Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

  It had haunted them, becoming an obsession for a while, searching for facts about Titanic passengers as if finding her parents was their duty. Ella thought otherwise, calmly refus-ing to follow up any of their leads. Archie had read everything he could about the disaster, especially Lawrence Beesley’s account, and they watched a dreadful film in the Palladium Picture house, which Celeste had to leave when it came to the sinking. There must be other documents. She almost asked the Titanic Relief Fund but that would mean revealing May’s deception, branding them both as fraudsters. She couldn’t risk such scrutiny.

  Selwyn advised her to leave well alone. ‘It’s up to Ella to sort this out when she’s ready.’ All there was to prove her identity was the little suitcase in which her baby clothes were pressed flat, a hand-stitched nightdress with the lace border upon it and the one shoe with its leather sole and upper made of lace over cotton. Celeste often fingered them as if one day they would reveal some hidden message to her. They were simple garments that could have come from anywhere in Europe and yet the lace border was so delicate and intricate. Whose hands had created them? Celeste closed the suitcase with a sigh, putting it back in the airing cupboard.

  If only Ella could find some distractions other than work. She’d been bridesmaid to Hazel, who was now expecting a baby. Her husband had been stationed abroad. Hazel was her one true friend. If only she mixed with the young fry of Lichfield society. Her only fol-lower was the faithful mongrel they’d rescued when she was found by the kerb, run over on the busy Burton Road, and that Ella had nursed back to health. Poppy gave Ella such companionship, guarding the studio door as she worked. Ella was totally wrapped up in her work and sometimes when Celeste called to chat, it was as if she was yet another interfer-ence.

  There was one place where they both still gathered and that was in front of May’s fa-vourite statue. Poor Captain Smith stood hidden from view behind a screen of shrubs and overgrown greenery in Museum Gardens. No one had followed up her request to the Coun-cil for it to be cleaned up. They made it a pact every year on 15 April to go to his statue and place flowers on the plinth. It was a habit that was ingrained from Ella’s childhood with May.

  ‘Did he really pluck me out of the sea, or is that another lie?’ she had once asked Celeste. ‘I’m sure he did, though I didn’t actually witness it.’ How could she not answer truth-

  fully, especially now that most of that night’s events were a blur. The captain’s reputation had suffered over the years and he was at best forgotten, at

  worst reviled, blamed for the accident. Celeste often wondered about his own family and the daughter who’d had to unveil the statue all those years ago. How had her life turned out under such a cloud?

  If war did its worst, damaging buildings and churches, there would be plenty of need for carvers and stonemasons and craftsmen to repair the stone. Perhaps Ella should offer her services there, use her own skills to mend what was broken.

  There you go again, planning her life for her, just like a mother, Celeste thought. She’s a big girl now, independent of all of us. Let her make her own way. Don’t interfere. You’ve done your duty by May. Let it rest.

  But how could anyone not worry for the youngsters with war on the horizon? At least Roddy was safely out of all of this in America.

  103

  October 1940

  One morning in October Ella was chasing Poppy across the fields at the back of Red House when she heard the whirring of a small aeroplane coming in low with a cough and splutter. She watched it circling, aiming for the barely finished runway at Fradley, but it was losing height and clearly never going to make it.

  ‘Poppy!’ she shouted, ordering the dog back, but the mutt carried on blindly, scared by the noise.

  Ella watched in horror as the plane prepared to land in an open field, sinking desperately and then skidding along in the wheat stubble, spinning before tipping on its side. With no time to think she raced across the field to help rescue the crew – that’s if they had survived the terrible crash landing. There was smoke coming out of the fuselage and two men scrambled out, then dragged out a third out of the cockpit.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ella shouted.

  ‘Get out of the bloody way, it might go up,’ yelled a voice from behind a leather helmet and goggles. They dragged her back away from the crash.

  ‘You can use my telephone,’ she offered, but they were still ignoring her. ‘What did I just tell you? Get back! If this kite goes up we’ll be toast,’ yelled the man star-

  ing at her. ‘Go on, shoo. Thanks for the offer, but we can hike back to the base over there.’ ‘Not with an injured man, you can’t,’ she snapped, looking at the navigator lying cut and

  dazed on the ground. It was her turn to give orders. ‘I’ll get Selwyn to give you a lift.’ ‘We’ve signalled ahead. They know where we are. The ambulance’ll be here in jiffy

  thanks, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Miss Smith,’ she replied tartly. ‘You were lucky to find flat ground and miss the canal.’ She called out to Poppy but she didn’t respond. ‘Poppy! I’ll have to go and find her. She’s probably terrified.’

  ‘Sorry for shouting,’ the pilot replied. ‘We’ll help you. It’s the least we can do. Where are we exactly?’ He looked around, still in a daze.

  ‘You’re outside Lichfield,’ she said, pointing to Fradley Airbase. ‘Hell’s bells, bit out of our way then. Engine cut out.’ You were lucky . . . Poppy!’ she yelled.

  ‘No,’ the other uninjured crewman smiled. ‘Just another skilful manoeuvre from Tony here. Glad we found you, our rescuing angel!’

  ‘I’m Miss Smith,’ she repeated, distracted by no sign of the dog. ‘Poppy, heel! Where are you?’

  They found her minutes later, lying in the hedgerow, shaking, a piece of metal stuck in her leg. ‘Oh, she’s bleeding,’ Ella cried as the pilot whipped off his silk scarf and fashioned a tourniquet around the leg.

  ‘This is a job for the veterinary. I’m awfully sorry’ He picked the dog up, but then began to wobble himself. ‘A bit shook up, head spinning like a bottle.’ He promptly sat down and Ella lifted her dog from him gently. ‘Don’t move until the ambulance comes. I’ll see to Poppy. She’ll be fine.’ She could already hear the bell of the vehicle as it raced up the farm track towards the stricken plane.

  ‘What’s up with Skipper?’ said the second crewman. ‘A bang on the head, I think,’ Ella offered as they eyed her with interest. ‘That guy’s nuts enough without this. Trouble’s brewing, we’re off course, we’ve

  pranged a kite and we’re out of leave. Trust Tony to lead us up the Swanee. How’s your pooch?’

  ‘Only a bit of metal, I hope. Must dash. Better luck next time,’ she said, turning for home but pausing for one last glance at the scene.

  ‘How’ll he talk us out of this?’ grumbled the navigator. ‘If anyone can do it, Skipper will. He’s a habit of landing on his feet and I’m not talking

  about the prang.’ The man winked at her.

  Ella rushed back, relieved that no one had been seriously injured. Now the most import-ant thing was Poppy. She’d borrow the Austin and get her seen to in Lichfield.

  Later, when she returned, there was a beautiful bunch of flowers in a vase in the hall. ‘Some air force chappie left these for Poppy and a message for you somewhere in the

  middle of them,’ Selwyn laughed. ‘Watch out, I think you made a conquest.’ ‘Hardly. What did he look like?’ She was curious though. Which one was it and how had

  he had managed to produce such lovely flowers when there was a war on? The pilot arrived hours later, parking a little Morris tourer in the driveway. ‘Pilot Officer Harcourt reporting for duty with a jalopy, only borrowed, I’m afraid,’ he said, standing in the doorway with a grin a mile wide. Selwyn ushered him inside. ‘How’s the poor dog?’

  ‘Limping, but she’ll live,’ Ella replied, glancing up at the stranger with surprise. He was fair as she was dark, with a forelock of straw hair, a
nd not what she was expecting be-hind the goggles. His cut-glass accent spoke of public school and privilege. Selwyn was clearly about to give him a grilling.

  ‘How on earth did you manage to be off course, young man?’ The pilot pushed his hands through his hair and smiled. ‘Bit of a long story sir. Spot of

  mist over the Trent Valley and a navigator who needs better glasses and a refresher course. Lucky for us Lichfield aerodrome was on the map, though not fully operational yet. A bit of a dressing down at HQ is on the cards.’

  Anthony Harcourt gave Selwyn a potted history of his own training from air cadet through flying school into Bomber Command. Now he was in an operational training unit forty miles east, preparing a crew for further missions. He’d come from the Yorkshire Wolds but his accent didn’t. He kept glancing over to Ella and round the drawing room as if to find some common ground.

  ‘I know it’s an awful cheek but would you care to join me for dinner tonight? Might as well take in a bit of the local scenery while I’m here.’

  ‘I’ve been called many things but not scenery before,’ Ella laughed, wanting to cut this bumptious young man down to size. He must be younger than she was by a good few years.

  ‘No, what I meant was, I’ve booked a table at the George.’ Then he looked up at Selwyn. ‘I’ll make sure your daughter’s back by lights out.’

  ‘Miss Smith is not my daughter. She is quite capable of deciding when to turn in for the night. Don’t you think you should ask her name before you whisk her off in your chariot?’ Selwyn was trying and failing to keep a straight face.

  ‘Oh Lord, I’ve made a hash of things again, haven’t I, Miss Smith?’ He had the grace to blush.

  ‘Call me Ella,’ she smiled, holding out her hand. ‘I’d be delighted to join you,’ she found herself replying, much to her own surprise. ‘If only because it’s fish pie tonight and I loathe it. Give me five minutes to change from my work clothes.’ She pointed to her plastered smock.

  ‘Ella is an artist. She’s not normally so grubby but she’s working on something out in the studio. So what did you do before the war?’ Selwyn continued his interrogation.

  Ella smiled and raced upstairs. What could she wear? There was her church suit and her skirt and blouse. Her best frock was too chilly. Nothing seemed good enough . She wished she was in uniform to match his. There must be something at the back of her wardrobe. Everything was pretty drab. But when she opened the door, she smelled the camphor balls. No amount of her best perfume could mask that odour. If only she’d had warning to find a suitable dress. Then she found a peasant blouse, long-sleeved, embroidered on the collar and cuffs, something she’d picked up in Italy on her travels. It would dress up fine with her pleated skirt and jacket.

  She tossed her hair out of the bun, tied it with a scarf to soften the effect, pinched her cheeks and put on her precious lipstick with care. Why were her hands shaking? Why was she so keen to make a good impression? Why had the sight of this handsome man suddenly made her nervous?

  The day had begun so normally. She’d done her chores, been to her studio and walked the dog. And then suddenly out of the sky this young man had descended at her feet. How strange that he should just turn up expecting her to drop everything to amuse him for the evening. Yet she was doing just that.

  How unlike her to dress up as if this was the most important night of her life when all they were doing was passing time until he went back to his base and out of her life.

  When she glided downstairs, they were nowhere to be found until she saw Selwyn es-corting Anthony out of her studio in the back garden. The place was a tip and she didn’t like strangers visiting, but this was Selwyn up to his old tricks again, trying to ensure she was not to be toyed with by showing her escort her profession and its tools. No liberties should be taken with a woman who could wield a hammer and chisel with such deadly ac-curacy.

  Anthony stared at her. ‘You look lovely, and that bust in your studio, it ought to be in a gallery.’

  ‘I’m still working on that. So what did you do before all this started?’ ‘University Cambridge, Trinity College, I enlisted straightaway. You’d like to see the

  stuff we have at home. My father is a bit of a collector. Music’s more my thing . . . classical, jazz He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Better be off. I will take care of her, Mr Smith.’

  ‘I’m Selwyn Forester. As I said, Ella is no relation to me, unfortunately, but that doesn’t stop me vetting her guests,’ he laughed. ‘Have a good evening and don’t worry about me eating Mrs Allen’s fish pie, dear. Waste not want not. It can always be reheated for you to-morrow,’ he called with relish from the porch.

  They were shown to a table in the corner of the old coaching hotel’s restaurant. The menu was restricted to two courses. Anthony ordered wine and offered her smokes from a gold cigarette case. ‘This was my grandfather ’s, a bit of a talisman of mine.’

  She declined; smoking held no appeal to her. What am I doing here? This was a big mis-take. They’d nothing in common. He was still a boy, at least five years younger than she was, and yet she felt like a schoolgirl on her first day, nervous, edgy. What on earth were they going to talk about?

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ she began, hoping to draw him out. ‘Not a lot to say about Anthony Giles Claremont Harcourt,’ he paused. ‘I know, quite a

  moniker, isn’t it? My parents live in an old pile of stones near Thirsk. I’m an only child and I’m adopted so I’m not sure who I am or where I came from.’ He looked up, expecting her to take pity but she shook her head in amazement.

  ‘How strange, so am I. Well, sort of,’ she replied, and for the first time she voiced aloud some of her own strange history, about May’s voyage on the Titanic and her friendship with Celeste, leaving out the fact that no one knew who she really was.

  ‘Why am I telling you all this?’ she gasped, looking into those bright grey-green eyes. Funny how she wanted to cry as those words burst out of her.

  ‘You know why,’ he smiled, reaching out his hand. ‘Because you have to. We’re two of a kind. Why of all the fields in England should I have landed on yours? Why were you walking the dog just at the moment my plane conked out? Why do we share such a similar history? I’ve never asked about my parents. I could find out but I won’t. Sybil and Tom are the only folks I know and I love them. I don’t need to know anything else, but your story is different. A Titanic survivor – I’ve met one or two older ones. The son of our neighbour went down on that ship, their only son and heir.’

  ‘You’re the first person outside my family I’ve ever told. I don’t understand,’ she said, and she felt her face flushing.

  ‘Look at me. Don’t you feel this was all meant to be?’ ‘That’s cheap novelette stuff. I don’t believe in such silliness.’ This was getting too per-

  sonal, too serious, and yet she didn’t want to pull her hand away from his. Anthony was not fazed by her resistance. ‘If war teaches us anything it’s to seize the

  moment. I’ve seen too many good chaps buy it in training without ever really having a life. You grow up quickly in war. I take each day as it comes and today something extraordinary happened. My engine cut out on a routine flight. It could’ve been curtains for us but up pops a pancake of a field and I managed to save the show. Then, you appear looking like something straight off the silver screen from the Gainsborough Picture Company. We were meant to meet. It’s in the stars. I’m Pisces, by the way, a water sign, or so they tell me.’

  Somehow the tension between them eased as they lingered over dinner talking equally about her passions and his career. They talked of the restrictions of the war, their hopes for the future, their families. She’d never talked so openly with a man before. Anthony might only be twenty-three but there was in him a weary look that aged him. Beside him she felt younger, untested, innocent and ashamed to have thought him shallow and brash. It was his defence against all that he was preparing for.

  ‘Do you have to rush off tom
orrow?’ she asked. ‘As long as we’re back by 1600 hours, why?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to show you our cathedral. The services have choral singing and you could join

  us for lunch. I promise it won’t be fish pie,’ she giggled. ‘You may never visit Lichfield again, after all.’

  He stared back at her with a look that set her stomach in a spin. ‘I’ll be back. Don’t play with me, Ella. Now I’ve found you, I’ll not be so easy to shake off.’

  They drove home under the full moonlit sky in silence. Ella sensed the tension in his hands and body as he kept glancing at her. She felt her heart thumping as if she were savouring every moment with him. The smell of leather upholstery and cigarette smoke mingled with her perfume and petrol fumes, a heady brew.

  ‘Look, a bomber’s moon,’ he sighed, glancing up. ‘Someone somewhere will be in trouble tonight.’ He kissed her cheek and instinctively she offered her lips to him and was not disappointed. ‘Good night, Anthony,’ she whispered, tearing herself away, not sure if this was all a dream.

  ‘Cinderella’s pumpkin must be returned now, I’m afraid,’ he shouted. ‘It’ll be Shanks’s pony tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine by me, we can walk across the fields into the city. Thanks for a lovely evening.’ She was still standing there long after the roar of his engine had faded away, suddenly bereft by his absence. This was madness, a crazy folie d’amour but she’d never felt so alive, so wonderful in the presence of a man before. She wouldn’t sleep. How could she waste such a feeling?

  Shoving her nightdress into her dungarees and putting on a thick jumper, she took the hooded lantern down her path into her studio, drawing the blackout blinds. By the lamp-light she began to sketch, capturing every feature of Anthony’s handsome face, the way one side was slightly lopsided, the curl of his forelock, those full lips which had brushed hers, still flushed with the memory of his kisses. What was happening? How could one day change a whole life? But it had, and hers was never going to be the same again.