Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  “What are you doing here so late?” Anstie asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep, thought I’d come see what you lot were up to. Working hard, I see,” she said, and lit a cigarette.

  “It’s been hellish this evening,” Norton said. “We’re glad for a respite.”

  “As bad as all that?” she asked.

  Since Captain Hall’s scheme to trick the Germans there had been a huge increase in wireless transmissions and the code breakers had been pulling double shifts. The Admiralty’s goal had been that the Germans would divert forces away from France and head to the coast to await the British troops that would never arrive. The dispatched submarines, including U-20, had been part of the German strategy but from what Isabel could surmise neither this nor the fact that the Admiralstab was still broadcasting the Lusitania’s schedule seemed to be causing enough alarm for her liking. Though that was about to change . . .

  “We got word over the wireless that the Germans ran an advert in the American papers warning passengers about their submarines,” Norton told her.

  Isabel felt the blood drain from her face. “They did what?”

  “You heard right. Telling them that they would be in danger once they sailed into the war zone. But according to our sources the ship left New York with most of its passengers,” he said. “I’m sure they thought it was just a scare tactic.”

  “Maybe that’s all it is,” Parish added.

  “Did they alert the captain at last?” Isabel asked. “Surely Captain Hall and the Admiral would put two and two together?”

  “And do what?” Norton scoffed. “You’re forgetting one thing, Isabel.”

  She was halfway through the cigarette. “What is that?”

  Norton didn’t look up from his cards. “The Orion.”

  The Orion was a battleship that had been docked at Devonport for some much-needed refitting. She was ready to rejoin the Grand Fleet, and the Admiral of the Fleet, John Rushworth Jellicoe, was desperate to have the ship back.

  “What does the Orion have to do with the Lusitania sailing into a mass of submarines?” Isabel demanded. She stamped out her cigarette and stared at the pack in her hand. Another would be extreme. She reached for the bottle of whisky the men kept on hand and poured a shot, determined to make it last.

  “I’ll take one of those,” Parish said.

  She poured another and one for Rotter and put the glasses on the table in front of them. Henry was studying his cards like they held the key to the universe. She didn’t bother to offer him a drink.

  “The Orion is due to sail on May 4, day after tomorrow,” Norton explained. “The Admiralty has ordered four destroyers as an escort. She’s also being diverted away from the known submarine path based on our transcripts. That’s the priority, dear Isabel. She’s more valuable in wartime than a boatload of civilians.”

  Isabel drained the glass in one gulp. “Are you saying they are deliberately ignoring the Lusitania?”

  Norton shook his head. “I’m saying they’re distracted by the Orion.”

  Isabel didn’t know what to do. So she went to her desk and found some leftover transmissions that needed typing. The deciphered codes were fairly routine broadcasts the Admiralstab sent to its navy about the weather patterns. But it gave her something to do. She couldn’t go home. Not now.

  Three cigarettes and half a glass of whisky later she was surprised when Henry skulked over and drew up a chair beside her. She refused to look at him and continued to type as though he wasn’t there.

  “Isabel,” he said.

  Type, type, type, she repeated the word to herself in rhythm. The Germans really were sticklers about temperature and barometric pressure.

  “Isabel, I need to tell you something,” he said. “It’s important.”

  She inhaled sharply and her fingers fell to her lap. “What is it?” Before Henry could begin she started at him. “You’ve got a bloody nerve sitting next to me like we’re still mates. You’ve hardly spoken to me outside of work since you began walking out with Mildred. Why should I listen to you now?”

  She watched his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed. He was holding his hat, like he was preparing to leave for the night. It was too late for meeting his girl; he must be going home. Briefly Isabel considered taking the bus with him rather than travelling alone after midnight. But she quickly came to her senses. She’d leave shortly but not with Henry.

  He picked up her glass and drank the remaining whisky. Isabel raised an eyebrow. “It’s Mildred . . .” he began.

  She rolled her eyes at the girl’s name. “I don’t give a fig about Mildred. Deal with your romance on your own, Henry. I’ve got work to do.” She turned back to the transmits and started typing again.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. That’s all.”

  He got up and left for the night. Isabel struggled to focus. She did give a fig about Mildred. The girl knew everything and couldn’t be trusted.

  The memory flooded through her. She had been wearing the red shoes. George had attended a lecture in London and had seen them at Selfridges and bought them for her. They had a small heel, the sort showgirls wore in revues. They were scandalous, especially given their colour—and were satin with straps that had rhinestone buckles. Evening shoes they were called. He’d bought a red lipstick for her on the trip before. She was also wearing another gift, a red negligee—yes, George had a thing for red. She’d never been given such gifts in her life. They made her feel beautiful and when she wore them she rather liked seeing the impact they had on George. He was an altered man. For once she was the one with power, at least over him.

  That night they were in bed. They were kissing. They hadn’t been alone together in a couple of weeks and couldn’t get enough; there was no other way to account for the fact they didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs. Isabel saw her first. Mildred standing on the threshold, a look of disgust mixed with envy on her porcelain face. George threatened to sack her but it was no use. She was determined to “do the right thing.” Mrs. Chambers came home to a whole pack of drama. Isabel was dismissed. But George wrote to Mr. Lambert and together they found her a position at the Admiralty. So much for love. Shortly thereafter Mildred was let go on George’s insistence. And now she was here too, poised to destroy Isabel’s life once again.

  MAY 3

  Sydney

  I hear you and Edward had a fine time together after we sailed,” Brooke said stonily. “Don’t look surprised. We’re engaged. We tell each other everything.”

  The sisters had found a small alcove near the third class entrance to meet. A determined yet shaky Sarah had summoned Sydney after breakfast and she had relented. She couldn’t avoid her sister for the entire voyage; eventually they’d have to talk things through. She hadn’t anticipated this particular line of conversation; if she didn’t know better she’d say Brooke was jealous.

  “I would expect you do,” Sydney replied, equally stony. “So what about it? I didn’t tell him anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Unfortunately that was part of the problem,” Brooke said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Alfred told him you’re sailing in steerage and about your attempt to convert passengers to feminism. And now Edward thinks I lied to him.” She paused, as though realizing this latter part were true. “Which I suppose I did but it was for his own good. And he feels you concealed it from him too.”

  Sydney rolled her eyes. “Because you asked me to. Ever since you returned from England you’ve done nothing but beg me to hide who I am from your precious Lord Muck.”

  “How dare you,” Brooke said. “I would never beg.”

  “Whatever you want to call it,” Sydney continued. “He’s an English snob. Who cares what he thinks?”

  “You may despise Edward but I do not,” Brooke said.

  “You don’t despise him but you don’t love him,” Sydney responded. “I’m relieved
he knows the truth. There are no secrets and clearly he hasn’t called off the engagement. So the matter is closed.”

  She attempted to march away but Brooke grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. Sydney gasped in pain and slapped her sister’s hand away. “What on earth? We’re not ten!”

  “You don’t understand, Sydney. We are landing in Liverpool on Saturday. That’s still five days for Edward to stew over your—your—attitudes. He’s not modern like Alfred and some of the others back home. He’s traditional. Once we’re in England and he’s surrounded by his own kind he may change his mind about me and call off the wedding.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Sydney asked, rubbing her head.

  Brooke smiled and gently held Sydney’s chin in her hand. “Edward is determined to convince you to move back into the Regal Suite with me. He’ll probably want to talk you out of your politics too. Just go along for now. Please,” she said, her voice calm but steely.

  Sydney pulled her face away. What was the point in continuing their fight? “Fine. I’ll meet him and he can talk my ear off. But I’m not promising to move to first class or change my politics.”

  Brooke’s face fell. “Just hear him out. He wants to meet you after lunch. I’ll have him send a steward to fetch you.”

  It was like she’d given an order, for she didn’t wait for Sydney to respond before she disappeared into the ship’s interior. Sydney considered a walk around the deck to clear her head. But the gloominess of yesterday and of all the talk about blockade-running and contraband hadn’t lifted and now with the added pressure of Edward looming before her, she wondered if it ever would.

  Isabel

  Aren’t you going to deny it?”

  Isabel sat stiff-backed, knees touching, hands folded delicately in her lap and stared at Mrs. Burns.

  “Is there any point in my denying it?” Isabel asked, her eyes never wavering, which seemed to unnerve Mrs. Burns for she began to pace.

  “It’s like you’re daring me,” the older woman said, walking back and forth. “You must have some evidence to refute the claim?”

  Mrs. Burns stopped her pacing and stood in front of Isabel, imploring her to co-operate. Isabel wanted desperately to cross her legs. It was more comfortable than this formal posture but it was that type of thinking and carelessness that had landed her in this mess. What she wasn’t, however, was a liar.

  “I have none,” Isabel said plainly. “I won’t deny it because I cannot. It’s done. It was part of my past—”

  “Your recent past,” Mrs. Burns interjected.

  Isabel inhaled deeply, impatiently, as a mother would before explaining to a three-year-old why he cannot have chocolate for breakfast. “If you prefer, my recent past,” she continued. “But I do a good job here and that should be all that matters.”

  Mrs. Burns swooped down toward Isabel so that she was leaning over her eye to eye. Isabel recoiled slightly but not from fear. The older woman’s breath reeked of stale coffee.

  “Aye, but it’s not all that matters,” she snapped. “I hire respectable young women here.”

  Isabel cowered at the words. Mrs. Burns stood up again as though sensing Isabel’s discomfort, taking it for feminine weakness. She was wrong.

  “I should be getting back to work,” Isabel said impatiently, and stood up. She took a step toward Mrs. Burns’s outraged face. “I’m needed.”

  “You are needed when and where I say you are,” Mrs. Burns stated, and paused. Her hesitation seemed to fuel her anger. “You are suspended until further notice, Miss Nelson. And without pay.”

  Isabel’s jaw went slack. “Suspended? Can you do that? What about the men?”

  “Exactly, Miss Nelson. It is the men I’m thinking of. If what I’m told is true then I’m not sure you will return to work with the men at all.”

  Isabel’s heart sank. “What am I to do?”

  “That is for you to think on as I decide if I’m to terminate your employment altogether,” Mrs. Burns said. Isabel was suddenly light-headed as though her knees might buckle and she would be sick. Mrs. Burns shook her head at the unfortunate girl. “I can’t risk a girl like you, with your reputation, one you won’t deny, and all those men who can’t have distractions. We’re fighting a war. There is no room here for loose women.”

  “I’m not a distraction,” she said as she caught her reflection in an oval mirror hanging on the wall. The severe bun held against its will with too many bobby pins. Her face, bare and pale like a nun’s. Her uniform of a plain grey skirt and a long-sleeved blouse that was at least one size too big. A less stylish ensemble would be difficult to imagine. No, Isabel considered, there was nothing to distract a man here.

  The tears managed to elicit some sympathy for Mrs. Burns put her arm around Isabel as she led her to the door. She opened it and gently pushed her out. “You’ll hear my decision soon. I have to think about it. Now go home and rest. It’s a lovely day for a stroll.”

  It was true that the weather was fine, but the last thing Isabel wanted was a day off. Not when everyone else was hard at work without her. The thought of being unable to keep an eye on the Irish Sea and the Lusitania was unfathomable. There was only one person to blame.

  “This is all because of Miss Fox,” Isabel said. Mrs. Burns appeared shocked.

  “Don’t be accusing people, Miss Nelson.”

  “I don’t have to because I know it’s true. She warned me and I was too naïve to believe she’d do it. No one else but her could have said anything.”

  Isabel was angry now but she could see by Mrs. Burns’s face that any sympathy she’d had for her was gone.

  “Goodbye, Isabel,” she said firmly. “I’ll send for you when I’ve made my mind up.”

  The door closed on Isabel and she was alone in the hallway. She walked outside into the warm spring air and stood staring up at the place that had been more of a home to her these past few months than had anywhere in her life. The tears were back only this time she removed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. The tears continued until her vision blurred and the building took on a fuzzy, dreamlike appearance. Then she remembered Henry’s odd apology last night. He knew this was going to happen. He was trying to warn her. Good God. If Henry knew her secret perhaps all of Room 40 did. Isabel could hardly bear it.

  Sydney

  The hours passed slowly as though it was time itself that rolled beneath the hull, bow to stern. The foam streamers left in its wake were all that remained, bubbling over like freshly poured champagne before disintegrating into eternity. Sydney stood at the stern watching each minute dissolve on the ocean’s surface.

  “They call the wake the Cunard highway,” Edward said. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “My pleasure, Edward,” she responded as she took in his grave expression. He was taking this talk too seriously as far as she was concerned. What did it matter where she laid her head as long as once they landed in England she stepped into the maid-of-honour role with the right amount of decorum. “You wanted to talk to me, so here I am.” She had no time for silly patter. She wanted him to get to the point. Edward put his hands on the rail and stared out to sea.

  “Do go on, Edward,” she said. His continued silence was as pompous as his windowpane suit. “You look too serious for words.”

  He didn’t answer. But his fingers were grasped tightly around the railing like he was holding on for dear life. The confidence she had found appealing in him in New York and even on the bow yesterday was nowhere to be found. She’d not seen a man this uncomfortable since she’d turned down a marriage proposal from an Astor—it wasn’t her fault he’d asked for her hand in front of a dozen or so childhood friends at a picnic in Central Park. She thought it best to spare Edward further discomfort.

  “I hear you found out that I’m the black sheep,” she said playfully. “Baaaaa.”

  She expected him to recoil but to her amazement he laughed and teased her, “You call that a sheep? Maybe an America
n goat. This is a sheep.” And he proceeded to emit an elaborate bleat the like of which she’d never heard. “Baaaaaa, meeehhh.” He stopped, a sly grin on his face. “That’s a sheep.”

  She couldn’t stop from grinning back. “You shock me, Edward. What does my sister think of your barnyard impressions?”

  “She has yet to hear my sheep but she was quite amazed by my bullfrog.”

  “You must be joking?” she asked, not picturing Brooke finding any of this amusing.

  “You act like you expect me to be humourless,” he said with mock gravity. “You do know that we English are known for our wit.”

  “Is that so? Then go on, witify me.”

  “Witify? Is that an American word?”

  “I made it up,” she confessed. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  Edward rubbed his chin as though the answer required serious analysis. “It might be at that. But before we descend into further madcap discussions I must tell you how worried Brooke is about you,” he said, the gravity seeping back into his voice. “We both are.”

  Sydney pulled her shawl around her shoulders; the lightness of the moment had passed and they had returned to solemnity. “She’s worried about you, not me,” she replied. “She’s convinced that now you know about my politics you’ll call off the wedding. Though we both know you would never do that. You can’t afford to.”

  “My goodness, you are blunt,” he said.

  “I like to think I’m honest,” she said. “Why should we have secrets?”

  She was playing with fire and had said more than she ought to have. He was staring at her now, possibly in disbelief, she couldn’t be sure. She smiled despite herself.

  A few feet away a little boy was dangling his yo-yo over the railing as another boy begged him not to throw it overboard.

  “You don’t want to lose the one bit of entertainment you have,” Edward advised. The boys appeared stunned to have a strange man address them.