There was a swell of interest as all eyes turned towards the young woman who sat laughing at her game of Snap, unaware of the impending trial.
Horrified at the severity of the charge, Dora frantically counselled, ‘Lavinia, I really don’t think you can—’
But she never completed the sentence, for, as if by magic, a steward arrived at Lady Slocombe’s side.
Down in the third-class general room, Lady Slocombe’s maid, Miss Enid Timms, was spending the evening doing a little mending. She was not in the best of moods. Her middle still ached from the encounter with the beastly dog-walker earlier in the day and she prayed that an infestation of nits had not jumped from the boy’s greasy scalp onto her best cloth coat. Added to which, she had had to spend the evening with a pair of tweezers picking dog hairs from her ladyship’s purple angora travelling suit. What had possessed that wretched kennel man to push Gainsborough into her mistress’s arms? Had he no idea of the quality of the cloth? Men!
About to return aloft to prepare her ladyship’s suite for retiring, her attention was caught by two women walking past her laughing, in what seemed to her to be an unnecessarily vulgar fashion. She stared after them as if she had been personally chosen to suffer such noisy thoughtlessness – and was instantly rewarded by a flash of recognition.
Lady Sutton of all people. And in steerage!
For a moment Miss Timms sat stunned. What on earth was her ladyship doing down here – and, to be frank, looking decidedly peaky? She watched greedily as the women made their way across the room to the far side and sat down at a table covered in what appeared to be laundry. She found herself torn between turning down her mistress’s bed and staying to observe this new and exquisitely interesting prey. Was Sir Charles down here with his wife? She peered hopefully about but the gentleman was not to be seen. The lady’s maid had a soft spot for Sir Charles – always very properly and nicely turned out, he was; a real English gentleman. Not that she was a close acquaintance of the Suttons or any members of their staff but her faithful perusal of the social columns meant that she was more than au courant with their comings and goings – and those of Society in general.
She gazed at Lady Sutton. Mmm, her ladyship’s cardigan was well-cut enough but her skirt was very drab; she had always considered m’lady to be an elegant if somewhat timid dresser. And who on earth was that common woman sitting with her? Really, the working classes and their dreary clothes! Though, even at a distance, her professional eye noted the woman’s blouse was beautifully pressed.
Miss Timms’ long years in service had taught her two essential rules: to always keep oneself to oneself, never mixing with other staff, but more importantly never to ignore an opportunity to pry. She therefore knew instinctively to keep Lady Sutton within her sights. But should she move closer to hear what was obviously an interesting conversation between the two women or should she remain, unseen, at a distance? No, she should stay where she was; it would be a shame if she were spotted and, for some reason, recognised. She must be content in watching, solely.
And such was her growing excitement at this unexpected turn of events, Miss Timms started to breathe heavily, causing people to turn and look. Hastily, she ducked behind a drunken coat-stand weighed down by shawls and mufflers and scarves, not daring to move. With an experience honed by long years of loyal service, she drew herself upright and made herself breathe deeply and quietly until finally she was able to watch the two women with all the stillness and concentration of a private detective.
Nellie was thoroughly enjoying Mrs Valley’s company. She felt pleased that the woman had decided to take up her offer of a bit of company, knowing how gloomy the little cabins could become of an evening. And as the two women sat together under a lamp and sewed, they were much relieved to discover the big communal room a good deal quieter. Supper had come and gone, a clatter of plates and mugs. Now all was calm. And although the light outside had turned to black, the atmosphere indoors was cheerful enough. People played cards and smoked, and there was a cosy hum of chatter. Indeed, the snug warmth was perfect for the sharing of stories.
Nellie Webb was one of life’s good listeners. She had drawn from her new acquaintance the tale of the squashed hat – Mr and Mrs Valley’s first meeting, so to speak – and she’d thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it. Now she was hoping for further tales, providing, as they did, glimpses of a life she really only knew about from her magazines. Mind, she could tell Mrs Valley had enjoyed talking, the happy memories bringing comfort, no doubt, as she seemed a good deal calmer than before. And brighter. Her shocking paleness of earlier had gone and this evening there were even roses in her cheeks. No, Nellie had to admit, for all her la-di-dah manner, the woman was a pleasant enough soul.
‘Mary must have been that pleased when you started to step out with your Johnnie.’ Nellie took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes – by, she were that tired.
‘Poor Mary,’ said Mrs Valley. ‘The day she got back from her honeymoon I went straight over to her cottage and just talked and talked. She never got a word in edgeways!’ The woman broke into a bubbling smile. ‘Not that there was much to divulge about that first day I’d spent with Johnnie.’
‘Get away,’ countered Nellie, every detail of the story absorbed. ‘You and him’d had your walk round the castle together. And then all that talk in the public house.’
‘You are a good listener.’ Mrs Valley looked at her. ‘You know, Johnnie says it’s a sign of true friendship when the listener wants every little detail.’
‘Or perhaps they’re just a nosey old so and so!’
Mrs Valley smiled.
‘Anyway, go on with what you were saying. About you and Mary,’ Nellie urged.
‘In some ways I didn’t dare talk about my day with Johnnie, even to Mary. I was just so fearful that, in speaking about it, it would all disappear in a puff of smoke and become nothing more than a dream.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Goodness, it seems such a time ago – and yet it’s only – let me see, one and a bit years. June 1931.’ She sat drifting in the memory.
‘Sounds like you both got on like a ‘ouse on fire from the off.’
‘Do you know, Mrs Webb, it was just such fun having someone to talk to. And someone you didn’t have to talk to, if there was no need. I’d never met anyone before who just seemed to understand.’
Nellie leant across to the pile of sewing and picked up a torn pillowcase. ‘So tell us about your Nickie, then?’
For a moment, Nellie thought she’d finally asked one question too many. Mrs Valley sat very still, and so pale did she become, Nellie was on her feet asking, ‘Shall I get your Johnnie?’
‘No!’ The woman’s response came hard and sharp.
Nellie sat back down. She felt well ticked-off.
‘Do forgive me,’ said Mrs Valley at once. ‘My husband’s still poorly – this beastly seasickness. Please could you get me a glass of water?’
By the time Nellie had returned, the woman appeared calmer. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Webb, I don’t think I’ve fully recovered my sea-legs either.’ She said nothing more but sat staring at the ground. When she eventually spoke, her voice was quieter than usual and Nellie found herself leaning close.
‘Charles, my husband, was so angry when I fell in love with Johnnie, he refused to give me a divorce.’ She hesitated, still looking down. ‘He was fully aware that if I were to publicly acknowledge Johnnie, I’d be seen as an adulterous woman and therefore an unfit mother. As such, I would never be given custody of my child.’ She lifted her eyes and looked at Nellie. ‘My husband has made me decide between Johnnie and my son. Having chosen Johnnie, I’m not allowed to see Nickie anymore.’ She stopped, the sag of her shoulders completely despairing.
Appalled, Nellie sat unable to think what to say.
Suddenly the woman grabbed her arm. ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone, Mrs Webb, so much depends on it. No one knows. You see, we’re on our way to America but we mustn’t be seen – and no one will kn
ow us down here in steerage – it’s why we’re calling ourselves, “Valley”. It’s Sam and Mary’s surname, and— Oh, I can’t tell you anymore.’ She released her grasp. ‘Forgive me but you won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Nay, nay. It’s between thee and me, lass.’
‘If Charles finds out… My husband’s a very angry man.’
‘And I’ll put good money down, you meant nowt to him until you meant summat to your Johnnie.’
The woman almost smiled, and nodded. Neither said any more.
Nellie picked up the pillowcase once again. As she worked she kept her face down, focusing on her stitching. She tried not to think of what she’d just been told, she tried not to judge. But it was difficult. After all, she knew only too well the unending misery of her two orphaned grandchildren; she’d seen their terrible longing for their dead mam. To actually choose to leave a bairn behind… Nay, but it wasn’t for her to judge, it wasn’t her business.
They sat silent until the woman asked, ‘Has Anthea read The House at Pooh Corner?’
Nellie looked up, unsure what she was on about.
‘It’s a children’s book,’ explained Mrs Valley.
‘Nay, our Anthea’s letters are none too good.’
‘Well, I must read it to her.’ The woman cut her thread and brought her hands to rest in her lap. ‘May I ask, Mrs Webb, why you said earlier Anthea was scared and didn’t like change?’
‘By, you remembered. Well, when her mam died, my Em, Anthea went underground, like. Into herself. While our Freddie, he’s ’ere, there and everywhere. Though he’s still a lonely one. Mind you, he seems to have made friends with this Billy Bottle.’
‘Billy Bottle?’
‘One of the young bellboys, they call them. Well, he’s got no mam, neither. So, lo and behold, they’re two of a pair. And now, of course, our Freddie doesn’t know if he wants to be a bellboy or a dog-walker when he gets to America.’
‘And where are you going to live when you get there?’ Mrs Valley started to fold her sewing.
‘My sister’s in Minnesota. She’s got a big family. It’ll be better for the little ones, I reckon.’ She sat back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. She were that tired, she could sleep for a week given half a chance. ‘Barney, my youngest – son, that is – ’cos he works in’t print shop here on the boat, he got us cheaper tickets. Couldn’t of come, otherwise. Mind, I’ve got meself this bit of sewing. And none of us can get over the bread and butter on offer of a mealtime.’ She looked down and patted the pillowcase; that was as good a mend as any.
‘You’ll carry on as a laundress there?’
‘Seems more than like. If I can prove after a time we’re lawful residents. What with them job quotas an’ all.’ She looked at Mrs Valley. ‘You do remember well.’
‘I’m interested. I like to know about people’s lives, they always seem so interesting.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ Nellie laughed and shook her head.
‘Have you always done that? Laundering?’
‘Aye, thirty years, lass. Started in Sheffield General Hospital. Then come the war, I was moved to a Home for Disabled Men. Second year of peace, Davy – my husband that was – got himself killed falling off a steam train, so I started up on me own.’
‘Oh no.’ Mrs Valley stared at her.
‘A wonderful charmer, my Davy, ’specially wi’ a drink inside him. I knew from the off he’d leave me in the lurch but even I couldn’t o’ guessed how.’
‘But it must have been so tough for you. How large is your family?’
And there it was, Nellie thought. The question. It had to be answered. Always had to be answered. ‘1915, I had a husband and five bonny bairns. Eight year on, I have no husband and just the one son. My Barney.’
‘Oh, my dear.’ She felt the woman reach for her hand. ‘How? Was it the war?’
‘No. Influenza. We get through that bloody war and then three of them, just swept away by the Spanish ’flu. And the twins only sixteen, and then Em in that fire… Except for my Barney and the two grandbabbies, all that’s left of me family is five silent birthdays a year. Five days o’ nothing.’ If only every time she talked of it the pain could get less. She took a deep breath. ‘But I’ve learnt to live wi’ it. You’ve got to look after the living, after all. And that means yourself as well.’
She looked at Mrs Valley. The woman seemed that tired. Aye, poor lass, now you’ll have a silent birthday to bear, she thought. Your Nickie’s.
Somewhere deep within the ship, a bell rang.
‘Good heavens, Mrs Webb, I’d completely forgotten the time.’ Without further ado, the woman swiftly got to her feet, crossed the room and disappeared through the swing doors.
Now, what’s bitten her? thought Nellie. There we were having a nice little chat and off she goes without a by-your-leave. Not that she was bothered. She’d tidy up and then she could turn in. An early night. Lovely.
She moved to put her work-basket off the table and saw, like an egg in a nest amongst the bits of laundry, Mrs Valley’s watch. She picked it up by the neat leather strap and held the little gold face to the light. Very nice, very tasteful… Mind, Mrs Valley would be worried sick when she found she’d left it. She’d better get it back to her.
Nellie got to her feet, stowed the sewing into a neat pile, and set off across the general room after her new friend. She made her way quickly along the all but empty passageways, the engines, to her way of thinking, making a companionable chuntering.
E263. Yes, she was sure that’s what Mrs Valley had said her cabin number was. She’d hand in the watch – the woman would be that relieved to have it back – and then bye-bye, nighty night.
E263. Aye, there it was.
But having found the cabin, an unusual shyness caught her. She knocked very quietly.
No answer.
With a deep breath, she knocked more firmly. A duty to be done.
Beyond the clanking engines, she thought she heard a scuffle. Then nothing. Suddenly, Mrs Webb was aware of all sorts of reasons for the cabin door to remain closed. The Valleys were a new couple, after all. Flustered, she turned to go.
‘Yes?’
Turning back, she saw through the half-open door the centre-panel of Mrs Valley’s face. It was ashen – plus the woman seemed to be trembling. Alarmed, Nellie said quickly, ‘It’s only me, love.’ She dangled the watch in the woman’s view.
‘Oh, Mrs Webb. I’m so sorry, you rather startled us.’
Nellie was about to hand through the watch when from inside the cabin, she heard Mr Valley’s voice. ‘I think you should invite Mrs Webb in, darling.’
At this, Mrs Valley turned and stared disbelievingly at the unseen man, her back arrow-straight, her white hand clutching the door. Slowly, she stepped aside and held the door for Nellie to enter.
Mr Valley was sitting on the lower bunk, smoking his pipe. ‘Good evening, Mrs Webb.’ He rose as she entered.
The cabin was very cramped – Smaller than ours, thought Nellie – but her eye was drawn to the upper bunk. There, fast asleep, was a little boy clutching a lead soldier.
‘Let me introduce my son, Nicholas Sutton,’ Mrs Valley said.
Nellie stared.
‘Darling, can you?’ Mr Valley whispered urgently.
Mrs Valley nodded. ‘Mrs Webb, if you don’t mind, I think we’d better go back to the general room. Johnnie’s only just got Nickie off to sleep.’
England. February 1933
‘Nicholas Sutton, headmaster’s study, now.’
The mathematics teacher, mid-algebraic formula, back turned to the blackboard, stared coldly. Nickie felt his face getting all hot and sticky. He opened his desk-lid and started to put away his books.
‘You can clear those away later. Don’t keep everyone waiting, boy!’
He ran away down the corridor, a thick belt of boys’ laughter following him from the classroom. At an intersection of cold passageways, a teacher unexpectedly h
overed, fiddling with a noticeboard. Nickie whisked by.
‘Walk in the corridors, Sutton. How many more times do I have to tell you?’
The headmaster’s door was standing open. ‘Ah, Sutton, come in, come in.’ Tall and bending, continually flapping at his gown, the headmaster completed a circle of his large desk to reveal Nickie’s mother in a chair, smiling across at him.
Nickie stood stock-still. Inside, all his feelings jumbled about. Relief, delight, embarrassment, worry. He managed to squeeze out, ‘Hello, Mummy,’ his joy at seeing her stifled by the terror that she’d kiss him in front of the headmaster.
‘Come in, Sutton, don’t just stand there.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He drew level to his mother’s side. She was wearing one of her hats – thank goodness, not the silly red one with the cherries – and he saw at once she had on her no-laughing face. Something important had happened. Over her shoulder, he noticed out of the window Fawcett senior crack a ball with a cricket bat. It flew through the air, fielders’ arms reaching to the frosty sky. Even on such a cold day, there was the sound of far-away clapping.
‘Now then, Sutton. Attention, please.’ Nickie looked back into the room, the field’s icy white making him blink.
‘Er – Headmaster?’ His mother looked at her watch.
‘Lady Sutton, of course. I understand; time’s of the element. May I advise you put Nicholas in the picture on the way?’
‘Thank you, Headmaster. So understanding.’ Nickie looked down at his mother. She was ‘pretending’, her voice was all funny and smooth. She glanced up and caught his query, a whip of understanding shooting between them. No questions for now.
‘Come on, darling. Sam’s outside in the car.’
‘But what about tomorrow’s practice, sir?’ blurted Nickie. ‘And there’s “Fives” this afternoon—’
A large hand descended on his shoulder. ‘All will be taken care of, my boy. Now run along with your mother.’
The Hidden Dance Page 14