‘Nonsense, May’s lonely. I’m lonely; she reminds me of home.’ ‘This is your home. How can you be lonely, you’re never at home? How many trips have
you made this year? It’s costing me a fortune in hotel bills. You’d better cut them back.’ ‘I take your mother with me. She enjoys a change of air.’ ‘A change of shops, more like. Pa is complaining too.’ ‘Let’s not quarrel, it upsets Roddy. We mustn’t spoil his day.’ ‘You spoil him all the time. He follows you round like a lapdog.’ ‘He’s only little and they grow so fast, Grover. You’re always welcome to come.’ ‘Someone has to pay for your extravagances,’ he said, eyeing the sapphire and pearl an-
tique bracelet he had bought her, now circling her wrist. Christmas Day was turning out to be just as joyless as every other day. If it wasn’t for the
tree festooned with baubles, the greenery over the mantelpiece and the cards placed around the room for all to see, it could be any other day.
How did I fall for Grover’s apparent charm and his handsome face on that visit to Lon-don? No one warned me to look behind the façade to what lay beneath? She had been too young and inexperienced not to be swept off her feet by his promises. Her parents had been equally charmed by Grover’s American confidence and good looks. Now his eyes were glassy and cold, his drinking had thickened his waist and his skin was florid but he held all the power. He paid the bills and kept the purse.
In his world women were just decorative objects. It was the men of industry who ruled, backed up by armies of servants to wait on them. If she ever left she’d have nothing: no child, no money, nothing but her pride. Recently she felt that might be the better op-tion. Then she looked at little Roddy and knew it would be impossible to abandon him to the Parkes regime. She thought of the Committee members who were raising funds. How many of them woke in the morning battered and bruised and humiliated? Sometimes she wondered if it might have been better to have drowned on that terrible night, but her thoughts always came back to Roddy. He was her reason to live, to stay strong. Somehow there had to be a way forward. There had to be more to life than this existence.
‘Come on, Roddy, we’ll wrap up and go to meet Grandma and Grandpa down the drive and leave your daddy to his work in peace.’
The March streets were crowded with spectators waiting for the grand procession. It was the big St Patrick’s Day Parade in New York City – one of the biggest of the New York festivals. The parade was being held early on the 15th because St Patrick’s Day itself was in Holy Week. Families were out on the sidewalks in their green costumes. There were bands and dancers swirling in the dusty streets. Angelo stood watching for a few moments, sniffing the aromas of roasting chestnuts and popcorn.
Salvi and Anna had wrapped their bambino in a green scarf. They were happy with the extra trade the celebrations brought to them but he was feeling miserable.
Another letter had arrived from Maria’s family on paper edged with black. They begged Angelo to return home to the paese. But how could he – a man who’d unwittingly led his wife and baby to their deaths – face them?
There wasn’t a note of reproach in the letter. Whoever had written in such careful script had measured their words with compassion.
He who leaves the old way for the new knows what he loses, but never knows what he may find. God has chosen to take Maria and Alessia to his heart. Who are we to ask why? Father Alberto says we will find out only in eternity.
He hadn’t told them about the shoe with the Tuscan lace. It seemed cruel to raise their hopes or his own any further. After months of enquiry no one had come forward, just a woman who thought she had seen the pair of them on the Titanic in the saloon, dancing to an Irish jig, but she couldn’t be entirely sure. The scene haunted him. Maria always loved to dance, her feet hardly touching the floor as she twirled around laughing.
They should be here enjoying the spectacle together, the baby on his shoulders, Maria standing by his side in her white dress with the lace edging she was so proud of. Her skills would have been in demand. She had been bringing all her equipment: her cushion and tombola, her fusilli and some of her master’s designs. She’d planned to teach lace making, to sell her work. He thought again of the shoe that sat on the shrine he’d created with their
portrait and the statue of the Madonna del Carmina. What if she’d sold those shoes on board and some baby here was wearing his daughter ’s clothes? He couldn’t bear the thought.
He watched the spectators crossing themselves in fervour as the Madonna’s statue bobbed past on the shoulders of burly Irish navvies. Across the street a group of Irish shop workers giggled and waved at the procession. One girl hung back, wrapping herself in a shawl, a straw boater perched on her head, her eyes cast down until she glanced at him star-ing at her and smiled. He glanced away, shaken by his response.
Oh no you don’t, making eyes at a colleen and your wife not gone a year. But the instinct to find comfort was strong. He turned away ashamed as the procession of bands in their green uniforms blew out their tunes into the fetid air. It was stifling in the crowd and he badly needed a drink. He always needed a drink these days. A bottle was his solace and faithful companion. It helped him sleep. ‘Work hard, work always and you’ll never know hunger,’ his papa had always said.
He’d worked hard, and for what? What was the point? Salvi was always nagging him to wash and comb his black curls. ‘You’re a handsome boia . . . go find a ragazza to give you comfort.’
He’d wanted to hit him but couldn’t be disrespectful to his elders. How could he look at another woman? How could he forget his Maria just like that, like turning off a faucet?
There were graves far away in Canada where the recovered bodies had been buried. He should have sought her there but they said there was no record of Maria or Alessia being found. Anna and Salvi had written to the Welfare Relief on his behalf and had heard there was compensation on offer but it only covered Maria’s property. Angelo could claim for a bundle of lost lacework. But how do you compensate for the loss of your wife and child?
The priest at Old St Patrick’s was on his side but had told him to be patient in his grief. It would ease, given time, but Angelo didn’t want it to pass. The pain was his punishment, but to work he must sleep and to sleep, he must drink. He was in danger of losing his grip. Would it matter if one morning up in the gantry he slipped? Would it matter if he ended it all?
Only the thought of his mother’s shame and pain stopped him. That and the little shoe. What if Alessia was somewhere out there? The torment of such a yearning must be blotted out.
Angelo turned his back on the parade. He’d seen enough happy families for one day. He needed a stiff drink, a cheap bar and a few hours of oblivion in the back alleys of Mulberry Bend.
Later he woke on the stinking floor of some dosshouse. His pockets had been picked clean. He smelled of booze and worse. Where was he? As he stood up the room began to spin. Stepping over drunken bodies snoring off their hangovers, he heard the bells calling the faithful to Palm Sunday Mass.
He couldn’t recall how he’d landed in this den but his head was swimming with a thump-ing headache. Had he been at the poteen with some Paddy mates celebrating? Did it matter? Nothing mattered now he’d lost his pay, or rather what was left of it. He needed a change of clothes before he faced Salvi and Anna, who’d tear a strip off him, shamed by the sight of this tramp, the man he’d become.
But what the eye doesn’t see and all that . . . ‘Don’t miss the Holy Saint’s Day, he will al-ways help you out,’ His mother’s voice was in his ear, but would St Patrick hear his pleas? What would he care about one more drunken Italian?
Angelo was confused, hung over and desperate. He must find somewhere to clean up and honour this day.
He smiled, thinking of his mamma wagging her finger. ‘Show me your friends, Angelo, and I’ll tell you who you are.’
He stared down at the prostrate drunks, ruffians, pickpockets and assorted low life. I’m not one of th
em, am I? Holy Mary, have I come to this? . Help me! Why, oh why, Maria, did you have to leave me? What’ll become of me without you? Why did you get on that doomed ship? The tears wouldn’t stop as he staggered out into the spring sunshine, the light stabbing at his eyes. He held onto the doorframe to get his bearings and, putting an un-steady boot on the sidewalk, he aimed towards the sound of the bells.
April 1913
Their letters had clearly crossed in the post. May sat in the park to read hers through over and over again before she posted it.
Dear Celeste
This will be a short note. I can’t believe it is a year since our first fateful meeting. I can hardly bear to think of the days to come when the word Titanic will be once again on everyone’s lips and in the papers. There are to be big memorial services across England. It breaks my heart that I have no place to lay flowers for Joe, and when I think of the family life snatched from us so cruelly I still find it hard to bear.
Your father has put the flowers for you on your mother’s resting place. He misses her company especially in the evenings. It’s a time when couples eat and talk by the fireside, isn’t it, a time of closeness and comfort denied to widows and those who mourn?
It’s funny how you have taught me to talk on paper. I like to think we’re sitting over a cup of tea and just having a chat. I miss the mill girls for that. The women in the college are a bit clannish and there’s one I don’t like, called Florrie Jessup, who is a right nosy parker, like a ferret. I keep clear of her if I can.
Your father has asked us to tea on the 15th, for which I am grateful. Only he really knows how terrible that date will be for the rest of my life. I will take some éclairs, which I know he likes.
I can never thank you enough for giving me this chance of life away from pitying eyes. As long as I live I will be in your debt and if there is anything I can do in return to help you, you only have to ask. We may have come from opposite ends but somehow I feel in our letters we are becoming the best of friends. I do hope you feel the same.
God bless you,
May and Ella
‘Is there nothing for me in the post, Minnie?’ Celeste was puzzled. There had not been a word from May in weeks, which was unusual, especially as the fateful anniversary was looming. For the umpteenth time, she checked the silver salver in the hall where letters were laid.
‘Sorry, madam, nothing I’ve seen,’ Minnie bobbed in reply, avoiding her eye, which was not like her.
Celeste sighed. ‘I was hoping for a letter from England.’ ‘From your Titanic friend?’ Minnie said. The servants all knew about her corresponden-
ce with May and steamed off the stamps for Roddy’s little collection. ‘There’s a big me-morial in town for all the drowned souls and a Mass in the Catholic church.’
Celeste was hoping to join the big memorials in New York but it was getting harder to get Grover’s permission. But she did have an idea that might work if she put it to him care-fully. They must take Roddy. He was getting quite clingy and Susan said he was wetting the bed again.
‘We won’t trouble Mr Parkes with this. He’s got so much on his mind,’ Celeste had said. Why did she always feel she must make excuses for him? She knew he might punish Roddy and make things worse. A trip to New York would be good for all of them; time together as a family might make Roddy a little more secure. Why did she feel so torn between home and her other work? Perhaps if she wrote to May it would clear her mind. At least on paper she could be more honest with herself.
I think our letters must have crossed again. Funny, how we keep writing at the same time. A year has gone by but I can still hear those screams of stricken passengers in the water. I try to fill my time making sure those Titanic voices will never be drowned out or fall on deaf ears.
If I’m honest some of the Survivors’ Committee meetings are boring. Women can fight their corner as good as any men and there are some strident voices who want their way of doing things above others . . . She wrote on, lost in all her news, trying not to sound too important.
Sometimes I sit in the Church Sewing Bee listening to the tittle-tattle around me until I could scream. Then I spout forth about all I hear in New York about voting rights for women and my mother-in-law looks across in horror. ‘If this is what you get up to with those suffragette types, I don’t think Grover will want you mixing with them.’
I tried to explain why men can’t appreciate our best strengths as being as important as theirs on the world stage. Oh dear, I’m sounding like a pamphleteer. I get torn between my duties as mother and wife, and those of being a good citizen. I’m wondering what’s left of the girl I used to be, the one with all those dreams. If I were back with you would I be chaining myself to railings and marching with Mrs Pankhurst? I do hope so.
How terrible to be complaining to you in this month of all months when we must think of those poor souls who will never have a voice again. Forgive me for being so thoughtless. I do look forward to your letters but it seems weeks since I last heard from you. I hope you find a quiet place to mourn your dear husband. Don’t leave it so long before you write again.
Yours in agitation and remembrance,
Celeste
She looked for a stamp but there was nothing in her letter case. Grover wouldn’t mind her taking one of his. She needn’t tell him it was for a letter to May. She made for his study, hesitating briefly outside, recalling the last time she’d ventured in there and the blows that followed.
She checked his silver rack on the desk. Nothing there either. She never dared look in his drawers, but anyway, they were usually locked.
As she bent down to check she noticed an envelope with a British stamp and familiar handwriting in the trash basket. An opened letter from May, read and then discarded. The room spun for a second as she took in the fact that it was one she’d never seen and which, according to the postmark, must have arrived only a few days ago. Of course May had not forgotten her friend on the first anniversary of the sinking.
Celeste sat down in Grover’s mahogany chair and read the letter through carefully. It was all she could do to breathe, such was the rage burning inside her. She wanted to scream with frustration at this treachery.
Am I not even to have privacy or friends of my own? How dare he? This was too much to bear. She sobbed as she read it again and placed the letter back exactly as she had found it. Her anger bubbled up again. Two could play this game, she thought, unsealing her own letter to add a postscript.
PS. Your letter has just arrived. Please disregard my silly rebuke, but since you offer to help me out, I do have a request, a funny one but I’ll explain later. From now on please address your letters to Mrs Parkes c/o The Post Office at Akron and not here.
It was the best she could do on the spur of the moment. If Grover thought their friendship was on the wane, he’d relax his guard. Little did he know what he’d just achieved. Weak as she might be, he’d touched a nerve, stiffened her resolve. No one was going to stop her writing home, or to anyone she chose. If this was war then she’d won the first skirmish. But she sensed there would be worse battles ahead before victory was hers. May read Celeste’s strange letter three times, trying to get the gist of it. The middle bit was all about Votes for Women and a woman called Alice Paul, who’d been in England on hun-ger strike and now was fighting for the suffragette cause in the States.
I’ve joined the Congressional Union for Women’s Suffrage. I have to do something to help women’s rights here. Why should half the human population have no say in its affairs? Twenty million women are denied the vote here. Alice says each one of our efforts counts like the hymn ‘You in your small corner and I in mine’. She read on, confused, especially about the change of address.
She’d seen suffrage campaigners handing out leaflets in the marketplace in Lichfield and pictures of them in the newspapers picketing outside Parliament.
‘Grover thinks I am doing Titanic Survivors’ Committee work, which is sort of true. I have to do
something . .’ Her handwriting was scrawled over the page as though Celeste had been in a hurry. What was going on?
It wasn’t that May didn’t believe in votes for women herself. They’d been very hot on that in Bolton in the cotton mills, and she’d signed up with the Union years ago for Univer-sal Suffrage. There’d been a riot when Mr Winston Churchill passed through the town and she knew many of her fellow mill workers were still active in the north. Joe believed in the socialist cause but it had all gone a bit haywire, what with Mrs Pankhurst and her scuffles with the police. The burning of Lord Leverhulme’s bungalow in Rivington recently had shocked her but she’d let it all pass over her head since her arrival in Lichfield. It all seemed so far away from her life now.
What would Canon Forester think about his daughter gallivanting over the country with banners? Her husband must be very understanding to let her make such an exhibition of herself. But women like Celeste didn’t need to work, May sighed. They could pursue their hobbies and not worry about the cost. But something was up, she could sense it, and she was worried. Celeste didn’t sound herself.
May reread the pages about Celeste’s busy life and felt ashamed of her own quiet exist-ence. She did her chores at home, her domestic work. There was Ella to mind and she col-lected her pension with gratitude. She sat quietly in the back pew of the old parish church in Netherstowe every Sunday trying to settle her restless mind, which continued to torment her with dreams. It was hard living a lie in her letters, covering her true feelings about Ella and what she had done, but Ella was so much a part of her now she’d never let her go.
Funny, how they were both hinting about their worries but never spelling them out. Hers were too terrible ever to be committed to paper.
To make matters worse she’d had a set-to with Florrie Jessup, who’d caught her coming out of the Provincial Bank one afternoon.
‘It’s not often we see one of us with a savings book,’ Florrie smiled, eyeing the bank book in May’s basket with interest.
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 12