by Irene Carr
He was, at being hailed from his bed, with his jacket and trousers pulled on over his nightshirt. He had not expected this call for another month and did not like the sound of it. His only consolation was the knowledge that his fee for the confinement had already been paid. Kitty had scraped it together over months of penny-pinching economies.
The women by the bed moved out of his way as he shed his damp ulster and tossed it aside with his hat. Jinnie said, ‘She’s having a bad time, Doctor.’
He grunted, washed his hands in the bowl they brought him and examined his patient.
When he stood back Aggie asked, ‘Will she be all right, Doctor?’
‘We’ll see,’ he replied guardedly. ‘She’s not young to be having her first child . .
‘Ah! Dear, dear!’ Aggie sighed.
‘Andrew! Oh, Andrew!’ Kitty cried out.
‘Now then,’ the doctor said. And braced himself.
The child was born as the light of dawn showed grey through the curtains over the windows. Jinnie handed the scrap to Kitty and asked, ‘What are you going to call her?’
Kitty, small in the bed and exhausted now, managed a smile and replied, ‘Eliza. Nicer than Kitty.’
‘If the poor little bairn lives,’ Aggie muttered, under her breath.
2
17 FEBRUARY 1886, SUNDERLAND
In the afternoon of that day Millicent Spencer called for her doctor. He came quickly to the comfortable house on the hill that looked down on the town. He brought with him a nurse, and a specialist who came in his own richly appointed carriage and left it in the drive. Millicent had not wanted the pregnancy and was determined to have all the assistance she could obtain for her confinement.
Charles, her husband, backed her in this, but her money would pay the bills anyway. He waited on the landing outside the bedroom, pacing restlessly. At twenty-five he was tall and fair, florid and fleshily handsome. He heard the child’s cry from behind the closed door with more relief than joy. ‘Thank God, that’s over.’
His brother, Edward, a man of forty, smiled. ‘Congratulations.’ He was shorter, broader, fair but lean.
Charles nodded brusquely. ‘Thank you.’ Then he reverted to the conversation of a minute or two earlier: ‘I think you’re wrong. If we sold all the old ships we’re running and bought just two or three new, bigger vessels, we could make a fortune.’
Edward demurred. ‘As I’ve already said, I think that too much of a gamble. I prefer to go more slowly.’
Charles flapped a hand impatiently, and the argument went on. They were partners in the shipowning business left to them by their father, but by the terms of his will Edward had the casting vote and he was implacable now.
They broke off when the bedroom door opened and the doctor said, ‘Come and see your daughter, Charles.’
They entered and Edward congratulated Millicent, normally willowy, blonde and blue-eyed, now tired and wan: ‘You have a beautiful daughter.’
The child was in the arms of her nurse and Millicent declared petulantly, ‘I’m exhausted. Take her to the nursery.’
‘Have you decided on a name for her?’ Edward asked. ‘No,’ Charles said shortly. He glanced at his wife, his brows raised.
She shrugged her shoulders in an elegant silken bed-jacket. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘My mother — her grandmother — was Margaret,’ Edward suggested.
‘No.’ Millicent wrinkled her nose. ‘Much too ordinary. I think ... Cecily. Yes — Cecily.’
Soon afterwards Edward left. ‘I am expecting a young visitor.’
‘I think you’re making a mistake, taking on something like that,’ Charles said, ‘but it’s your affair. You won’t stay to dinner, then?’ The invitation was lukewarm.
‘Thank you, but I think I should meet him.’
The specialist’s carriage had gone but Edward’s was waiting for him. He patted the horses’ necks and stroked their noses. ‘My brother’s wife has just given birth to a daughter, Gibson. I’m an uncle.’
‘Glad to hear it, sir.’ And his young coachman drove him home.
The house was bigger than he needed with its six bedrooms — he lived alone — and another half-dozen for his servants, but it had been his childhood home and had been left to him by his father. He was happy enough there.
The carriage wheeled in through the gates, always open by his order. He would not bar the way to anyone needing shelter. Mrs Taggart, his housekeeper, met him at the front door. ‘Mrs’ was a courtesy title; she had never married. Nor had Elspeth Taggart ever disclosed her age and no one dared ask it, but she had been in his and his father’s employ, at first as a scullery-maid, for twenty-five years. She was rosy-cheeked, red-haired and straight-backed, with a large bunch of keys dangling from the waist of her black dress. She greeted Edward with a smile. ‘The young person has arrived, sir. He’s in the parlour.’
‘Good.’ He walked down the hall, polished floorboards gleaming either side of the carpet, with Elspeth at his heels, and turned into the drawing room at the front of the house — to her it was always the parlour. It was a big room but smaller than the dining room on to which it opened and which stretched the depth of the house.
‘It’s like a barn,’ she would say. ‘You could have a dance in there.’
The windows were tall and the furniture was good and plentiful, but it made only little islands in the space. On the walls pictures of ships mingled with portraits of the Spencers, Charles and Edward, their father and grandfather. Two capacious armchairs and a chesterfield ringed the glowing fire but there was also a sprinkling of straight-backed chairs. A nurse in black — shoes, coat and bonnet — sat on one, a small boy perched on her knee. She set him on his feet and stood up when Edward entered. He motioned to her to sit and went to stand before the fire. ‘Thank you for bringing the boy,’ he said. ‘So this is William.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, sir, this is Master William.’
The boy was sturdy, but no more than five years old and tired. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, but was silent and attentive. Edward had no children and no experience of them. He was not sure how best to approach this one. ‘You’ve had a long journey, William, all the way from Bristol.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You are Mr Edward Spencer, sir, and you are my guardian.’ He had that off by heart, as he had been taught. His father had gone down with his ship and all her crew in a typhoon. He had long ago written to Edward asking him to care for his son if he should die. Edward had agreed willingly, thinking it a sensible precaution for his friend to make but never expecting to have to honour his promise.
He thought now that there was something about the boy’s face in repose that suggested he might show something of his mother when he laughed. He was not laughing now and looked as if he might never smile again. ‘That’s right, and you are going to live here with me. Would you like that?’
‘Yes, sir.’ That was said politely but hesitantly. Then William added, breaking away from his trained replies, ‘But I want to go to sea and be a ship’s captain like my father.’
‘Ssh!’ the nurse scolded, shocked, and Elspeth pursed her lips.
Edward put up a hand to silence the nurse. ‘My thanks to you for caring for him. I’m grateful.’ He glanced at Elspeth. ‘Will you find this lady a bed for the night, please, and then come back here?’
When they had gone he turned back to little William. The boy looks like his father, he thought, the dead spit of him. And now he could see in him both parents. Instinctively he went to the child and swept him up in his arms. ‘Your father was my best friend.’ And he had married the only girl Edward had ever loved. There had never been another like her and she had died giving birth to William.
Edward sat down in an armchair with the boy on his knees and held him close to his chest. When Elspeth returned a few minutes later she found them so, with William sound asleep. She clicked her tongue and said softly, ‘Poor
little lamb, he’s tired out. Let me have him, sir, and I’ll tend to him. He’ll be the better for being in bed.’
Edward yielded up his ward with barely concealed reluctance. He supposed that would be the best for the boy. Elspeth cradled him in her arms and kissed him. ‘And him wanting to be a ship’s captain like his father!’ She shook her head. ‘He’ll soon grow out of it.’
Edward was not sure about that.
3
17 FEBRUARY 1891, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE
‘What are you doing, Dad?’ Eliza Thornton, just five years old that day and curious, snuggled closer to the father who came into her life so rarely. He was short, wiry and tough, and she had to learn about him all over again every time he came home. That might be after an absence of weeks, months or a year, but she learned more quickly now. He sat at the kitchen table with the model before him. He had spent weeks making it during his last voyage, starting with a block of wood and using only a knife.
Andrew smiled down at her. ‘I’m setting up the rigging.’ His thick-fingered hands, the backs tattooed, handled the thin cotton delicately.
‘What’s rigging?’ Eliza asked, brown eyes wide.
‘All these lines that hold up the sails.’ The model was of a clipper, a full-rigged ship.
‘These stringy bits.’ Eliza poked a finger at the cat’s cradle of cottons.
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you been on a ship like that?’
‘A few.’ Andrew grinned at her.
‘Are you going on another one?’ She peered up at him anxiously.
‘Not for a bit.’ His wife glanced across at him from where she stood by the fire and the open oven door. He saw the sudden droop of her mouth. But then her gaze shifted to Eliza and she smiled again.
‘You are clever, Dad,’ Eliza said wistfully. ‘When I try to sew I get my fingers mixed up, don’t I, Mam?’
Kitty crossed to her and kissed her. ‘You’ll be able to do all those things soon when you’re a big lass. You’re doing very canny. Now why don’t you finish cooking the dinner for your dolly and let your dad get on?’
‘Ooh! I’d forgot.’ Eliza scrambled down from the chair and hurried to where the rag doll — her birthday present —leaned on the brass fender, polished so it glittered, like the fire-irons of poker, shovel and coal rake inside it. They were for decoration: there was another set made of steel for use. Eliza opened an imaginary oven door and peeped in at an imaginary pie.
Kitty put an arm round her husband’s broad shoulders and said softly, ‘Isn’t she a bonny little lass?’
‘Aye.’ Andrew squeezed her hand. ‘Like her mother.’
She laughed. ‘Hadaway wi’ ye.’ And then, with a sigh, ‘It’s nearly finished.’
‘Just about.’ He was talking of the model.
But Kitty had been thinking of his time at home: ‘You’ll be after another ship afore long.’
‘I’ll have to,’ Andrew said soberly. ‘The money from that last voyage won’t spin out for much longer.’ He was silent a moment, then said, ‘I don’t like leaving you and the bairn but I’m a sailorman and that’s the only trade I know. One of these days I’ll have to find a job ashore, but it’ll only be labouring. I’ll stick to the sea for a few years yet.’
Kitty knew she could not change him, knew also that he followed a dangerous trade. Between 1880 and 1882 more than three hundred British ships had been lost. She said bravely, ‘Don’t worry about us. Eliza is good company for me now.’
‘I can’t get over how she’s grown,’ Andrew said.
* * *
In Sunderland Edward Spencer smiled. ‘My word, Cecily, how you’ve grown.’ The child stood in front of him, restless in her expensive sailor suit and ankle-strap shoes. She was itching to take the wrapped present Edward had brought her. He could see behind her, through an open door, the twenty or so small boys and girls, dressed in their best suits and frocks, who were the guests at Cecily’s birthday party. They waited, with the nursemaids who had accompanied them, for the games to begin. Later there would be tea with thin slices of bread and butter, big cakes, little cakes and scones. Then, to crown it all, a Punch and Judy show.
Edward handed over the parcel. Cecily snatched it and said hastily, ‘Thank you, Uncle Edward.’ She undid the string and paper to unwrap the doll within, glanced at it, then said proudly, ‘I have six now.’ She ran off and Edward watched her go, his smile fading. But she was not his child. He thought of William Morgan, ten years old now and growing tall and straight. Maybe Cecily would improve with age. He went to join the provider of the feast.
Charles received him in his study. It was lined with books and furnished with a desk and two leather armchairs. He looked up from his newspaper as Edward entered. ‘Ah! There you are.’ He rose from his chair. ‘What can I offer you?’
Edward did not want anything but said diplomatically, ‘A small whisky and water, please.’ As Charles poured it and topped up his own, he added, ‘I’ve just congratulated your daughter. I didn’t see Millicent.’
‘She’s out playing whist,’ said Charles, without interest. ‘Children’s parties give her a migraine.’ He gestured to the chairs before the fire. ‘I’d like to have a chat with you.’ They sat down, their backs to the door, and Charles went on, ‘We must increase our profitability, make the ships work harder, spend less on them.’
Edward had come prepared for this. ‘There are safety factors involved, and we have to think of the men. This is an old argument—’
‘I know damn fine it is! Because we never settle the matter!’
‘You mean, I don’t let you have your way.’
‘I’m supposed to be a partner but you rule the roost!’
‘Our father—’
‘I know what he said, and I don’t believe he intended you to run this business as if it was yours alone! He was prepared to take a chance.’
Edward shook his head. ‘He always looked before he leaped.’
‘You look and look but never leap! You’re an old man before your time! If I had my share invested anywhere else I would do far better than being bound by your pinchpenny tactics. Half the time I’m living on my wife’s money.’
Old man! Pinchpenny! Edward’s temper boiled over: ‘If you’re using your wife’s money it’s because you’re living beyond your means!’
‘To hell with that! And you!’ Both men were on their feet now, glaring. ‘That is the last straw!’ Charles shouted. ‘I want my share of the firm — in cash. I’ll go through the courts to get it, if I have to, and then I’ll be quit of you and this place.’
‘As you wish.’ Edward’s tone was cold but he was sick at heart. He had seen this coming for some time, the constant, niggling arguments, his brother’s complaints. ‘You’ll have no need to go through the courts. I will put the matter into the hands of solicitors tomorrow.’
He stalked out, the study door already ajar. Charles went with him, flushed with rage. Edward picked his way through the children, who were scurrying about in the game of hide and seek. Charles almost stumbled over them and muttered curses under his breath. He flung open the front door and Edward passed through it. They parted without another word.
* * *
Behind them, in the study, Cecily sat hidden by the sideboard. She had crept in there, minutes before, in the game of hide and seek and had listened to the angry words. She crouched with her knees to her chin and tears on her cheeks. She did not understand what had happened, only that it was something terrible that she should not have heard. She would not tell another soul.
* * *
A month later Charles Spencer and his family took the train south to London. He had his inheritance and was eager to make his fortune. Millicent looked forward to taking her place in Society in the capital city. On this last day, his carriage sold, Charles took a cab to the quayside. It was the least he could do: a number of officers and men in Spencer ships had contributed to buy him a fine pocket watch engraved: ‘For Charles Spen
cer from Officers and Men of the Spencer Line with Best Wishes’. In truth, few had paid and Edward had made up the difference, but Charles was going down to the river to thank them.
Millicent had never visited the quay or the ships before because neither interested her. Nor had Cecily. As the cab threaded through the narrow, crowded streets, she stared out at ragged children scattering out of the way, then running in its wake. Then there was a shop of some sort and a thin, wild-eyed woman all in black, who ran out to keep pace alongside the cab. She shook her fist and screamed, ‘Murderers! Bloody murderers!’ The children fled from her and she came closer, yelled, ‘I’ll see you all burn in hell one day!’
Cecily shrank back, terrified. But now the cabbie whipped up his horse and the mad woman was left behind. ‘Good heavens! Was that—’ Millicent was interrupted.
‘Iris Cruikshank,’ Charles finished for her. ‘You know the story.’ And to his daughter, staring big-eyed with fear, ‘Take no notice. The woman is bereft of her senses.’ But Cecily was not comforted.
Later that day she sat in the corner of the first-class carriage with tears in her eyes. ‘You’ll like living in London,’ her mother consoled her irritably. ‘You’ll go to the zoo and see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.’
Cecily did not know what she was talking about. ‘I just want to get away from this place!’ she wailed.
‘Well, you are getting away from it, so stop crying.’ Millicent opened the novel she had brought. Charles was already hidden behind The Times. Cecily rubbed her eyes and watched the town recede behind her. There lived Uncle Edward, who had exchanged angry words with her father, and that mad woman with her threats. She hated it and determined she would never return.