Unspeakable

by Caroline Pignat

  I leaned on the rail and looked at the glowing lights of Quebec City’s cafés and restaurants lining its cobbled streets. Beneath the shadow of the Château Frontenac, two tiny lights drifted together and I realized they were probably the illuminated cars of the funiculaire on their last run. They came together seemingly as one for a brief moment and then moved on to settle at opposite ends. Upper and Lower Town—such different worlds.

  I took one last look at the cityscape, knowing I’d probably never see it again. Wondering if I’d ever see Jim again, either.

  THE SECOND INTERVIEW

  June 1914

  Strandview Manor, Liverpool

  Chapter Sixteen

  MONDAY CAME AND WENT, and Steele never showed up for our second interview. Instead, I got a note saying he had to do an interview up north. This whole deal with Steele was a bad idea, especially if he was going to be bringing my father into it. Wasn’t it enough that I told him about the ship? What did it matter how I ended up on it? Or why? Those were my secrets, a shame I never wanted to revisit, let alone speak about. My gut told me to quit, to have nothing more to do with this manipulative man. But my heart told me Steele knew something more about Jim, and in truth, I’d do anything to find it out.

  Steele knew that, too.

  I’d already learned some of Jim’s secrets in the few entries I’d read—how he felt about his nickname, about his father, and a bit about me. The last passage was different, though, for he’d written about nightmares. About drowning and feeling stalked by the sea. I wondered why he’d put it down on paper if it scared him so.

  I picked up the other entry Steele had left on his last visit.

  October 23, 1913

  I can’t get her out of my mind.

  I’d read it a million times since Steele left it with me, but even now it was hard to read. Not just because they were Jim’s words, but because the entry had come from near the start of his journal, before we’d even met. Whoever he was writing about, it wasn’t me.

  I didn’t want to know about her. Why torture myself ? Why read Jim’s private thoughts about someone else? But there had to be something in there, some answers to all my questions. Something I’d missed. I gripped the page with both hands, forcing myself to read it once more.

  I close my eyes and there she is—her hair a thick rope hanging over her shoulder, black against the white of her nightdress. She had a red ribbon knotted at the end. I remember how a few curls stuck to her cheek, framed her haunting eyes. They never left me. Not for a second that night. I still feel them on me. Pleading with me.

  The yellowed sheet trembled in my hand. I thought I might be sick. Had I eaten anything, I probably would have retched. But this was sickness of the heart, really. Not the stomach.

  I flipped the page, feeling that familar sense of dismay and relief to see that was all he had written.

  Who was she? Was he with her now? Was he thinking of her then, on our last night together?

  Was he thinking of her when he kissed me?

  I SPENT THOSE LONG DAYS waiting for Steele’s return from Ireland with both hope and dread, swinging between extremes like the brass pendulum of the mantel clock. I did not care to go out—for where would I go? And no one cared to come over—for who had I left? And so I sat in my chair listening to the tick of the clock until I thought I might explode. Lily and Bates went about their usual routines, structuring their days by duties. Dusting. Driving to market. Dinners. Dishes. Delivering me cup after cup of tea that sat unsipped on the side table until it was stone cold. I envied them their chores, actually. As mundane and monotonous as servants’ duties were, they provided purpose. Something to occupy the hands and mind, at least for a little while. A reason to get up in the morning, even if only to grumble about it. I missed that.

  “Would you like to come to market with Lily and me?” Bates asked from the hall. “It’s a fine afternoon. Perhaps a stroll around the park after?”

  “No, you go on ahead. I have some things to do here,” I lied, for the only thing I could do was wait. Wait and worry.

  WHEN STEELE FINALLY ARRIVED on Thursday, a week since our last interview, I made him wait. I sat at the vanity table in my bedroom as Lily showed him to the front room. She told me he was waiting downstairs. Truth be told, I wanted to rush down and get the door myself, I was that eager to have someone else to talk to, even if it was Steele. But on the other hand, my stomach churned over what he would ask today—about why I was on that ship, about how I survived, about that night. It amazed me how the man could both pull and repel me. And how I was starting to feel the same way about information on Jim. I wanted to know everything Steele knew about Jim, I wanted more journal entries, I wanted the truth—and yet, it terrified me.

  I stroked my hair a few more times before setting the silver-handled brush on the vanity. A part of me wondered if Steele left me waiting on purpose. Was it part of his plan? Some American swagger.

  He’s a journalist, I said to myself. You are a source. Nothing more.

  I stared at myself in the mirror, the dark circles under my grey eyes, the lines worry had etched into my stony face, like dates on a headstone—a marker to commemorate that someone under here had lived, once. Eighteen years old—I nearly laughed. More like eighty. What did I have but solitary days rambling around in this empty old house like Aunt Geraldine? At least she had her writing.

  I pulled back my thick curls and twisted them into a bun, tightly pinning it down. If only I could restrain my anxious mind as easily.

  The music caught me by surprise. It bounced up the stairwell like an unruly child, lively, full of rabble-rousing fun—a foreign sound in this house.

  Is that the piano?

  I’d quite forgotten we even had one under that dust cover.

  But who—

  Steele!

  I bolted to my feet and marched down the stairs and into the room where, sure enough, there he sat at the piano bench. Playing with fervour. His thick brown hair fell over his brow, tousled from bobbing. Lily stood at his side clapping in time, eyes aglow.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, though it was obvious.

  “Ragtime.” He closed his eyes, smiled as he said it. “Joplin’s ‘Ragtime Dance.’ Ain’t it something?”

  “Are you … are you playing my piano?” I blurted, realizing the ridiculousness of my question as soon as it had left my lips. Lily froze and scurried away, but Steele only glanced up at me with that half-smile of his as his hands continued to jump around the keys. He played with strength and precision from note to note, thrumming a bass line that felt as vibrant as a heartbeat. I never knew that old piano had it in her. Aunt Geraldine had only ever played classical, though not very well or very often. And all I ever got out of it were those godawful scales. Up and down and up and down from one end of the keyboard to the other. I always saw this piano as a punishment. But this ragtime Steele played on it was loose and bold, almost sensual in its teasing pace. It invited me to saunter along with it. With him. I could lose myself in it and that unnerved me. Instead, I folded my arms.

  “I don’t know how they do things in America,” I said as his fingers found the final chords. My raised voice seemed too loud, too forced. Good Lord, I was even sounding like Aunt Geraldine. “But here in England we don’t lift up someone else’s dust skirt and just … fiddle about.” I blushed at my choice of words and his delight in my discomfort.

  He grinned and ran his hand over the glossy black top, admiring the instrument’s smooth surface, its solidness, its shine. His strong fingers seemed to flow over the wood’s curves. “This one is a beaut. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Well, it seems as if you did.” I meant to sound accusing, but my words only made him smile.

  Steele drummed his fingers in the air. “I love to hear my typewriter clacking out a story—it’s like the sound of my mind. But there’s nothing like striking piano keys.” He stood and moved closer to me, face flushed and eyes alive. “That’s a
ll heart. Do you know what I mean?”

  I didn’t. Not really. Though my heart was still pounding from the drive of his tune. He moved toward me. I stepped back a bit, unsure of his intentions. Or mine. He’d flustered me, so he had, with all his playful nonsense. His hand reached around me and grabbed his satchel from where it lay atop the piano.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, like a scolded schoolboy. His eyes still sparkling with the fun of his misdemeanour. “You’re right. I should have asked first.” He sighed. “It just seemed a shame, really, to leave it hidden away in the corner of this old house.” He slipped the bag over his shoulder and put his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the room, letting his eyes drift from one dust-covered shape to another. Ghosts of themselves. “I dunno.” He shrugged. “What was she saving it all for?”

  I knew what he meant, but it annoyed me that he’d voiced it. That in some way, he’d disparaged the way of things. Slighted my aunt. Insulted me. Even worse, that he was right. I looked away.

  “Listen,” he continued, eagerly. “Why don’t we get out of here for a bit? It’ll do you good to get some air and I’d love to see a bit of the town. We can—”

  “I don’t think so.” My words came short. Was he seriously asking me on a date? Now? “The deal was a trade of stories, Mr. Steele. Not to be your tour guide.” I sat on the edge of my chair by the fireplace, spine as rigid as a poker. I had no desire to talk about that night, but I knew I had to if I wanted to learn what he knew about Jim. Was he alive? Injured? Dying?

  As if I’d tripped a switch, that boyishness shut off and he became a reporter again. “Yes, I suppose we each have our deadlines.”

  I cringed a bit at the literalness of the word, hoping it wasn’t too late for me. Too late for Jim.

  “My editor said he’d like the article for the July supplement,” he continued. “That gives me just a few weeks to pull this together and get him the bit on the British army.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, less enthusiastically. Wishing I could “pull this together” as easily as he seemed to think he could. Mine was just another story, one of many he juggled. Mind you, he just had to write it. I had to carry it. To bear it. To live with it.

  I sighed. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can be on your way.”

  Though truth be told, deep down, some small part of me wanted neither.

  “TAKE ME BACK TO HER LAST SAILING,” Steele said once we’d settled ourselves in our seats.

  I paused. “Where do I start?”

  He could see I was reluctant to go back. To remember.

  “She’s docked at Quebec City,” he said. “The passengers are all aboard now and the captain’s given the order to ready the ship.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, the sound of the bugle echoing in my memory. The sound of the start of another voyage.

  Only this one would be our last.

  SAILING DAY

  May 28, 1914

  Quebec Harbour

  Chapter Seventeen

  4:00 P.M.

  “ALL ASHORE THAT’S GOING ASHORE!”

  The bugle blew once more, alerting the passengers that the Empress was readying to cast off. The stewards busied themselves with the mounds of baggage stacked high on deck, still to be sorted. There were trunks and crates, boxes and luggage of all shapes and sizes, for the upper class did not travel light. Granted, they tagged much of their baggage as “unwanted,” meaning it had to be moved to the bottom of the ship for storage in the cargo hold. But you may bet they’d want something or other out of it during the voyage, and the poor stewards would have to lug it all the way back up to their staterooms.

  “Are we being raided by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?” an elderly woman beside me asked, confounded by all the men milling around the deck in red tunics and Mountie-style stetsons.

  “They’re Salvation Army, ma’am,” I explained.

  She didn’t seem convinced, at least not until the band members, about forty of them, collected their instruments from the luggage pile and gathered round the bandmaster. They raised them to their lips, the brass glinting in the afternoon light. Bandmaster Hanagan threw out his arms and with a flourish launched the men in a perfect rendition of “O Canada.” The old lady next to me sang along, even more thrilled when they followed up with “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Maybe it was the loud music, or maybe it was some other sixth sense about her ninth life, but Emmy, our ship’s cat, deserted us then. Billy left his bundle of baggage and ran down the gangway after her, but as soon as he dropped her on deck, she bolted again. Before anyone could follow, Captain Kendall gave the order for all lines to be cast off.

  The flags snapped in the breeze as the ship pulled away to the cheer of the crowds waving from decks and docks. Bandmaster Hanagan raised his arms one more time, cuing his men for another serenade. This time the air was wistful, almost sad.

  God be with you till we meet again … the people sang.

  It might have been the song, or Emmy leaving, the fear of losing Aunt Geraldine, or of having lost Jim’s affections. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew this would be my last voyage, though not for the reasons I’d expected. But despite the sun and celebrating, despite all the reasons to smile, I felt a chill run through me as they sang the last few lines.

  Keep love’s banner floating o’er you,

  Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you,

  God be with you till we meet again.

  The Empress’s whistle sounded low and loud, making me jump as it drowned out their singing.

  The foreboding lasted only a moment; I hadn’t the time to give it a second thought. Mrs. Hanagan, the bandmaster’s wife, needed help finding her room. She laughed as I told her about my first time following Matron Jones through the maze of corridors. Had that really been only five months back? It seemed so long ago. A small hand slipped into mine and I looked down to find Mrs. Hanagan’s daughter walking beside me. She looked about seven years old.

  “You must be Gracie,” I said, much to her surprise.

  “How did you know?”

  “Oh, it’s my job to know my passengers.” I slipped a toffee from my apron pocket and held it out to her. “I’ll bet you like these, too.”

  Gracie smiled as she took it, tucking it inside her cheek.

  We navigated our way through the ship to the starboard side of the Upper Deck, near the back, travelling down the fanned staircase and up a side alleyway. “Here we are. Cabin 442. This is you.” I opened the door to the room I’d cleaned in preparation for them. A pair of bunk beds hid behind the green curtains on the left. On the right was a sofa bed. Directly across from us stood a dark wooden armoire. Gracie pulled on the handles and the doors opened down to reveal a pair of sink-sized porcelain bowls.

  “It’s a double lavatory,” I explained.

  “Inside the cupboard?” Her eyes widened and her mother and I laughed at her shocked expression.

  “A ship has to find ways to make the most of the space. That sofa is also a bed, and look here.” I pulled back the curtain, revealing the top bunk. “You can sleep here.”

  Her eyes flickered to the porthole in the wall beside it. I could tell the space made her feel uncomfortable. Trapped. Even many adults got that same expression. I know I did at first.

  “Can you build sandcastles?” I asked, changing the subject. She nodded. “Well, why don’t we let your mother get settled in while I take you to see the children’s playground.”

  “Here on the ship?” She took my hand.

  “A great big sand playground, wait until you see it. On the way, I’ll show you the barber shop and library, and the lovely dining room where you’ll be eating.”

  Mrs. Hanagan smiled in gratitude. If only all passengers were as easy to please as young Gracie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  7:00 P.M.

  THE BUGLE CALLED FOR DINNER, inviting all first and second class to their allotted dining rooms. And though second class lacked the rich moul
dings and gilded accents, the domed ceiling, and the Moroccan leather seats of first class, the Empress bragged of the high standards offered to all. The second-class menu boasted boiled halibut, followed by veal cutlets, beef ribs, roast fowl, and ox tongue. Finished off with Devonshire tarts and jam puffs with ice cream. High-class dining. Even those in third class, who did not get dinners, were offered smoked herring, cold meat, pickles, and bread and jam at tea time. They’d also received another impromptu concert by the Salvation Army band, which to my mind was every bit as wonderful as the five-piece string orchestra of first class. More so, I’d say, for they did it out of the goodness of their hearts. Then after eating, many passengers strolled the decks, bundled against the cold night air. Others lounged in the music room, or stopped by the library to dash off a quick postcard before the bags left on the midnight mail tender.

  10:00 P.M.

  AFTER SUCH A BUSY DAY, most passengers had retired to their cabins, except for the few men in the smoking room who lingered with their cigars, Scotch, and another round of cards.

  My passengers had settled in for the night, thankfully, though it had taken some convincing to get Gracie to quiet. That porthole spooked her something awful.

  “I don’t want to sleep there.”

  “What? Sure that’s the best bed in the place, Gracie,” I’d said, picking her up and peering out the porthole. “You can lie in your bed and watch the night stars. You can make a wish for every one.”