Looking frantically round for help – where was Mother? – she saw the door to the morning room open and her father and Charles swing into the room. And strangely, for all that was happening, she was aware at once that the two men had been drinking. They stood at a loss, hovering in the doorway, both grinning inanely at the assembled company. It was at this point Charles saw her, instantly his expression changing. Horrified, he started forwards and then as abruptly drew back, glancing from side to side to see who had noticed his move. But the company continued to stare solely at the brother and sister, everyone frozen in embarrassment.
Gently Lily started to rock back and forth, her brother’s head cradled in her lap, a nest of pink tulle, willing his sobs to subside. ‘Quiet now, Hughie,’ she whispered, completely lost as to how to help him further.
Frantically she looked up once more but all avoided her eye until suddenly there was a commotion at the back of the room and guests shuffled to one side. Through the gap, the round black figure of Nanny toddled towards them.
‘Oh, thank goodness. I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered hoarsely.
But the old woman ignored her and instead, standing at the boy’s head, commanded quietly, ‘Come on, my manny, up you get.’ Her aged voice was strong and firm.
At the sound, Hugh seemed to awaken. His whimpering died and a perplexed expression settled on his face. ‘Nanny?’ Lying there, his head in Lily’s lap, he reached his hand up towards the old woman’s face.
‘That’s right, child, up you get now.’ She caught the outstretched hand and the boy made to rise, his body a tangle of unfocused limbs.
Nanny turned and commanded, ‘Thank you, Mr Watkins.’
From the back of the drawing room, the butler now also appeared. ‘Here you are, Mr Hugh, lean on me.’ He slung the boy’s arm round his shoulders, and heaving pulled him to his feet.
The two of them stood swaying for a moment, getting their balance, and then, following Nanny, who led the way, sweeping party guests from their path with a wave of the hand, Mr Watkins half-carried the boy from the room.
As one, the assembled company had the good grace to silently look away from the dragging boy. However, with the trio’s departure, a burst of greedy conversation broke out all around the room. Finding herself alone and stranded, still on her knees, Lily quickly turned to Charles. But he was not attending her. Instead he stood, caught in the doorway, staring at where Hugh had just left the room. And now as she looked, Lily saw that Charles’s handsome face was all but unrecognisable, distorted by an ugly expression, an expression created by a mixture of fear and revulsion. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
Years later, she would realise, in that moment, two things had been made clear – and both involved Charles. She had seen in Charles’s reaction to her brother, in his disgust at the young man’s collapse, the capacity to loathe any such vulnerability, never allowing himself to understand. For to understand was to appear to collude in such ‘weak’ behaviour. Such weakness, to Charles, was beyond compassion. And so now the two young men stood ranged, one against the other. Never, ever to get along.
But perhaps, even more importantly, the cold white-light of reality had cut through her dreams and shone its beam, albeit briefly, on Charles Sutton himself, the true man. Glimpsed but revealed. Hard and unforgiving.
If Lily had chosen to see.
But for whatever reason, that night she had neither wanted to see nor wanted to comprehend such revelations.
SS Etoile. Early afternoon
‘Come on, old girl, we can’t sit around here all day.’
Johnnie, jumping to his feet, scooped up Lily’s bag and journal. ‘Let’s go and get some grub. It’s about time we found out what this boat has to offer.’
‘I’m not really hungry—’
‘Listen, if we stay here that nosey woman and her granddaughter might come back and ask a lot more questions.’
Reluctantly, Lily got to her feet. She followed Johnnie to the swing doors of the third-class day room, the two of them edging between groups of people.
Having come on board three days earlier, the terrible possibility of discovery had kept them confined to the cabin. They had made do firstly with a variety of sandwiches cut by Mary, wrapped in greaseproof and all lovingly labelled – and then with endless snacks of potato crisps, Jacobs assorted biscuits, a tin of Sharp’s Super-Kreem Toffees plus a couple of bottles of whisky. But today Lily had had enough; she’d had to escape. Not that she was hungry, just tormented by the cabin’s safe but sickening claustrophobia; suddenly the thought of the fresh air and freedom in the public areas had seemed wonderful. But after sitting for an hour in the crowded third-class day room, she had to confess her release from the cabin had brought little relief.
Now, as they pushed through the double doors away from the communal room, Johnnie and Lily found themselves in an equally busy corridor, a sign pointing them towards the canteen – although no indication was necessary; the air was suddenly filled with great wafts of food. ‘Good Lord, I’m ravenous!’ announced Johnnie.
The canteen was a large hall not dissimilar to a school refectory. Long wooden benches stood on either side of long wooden tables and the shafts of afternoon sunlight flooding through a row of portholes bounced off the polished surfaces. Although the design was simple, Lily was struck by how bright and clean everything appeared to be. At the far end, a row of sailors stood doling out steaming food from big steel urns and pots, and although the place was only half-full – most third-class passengers having already eaten their midday meal – the noise was tremendous.
Slowly, over the last three days, she’d become aware that, more with an eye to hard business than an inclination to democratic goodwill, the Silver Star Line had made sure that the steerage quarters, although not in any way luxurious, did possess a certain degree of practical comfort. As with other shipping lines, Silver Star had been badly affected by the Wall Street Crash and the Depression that followed. Now Lily could see the owners were realising survival of their line was as dependent on steerage passengers, many travelling in the hope of fresh starts and new lives, as on the wealthier clientele who crossed and re-crossed the Atlantic often solely in search of fun and amusement.
‘Must be “help yourself”,’ said Johnnie leaning into the wall and starting to read a menu. ‘Oh, I say.’ He turned and grinned at her. ‘It’s Lyons Corner House.’
Although she had no appetite, she was surprised to see the choice of meals on offer for that day. Porridge, kippers or tripe and onions for breakfast; soup (cock-a-Leekie or Mulligatawny), rabbit stew or bacon and cabbage for lunch with, of course, a pudding (apple meringue or Spotted Dick), and brawn, beef, cheese and pickles plus jam, tea and buns at teatime. She remembered recently reading a magazine article about shipping lines that had described the tiny galley for steerage compared to the vast kitchens for first class. She stared anew at the menu and marvelled at its promise of plenty.
‘Well, I think it’s a bit of rabbit stew for me with an apple meringue for afters! What about you, old girl?’
Lily could see the prospect of food had cheered him considerably and although not in the slightest bit hungry, not to spoil his mood, she said, ‘I wonder if they could do me a hot Bovril – and some buttered toast?’
‘Take a pew – I’ll see what’s what.’
Down the end of the room stood a group of empty tables. She made towards them – always the instinct to keep apart from the crowds – and, seated, looked about her. People were eating enthusiastically, vigorously scraping bowls and plates squeaky-clean, the food demanding attention through the chatter. A sudden memory of Nanny flashed into her mind. ‘Lily Robinson, what on earth are you doing licking your plate clean in such a fashion! The King’ll never invite you to tea if you carry on like that.’
A whooping at the far end of the room by the food counter distracted her. She looked up to see a surge of people stepping up to queue – the men in shiny black suits and caps
joyfully jostling a group of women, also dressed in black. Surely not funeral weeds? As if to refute this, a wave of laughter rose up followed by a prolonged babble of chatter, and Lily caught the unaffected enthusiasm with which the group were queuing for such ordinary fare – after all, it was hardly the Savoy Grill, a bit of boiled bacon and cabbage. But with this thought came a startling realisation; it was probably more food than most people down here had ever seen.
She sat feeling strangely foolish. And unworldly. Her brother would have realised, of course. He’d actually been to the soup kitchens when he helped those miners’ families. She recalled the day Hughie had tried to tell her about his trip up North – funny, they’d actually been having lunch at Lyons – and he’d leant across the table and, as he’d spoken, his expression grave, she’d been struck how his long crooked face with its big bony nose, to her mind as old-fashioned and beautiful as a medieval knight’s, had been so absurdly at odds with the candy-coloured table-tops and the waitresses, the black-and-white ‘nippies’.
‘You know when I went on that walking tour, Lil,’ he’d explained, unexpectedly placing his hands over hers. ‘Summer of ’25 and I did Hadrian’s Wall?’ And she had nodded, enjoying the comfort of her brother’s hands through the suede of her gloves. ‘Well, one evening I walked into a village – Brighthorpe – and there were a group of miners waiting to go on shift, squatting on their haunches playing Pitch and Toss. What struck me about these men was that were playing with buttons – they didn’t even have a ha’penny to venture, you see.’ The discomfort of the thought had made Lily awkward; she’d gone to move her hands but Hugh’d held firmly on to them. ‘No, listen, Lil. If you’re brought up, as we were, to think the working man cares only about his beer and tobacco – that he gets drunk every Friday and gambles away his money while his dozen ill-conceived children run around filthy and barefoot – then it’s quite a shock to discover that, after clawing out coal for seven hours in his own sweat and sewage, he doesn’t even have a farthing to play a child’s game. And when he is allowed to go home, exhausted at the end of the day, the journey from shaft to face, sometimes several miles long, is not even counted as part of his shift!’ His voice had risen and, flustered, Lily’s eyes had flicked to the adjoining table.
‘That’s right, Lily, be ashamed.’
‘Oh Hugh, I’m not.’ She’d felt slapped. ‘It’s just – I didn’t know.’
‘No, nor do most people. And nor do they want to.’
And had she wanted to know? Not really. Her own life at that time, the time before she’d met Johnnie, had seemed too full of its own distress. She’d dutifully glance from time to time at Charles’s newspaper and get the general gist but, truth be told, these people’s problems seemed a universe away from her and her son’s life.
‘Penny for them!’
‘What?’ Lily looked up, startled; Johnnie was standing with a tray. She could see dollops of hot food steaming on the plates.
‘You looked miles away. Voilà!’ He handed over her toast and a mug; the nostalgic aroma of Bovril rose up.
‘I was just thinking about Hughie – and his good works.’ She smiled to dismiss the subject.
The thick white china mug made the soft brown liquid look even darker as the steam gently spooled up from it. She blew and, without thinking, started to cut up pieces of toast and dunk them in. They were soft, sloppy and buttery. She drank and dunked – perhaps she was hungrier than she realised? – and looking up, caught Johnnie ladling stew into his mouth. ‘Mmm, very tasty,’ he mumbled. ‘And excellent mashed potato – no lumps.’
‘Praise indeed, coming from you. I can see my first cooking lesson will have to be rabbit stew. Only as long as I don’t have to shoot the damn thing first!’
The bubbling group of gentlemen in black with their womenfolk arrived at the next table and, with much nodding and laughter, wide soft bottoms nestled onto hard wooden benches. ‘Buon giorno, signora.’ ‘Permesso, signor?’ ‘Grazie tante.’ Plates and cups, bags and shawls spilled onto Johnnie and Lily’s table as people arranged themselves and finally settled to their meal. Out of the merry chatter, a song rose up. ‘O sole Mio’. There was an instant ripple of sunshine and warmth.
But the effect of so many people so close caused Lily to tense instantly; she felt unexpected terror claw back up her spine. She put down her mug. Johnnie reached across and took her hand. ‘They’re Italian, darling,’ he said softly.
‘I know, so stupid of me. It’s just that—’
‘It’s just that you think the world is spying on us.’
She nodded dumbly, the fear of discovery so sharp and raw. At their side the singing gently rose and fell, but Lily sat unhearing. ‘I don’t think I can take another two days of this. I knew it was going to be risky but I thought the excitement of escaping would somehow – oh, I don’t know – compensate?’
‘I know, my love. But remember – there is absolutely no likelihood of anyone recognising us down here.’ He chucked his head towards the group. ‘Unless one of these signoras ran a pensione that you and Charles stayed in?’
She almost smiled. ‘We never went to Italy.’
‘So there you are.’ He scraped his plate clean and put his knife and fork together. ‘Bet the food up top isn’t half as good as this.’ He reached for his bowl of apple meringue.
‘We had Parfait de Foie Gras à la Gelée de Porto on our trip to New York in ’23.’ She pulled a face; Johnnie laughed. ‘Charles, as I recall, wolfed it down and then got very sniffy and English when he realised what it actually was. I kept the menu for years, it was our last night on board and we were invited to the captain’s table – everyone signed it.’
Johnnie rested his chin on his hands. ‘Tell me more.’
‘About the high life?’
He nodded but she hesitated.
‘Go on – especially as it looks as if I’m never going to get up there.’
‘Well, all I can remember is forever changing my clothes; it was such a palaver. And if you dined at the captain’s table – fortunes having usually changed hands to get a place, as far as I could make out – you had to turn out in full fig, jewels – and the chaps in medals. It was like a constant cocktail party – and as exhausting because, of course, you knew everyone. The first thing you did when you got on board was read the passenger list – it had been shoved under your door – so you always had a good old look at that. But the most important thing – according to Charles, anyway – was to make friends with your steward and then for the rest of the trip your pink gin or whatever turned up without being ordered. However, on the way home we made the mistake of booking our passage on a “dry” boat. Charles was not best pleased. Even so we got round it as a friend told Charles to go to the ship’s doctor before we sailed with the list of drinks we wanted on the voyage. He then wrote us out the order in the form of a prescription and all these bottles were sent to our cabin—’
She stopped mid-sentence – the memory of Charles, dreadfully drunk at the cards table, arguing violently, swearing obscenely, heads turning…
‘What?’ asked Johnnie.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing, just remembering.’ To squash the image, she said, ‘Charles got “done” by a card-shark. He reported him to the captain and the next morning, in his office, the three of them had a surreal conversation – Charles and this shady character on one side of the desk, the captain on the other, and the captain’s enormous pistol in the middle. I don’t think Charles ever got his money back though. No proof.’
‘Well, you see what a quiet life we’re having down here. And what’s more, that’s the most you’ve said in days – and it was delightfully refreshing!’
‘The Bovril obviously did the trick.’
‘Come on, let’s go back. We’ve been out long enough for one day.’
She smiled at him. ‘Nanny,’ she said but her heart was sinking. She dreaded the thought of the tiny cabin.
Chapter Three
SS E
toile. Early afternoon
As Mrs Webb reached her cabin – Anthea insisting on skipping one-potato, two-potato down every passage – she was surprised to be greeted by a very smart bellboy, who jumped to attention by her open doorway. ‘Billy Bottle, ma’am,’ he announced. ‘At your service.’
Before she could reply, another voice called from inside the cabin. ‘Gran, where’s me jersey?’
She entered to the sight of her grandson’s grey-cloth bottom, his head being stuck under a bunk. With a great deal of shoving and banging, the boy was trying to pull out a battered tin-trunk. Mrs Webb heaved herself down onto her knees beside him.
‘What y’doing down here, Freddie? I thought yer were supposed to be at work up in them kennels.’
‘Don’t worry, ma’am,’ said Billy Bottle, peering round the door. ‘We’re using Fred’s dinner break to get him kitted up. You want a hand with that?’ and he, too, dropped to his knees. ‘The kennel master says he needs warmer clothes. For walking the dogs on deck, like.’ All three tugged at the trunk, which popped free, and Mrs Webb rummaging quickly through its contents, drew out a small grey jersey. Fred pulled it on and made for the door, his hair standing up like a hedgehog. ‘Bye, Gran.’
‘No, you don’t, young man.’ The woman’s hand shot out and caught the boy. ‘I’m not having you walking round ’mongst’t ladies and gentlemen upstairs looking such a scruff.’ She started to brush his hair vigorously.
‘Awww, Gran – that ’urts,’ squawked Fred.
‘Stand still, young man.’
‘Your gran’s right, Fred me lad,’ remarked Billy. ‘Doesn’t hurt to be smart.’ And he buffed his buttons with the back of a gloved hand.
Mrs Webb gave the bellboy an old-fashioned look but said nothing. Truth be told, she was pleased to see her grandson had made a friend. After only a couple of days, the two lads were obviously getting along.
The Hidden Dance Page 5