She lifted the chest lid, trembling – her legs so weak she could at first hardly walk. At the end of the alley she began to run. And run.
Back with her family she was silent and sad. They were all sad. She told no one what she had heard. Not even Rocco. Least of all Rocco.
In the brass bed of her Lusitania cabin, she was woken by a creaking sound. Bump, bump. Wood against metal. She had been sleeping again after the nightmare. Ettore, being dressed by Mamma, tried to get on to the bed to tug at Maria’s hair. But she was impatient, wanting to be up and out. On the promenade deck, on the starboard side, several lifeboats, uncovered, were hanging out on the side, their keels above the railings. It was the creaking of the unused davits that had woken her. Some smaller wooden boats with collapsible sides were fastened beneath.
Standing nearby was her new friend, Mr Grainger. ‘Good. The equipment’s good. It’s the drill that isn’t. Boats – they tell me there’s a margin of six hundred places over what’s needed – we’d not be another Titanic.’
‘What’s that?’ Maria asked.
The sun had come out and was sending shadows of the heavy lifeboats across the deck. ‘Tomorrow we’ll see land. Not England – Ireland.’ He chucked her under the chin: ‘Not Italy – Sicily, eh?’
‘Can I come and hear your phonograph?’
‘Of course, Miss Verzotto. Come after breakfast.’
She sipped ice-cream soda, ate more candies, and sang along with the records. ‘The world goes round to the sound of that International Rag …’
‘I like to hear about your family,’ she told him. She thought suddenly and longingly of her own. Papa, Mastro, Rosalia, Rocco, Gaetano – dead Arasimu, dead Minicu. It wasn’t the same with the Ricciardis, however kind they might be. Nor had they said what was to become of her and Mamma once Ettore was a big boy. After the visit to England …
‘I miss them,’ Mr Grainger said. She wondered if he worried a lot about James, fighting in the War.
That evening because of the concert she wore her best frock for dinner: white silk with a bright red sash and lace panels. Mrs Ricciardi looked beautiful and fashionable in violet chiffon and satin. The concert in aid of the Seamen’s Homes was in the boat deck lounge. She and Mrs Ricciardi went up in the elevator while Mr Ricciardi climbed the grand staircase. Maria’s feet, in glacé kid slippers, sank into the deep pile of the lounge carpet. She saw Mr Grainger a little way away, almost hidden by one of the palm trees. When Mr Ricciardi was discreetly pointing out Alfred Vanderbilt, she told him, ‘Over there – that’s my new friend over there.’ Mr Ricciardi said only, ‘Oh, that guy.’
The concert was part interesting, part boring. When someone played I love a piano, she wanted to join in: ‘I know a fine way to treat a Steinway…’ For her own song, she waited only to be asked. Waited and waited. She became so mad at not being on the programme that she didn’t join in the chorus of For he’s a jolly good fellow which the other passengers sang for Staff Captain Anderson.
Her last whole day, she was woken by the sound of the foghorn. Tomorrow morning they would dock at Liverpool. On her way to breakfast she stood at the rails, looking out for land. She saw only mist. Mr Grainger, beside her again, told her how sorry he was not to have heard her sing. ‘If you’d like, come and help me pack later this morning.’
She didn’t know what made her so hungry. She worked through stewed fruit and porridge, brown hash and eggs, cold ham and lots of fresh rolls and three cups of cocoa. Mr Ricciardi, who had come down at the same time, complimented her on the roses in her cheeks.
The fog cleared and the sun came out. The sea was calm. Gulls, calling, followed the ship. Mr Grainger was sitting reading The Sea Hawk on the promenade deck when she went to fetch him. Back in his stateroom, she stacked up the piano rolls. She looked at the photographs again. There was one she hadn’t seen before. A pretty young woman wearing a frothy blouse, with curly hair and a laughing face. ‘And who’s this?’ she asked.
Taking the picture, he placed it with the others. He seemed a little cross. ‘That’s Mrs Grainger’s sister. Miss Rowland. The children’s Aunt Dulcie.’
Maria said, ‘She’s really cute-looking, is she nice?’ He didn’t answer her. Later, when she’d asked yet another question about Dick and Ida and Peter and Jenny, he turned to her:
‘Well, Miss Verzotto – what do you say while you’re in England to spending a few weeks with us? Staying in the North Riding at Thackton-le-Moors?’
‘Yes, sir. Yes, please.’
‘That’s settled then. We’ll exchange addresses tonight.’
Back on deck, he showed her land through his binoculars. She could make out some church steeples and rooftops in the villages. The calm sea glistened bluey-green in the sunlight.
She could hardly wait for lunch-time to tell the Ricciardis about her invitation. But they had the second sitting and she must amuse herself till then. She wasn’t sure what Mamma would think – she was nervous enough of England as it was.
‘I don’t see why not,’ Mr Ricciardi said. ‘I’ll have my company investigate him …’
She was so excited, what with that, and the landing tomorrow, that she took a long time to finish her meal. Mamma, who’d eaten with Gina and the children, would be putting Ettore to bed for the afternoon. Maybe she’d go later and tell her about Yorkshire.
The orchestra in the balcony was playing, The Blue Danube. She hated that kind of music. Plonk-plonk, it went. Plonk-plonk. Neither of the Ricciardis wanted any pudding or dessert. Mrs Ricciardi had a headache and thought she would lie down. Mr Ricciardi said to Maria, ‘Your ice-cream’ll be along soon – you’ll be OK?’ She said Yes. She’d asked for pistachio. When it came, there was no spoon with it. There wasn’t a wafer either. She was about to call out, ‘Hey, mister!’ when something happened.
A violent shock. A loud booming. Her dish, her glass, the vase, knives, forks, pepper, salt – all seemed to jump. A rumbling noise beneath her. It’s an earthquake, she thought. She remembered stories of Messina. The tidal wave and ships broken up. She gazed terrified at the cherubs on the domed ceiling. All around people were trying to right themselves, their effects, their tables. The orchestra played still. Plonk-plonk. An army officer sitting with two women at the next table, exclaimed in a loud voice, That’s it, they’ve got us – they’ve got us!’
Splintered glass from a porthole fell on to the floor beside her. Everyone getting up to go now. She was suddenly unable to move for fear. And still The Blue Danube, plonk-plonk, plonk-plonk. She asked the army officer, ‘Is it an earthquake?’
He was shepherding the two women out. ‘Good God, child. Where are your parents?’
But she didn’t wait. She ran out. She could still hear the band. Sounds of splintering glass. Outside, people were coming from every direction. Should she run to the Ricciardis? No, better go to Mamma and Ettore. Gina and the children, were they in the nursery?
Suddenly she wanted Mr Grainger. He would know what had really happened. He would know what to do.
The elevator opened. ‘Hurry,’ someone said. She was right by the door. An elderly man took her arm: ‘You coming up, little girl?’ She shook her head and moved away. Two people pressed past her. The grille shut.
She moved towards the staircase. She realized now that the deck, the whole boat, was sloping. Nothing was safe any more. Nothing. In her panic she couldn’t remember which was Mr Grainger’s cabin. Better perhaps to go to the promenade deck where he’d said he’d be reading? But why should he be there? How silly. He has gone to safety, she thought. She could see no one she knew. It seemed everyone was looking for their children. A waiter from the dining-room stood near her. He called out, waving his white-coated arms:
‘Take your time, she’s not going down. The Lusy is not going down! Calm, please.’
There was a message over the ship’s loudspeaker. She could not hear it. She could not understand it. She climbed the swaying, tilted staircase, hurrying now towards B De
ck, to their cabins.
It was just before she reached them that the lights went. A stewardess carrying two children came round the corner of the corridor. ‘Follow me,’ she said to Maria. ‘The power’s gone …’ Her words tailed away as Maria hurried in the opposite direction. I want Mamma, she thought, I must find Mamma and the Ricciardis.
In the half-light she found the cabin. The door was open. Inside all was disorder: drawers fallen out, shoes and boots scattered. The lifebelts were on top of the wardrobe. She climbed up. But there was nothing there. She stumbled and ran out, calling for Mamma, calling for the Ricciardis.
Now she was truly frightened. To go up or go down? To go where? Someone would give her a belt surely? A plump young man holding two jackets put one on her. She could hardly keep still as he fastened it. ‘This way to the boats,’ he said as she began to run away. There was another message over the speaker. All would be well, it seemed to say. The Lusy was righting herself.
There were no lights anywhere. Down again by the dining saloon, she tried to climb the staircase to the Grand Entrance. But the ship’s list was so strong now that almost at once she stumbled and slipped, and fell down again.
She heard the screams first, piercing above the other confused sounds. She saw, half way up, the elevator cage. That same elevator she’d almost gone in only minutes ago. Trapped, frantic with terror, the occupants beat their fists against the metal grille.
When she at last reached the starboard deck, the list was so great that part of it was almost under water. She was shivering, shaking. Calling: ‘Mamma, Mamma, Mr Ricciardi, Serafino …’ A lifeboat filling up, people scrambling, pushing. A man standing near said, ‘Make way for this child, let her on, there’s a child to go in here.’
The boat was almost full but people were still pushing. She had just been lifted in when suddenly, standing near the boat, was Mr Grainger. At last, Mr Grainger.
‘Out,’ he told her, ‘at once. It’s not safe.’ Someone protested for her: ‘Is he after the place himself, then?’
‘Get out,’ he said, lifting her up and back on to the deck. ‘Daft lass. I came straight to the dining-room to look for you. Stand still. Your jacket’s wrongly fastened. You’d not have a chance …’
As he twisted and pulled, altering the fastenings, she saw that the boat was being launched.
Not launched. Spilled. Mr Grainger put a hand over her eyes.
‘Don’t look. You’re safe for now. Wait here – a few moments. Don’t move. I’ve two kiddies to help and I’ll be back.’
… At first it was darkness. Sacru miu Gesù – Mamma, help me! Trying to call out. No sound. Her mouth full of water. Bodies thrashing around her. Drifting wood, chaos, moaning, weeping. Such a weeping and wailing. A man beside her, floating dead. She was with others yet utterly alone. Sunlight, high above them in the afternoon sky.
Then she heard the voice:
‘Maria, hold on, Maria.’
And saw, coming as if from nowhere – his face. A face she knew and trusted. The face of certain rescue.
Part One
1916 – 1935
1
‘… When I tell them, and I’m certainly going to tell them – they’ll never believe me …’
She’d tied a large blue bow round the puppy’s neck. She held him in her arms now as she pedalled the pianola, rubbing her face into the silky coat. Dear spaniel Trimmer. Outside the snow fell but inside the fire burned brightly, in the stuffy upholstered morning-room of the Graingers’ house in Linthorpe Road. (‘How do you like the cold North?’ people asked her this January of her first winter. They’d asked the same when she’d arrived in Middlesbrough last May, after the Lusy.) She played the same roll over and over. Even after nine months she hadn’t tired of the novelty. When she went to Thackton-le-Moors, it was the one feature she missed. The Ricciardis had not had a player piano.
‘… that from this great big world you’ve chosen me …’
The door opened a crack, then closed again. Trimmer jumped from her lap. It opened fully and the Grainger son, Peter, came heavily in.
‘That again. Don’t you ever?’
‘If you don’t like it –’
‘Never said I didn’t, did I? It’s just you’re always sat there … Blast that puppy’s teeth … Shouldn’t you be helping somebody? Mother, Aunt Dulcie?’
She went on pedalling. ‘Mind if I sit down?’ he asked.
‘It’s your house –’
‘Yours too. Your home now – I suppose.’
She watched the piano roll go backwards. ‘You don’t like me too much, do you?’
‘I don’t like anyone too much.’ He snatched up Trimmer. ‘Dick’s a menace, getting you this animal … Anyway, it’s Jenny who doesn’t like you. I like you a lot. It’s just –’ he shrugged his shoulders ‘- you behave as if I’m not there.’
‘Well, you’re not a lot of the time.’
‘School, I have to go to school. And it just so happens I have to go away to it.’ His voice was sulky. It swooped too, from high to deep suddenly. She said:
‘At your age, at fourteen, my brothers were working. And they were grown up.’
‘If I could be grown up, I would.’ He let Trimmer drop. ‘You make me sick –’
‘Sick ill, or sick vomit?’
‘Oh God,’ he said, putting his hand to his mouth.
He went noisily out of the room. She felt as if she’d been slapped. The joy had gone out of the day. Trimmer had curled into the fireside chair. She left the pianola and went over to him. She felt the tears coming, like a choking. She plunged her head into Trimmer’s coat. ‘Mamma. Mamma.’
When had she last cried for her mother? Christmas, perhaps. She didn’t cry much because she thought it wrong, except that she had lost so much.
Best not to think how much she had lost. Those days in Queenstown after the rescue, lying tucked up in the overcrowded Queen’s Hotel, shivering, exhausted. Uncle Eric sitting on the end of the bed: ‘For now I’m taking you home with me, then we’ll see … The States maybe – or even go back to Sicily?’
They hadn’t spoken of it again till they were on the train from Liverpool to Middlesbrough. He explained that they wouldn’t be going yet to the house in Thackton-le-Moors but that he would take her as soon as possible. Still stunned, frightened, she clung to his hand as they walked the long platform at Middlesbrough. Strange people. Strange town. The whole family almost, walking out of the framed photographs in Uncle Eric’s cabin. Aunt Maimie, Aunt Dulcie, Dick, Ida, Jenny. They overwhelmed her. Only Peter away at school and James at the Front, absent.
No one spoke to her then of dead Mamma or the Ricciardis – who had loved her and been kind: Gina the nurse, Serafina, Gabriela, Franco, baby Ettore. At night their bloated, drowned faces passed before her while she shook with terror and sorrow. Sacru miu Gesù.
She wouldn’t have wanted to go back to Sicily. But the remaining Ricciardi relatives could not be expected to take her on. Her brothers Rocco and Gaetano, perhaps they could do something? They were in Detroit – but where? Detroit wasn’t a village. If Mamma had had (and surely she had) a scrap of paper, an address, it had gone.
In Monteleone they would know. As soon as he’d rested a little, recovered from the worst of their ordeal, Uncle Eric had begun the inquiries necessary. But the distances and difficulties were great. Weeks, then months, passed as they waited for answers. Letters went to various authorities in Detroit in an attempt to trace Rocco and Gaetano Verzotto, the one thought to be waggon-driving, the other a bricklayer. The priest in Monteleone was written to. It wasn’t till the autumn they learned that both Rocco and Gaetano were in Italy, training in a mountain regiment. Italy had joined the allies in that summer of 1915, and they had come back to fight.
No question then of living with her brothers. For a while after that news, the future hung, unmentioned. Then in the late autumn when she was already settled in at school and had grown to feel that the Graingers’ was indee
d her own home – Thackton even more than Middlesbrough – Uncle Eric had said one Saturday at Moorgarth, sitting before a log fire, toasting muffins, ‘What would you say to being adopted properly, Maria? All the legal knots and bows properly tied?’
At that very moment she could not think of anything she wanted more. To live for ever after, with Uncle Eric and his family.
And so it was. Yet in this game of Happy Families, it wasn’t possible to like or get on with all of them. When the photographs came to life it had been Uncle Eric’s wife (Aunt Maimie as she was to call her) that she had felt the least happy with. In the picture she’d seemed formidable. In real life she was that, but also florid, stout, and discontented. She didn’t care for being at Thackton, yet everything was wrong at the Middlesbrough house too. Uncle Eric paid little attention to her grumbling. He was good-tempered with her, only occasionally losing patience, telling her not to be a fool. Then she would bridle and Aunt Dulcie, making the peace, would reach out and touch Uncle Eric. ‘That’s right, take sides,’ Aunt Maimie would say crossly. Then pretty Aunt Dulcie would react uneasily, biting her lip. Maria wondered what it must be like to be Aunt Dulcie. (She didn’t wonder what it was like to be Aunt Maimie. It must be hateful.)
Aunt Maimie, when she found Maria alone, often remarked on her ‘physical development’. ‘Your chest, dear, your breasts, there’ve been big changes since you first arrived. You’re sure you know, dear, what being a woman means?’ Once she leaned very close, her sour breath against Maria’s cheek, ‘Little girls from hot countries.’ She patted Maria’s hand. ‘I think you can expect something soon. Promise to tell me, dear.’ Maria had thought she would die of shame rather than do that. And when just before Christmas it did happen, it wasn’t to her she spoke or even Ida, but to Aunt Dulcie.
Aunt Dulcie, so pretty, so soft, so warm and caring. She was twelve years younger than her sister Maimie, and had come at the age of eighteen to live with the Graingers after the death of her mother. She had been there ever since. Maria was surprised she had never married. ‘Why aren’t you?’ she had asked the second week there. But Aunt Dulcie had shrugged her pretty, fashionable shoulders and returned to her sewing.
The Golden Lion Page 3