war.

  “Then there are the rumours,” Dermot continued. “Word is that the Jerrys plan to torpedo the ship.”

  “They’d never have the guts,” Walter objected. His outburst drew a smile across Dermot’s face.

  “Every man on the docks has heard that since the blockade begun. Why else did Cunard lower ticket prices? Why else did the old captain fly an American flag when she entered the war zone? The docks are crawling with German spies too.”

  Walter was speechless. He scanned the dockyard. The many men darting about seemed like him; working class, trying to make a life, not wanting trouble.

  “There are German workers all over the
docks,” Patrick agreed.

  “But what are they looking for?” Walter demanded.

  Dermot ran his tongue over his lips. “Can’t tell you that or they’d hang me for treason,” he said. Walter couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. “Let’s just say that maybe those speculations of blockade-running are true. Or maybe they ain’t.”

  But you didn’t see the ammunition, did you?” Sydney said, relieved to point this out when Walter had finished his story.

  “I didn’t have to,” Walter said. “The ship’s manifests from previous voyages all have shrapnel and shell casings and rifles on them. It’s not just this ship, Sydney, most of them do it. How else are we going to win the war? The Allies need ammunition.”

  “Then why did you sail on her?”

  “I had no choice. I’d already bought passage for us on the Lusitania. I only had enough of our savings left to pay for Alice and Muriel’s passage on the other ship.”

  The information was overwhelming. Sydney thought back to her discussion with Bestic about the lifeboats.

  “Thank you for teaching me how to play, Walter,” she said, and swallowed. “I think I will get some tea to warm up. Goodbye.”

  Sydney walked at a brisk pace, wanting to get some distance from Walter and Frederick and their tales of blockade-running. It was absurd. The British Admiralty would never endanger American lives.

  Isabel

  The night shift crew were known as the “watchmen.” When Isabel had begun working in Room 40 she had assumed the name was a straight-up take on “keeping watch.” She preferred to embellish its meaning with dark, even sinister undertones like in the spy stories she read. It was the romantic in her. It had proven disappointing when after several late nights she discovered that the watchmen did nothing more diabolical than play penny card games to pass the time awaiting the latest transmissions.

  Such a game was in progress between Anstie, Norton and Henry when she entered after ten o’clock that night. “Who’s winning?” she asked.

  “We’re all in debt to Anstie,” said Norton.

  She noticed that Henry had failed to acknowledge her. He must be angry at her after last night’s spat with Mildred. Who knew what Mildred had told him? Isabel wanted to shake him until he came to his senses. Instead she ignored him. Two could play at that game.