by Leah Fleming
‘I’d like to visit Papa and my brothers for Christmas. We could all go together,’ she smiled at Grover as they sat opposite each other. ‘There’s talk of war in Europe. Papa’s not been in good health and he’d love to see little Roderick. It’s been such a hard year here with those terrible floods in March, the Ohio and Eyrie canal destroyed and those poor Akron folk drowned. I’ve been so busy with the Relief Committee. The doctor suggests perhaps a change of scene will do me good.’
There was a silence as Grover slowly put down his linen napkin and gave her a hard glare.
‘You get plenty of that with your trips south. I would think you were sick of trains, and boats, for that matter. Your place is here at home at Christmas.’
‘I know that, but my father would love us to go over.’
‘Your brothers are quite capable of keeping him company.’
‘He misses me, and Roddy would love to see the old country and his grandpa.’
‘You’re not taking my boy across the Atlantic, not now, not ever, and certainly not to that godforsaken little island full of fog and rain. I’m too busy to accompany you. Let him make the journey over here for a change . . .’ Grover dismissed her plea and reached for the cigar box.
‘Oh, but it’s so special in the cathedral. Please think about it. Roddy must meet his grandfather.’
‘He’s got all the grandparents he needs here. You go if you want to – at your own expense. The boy stays with Susan like he did last time.’
‘But May says in her letter—’ The words were out before she could bite them back.
‘May! I’m sick of that name. Why you’ve picked up this snivelling little scrap to play Lady Bountiful with beats me. Don’t think I don’t know that you still send her extravagant parcels. Mother says you are in and out of the linen shops spending your allowance on girl’s dresses,’ he snapped.
‘Perhaps if I had a girl of my own . . .’ She paused, seeing his eyebrow rise at this defiance. There would be trouble bringing up this subject again. Grover never made love to her without making the point of putting on those dreadful rubbers.
‘Here we go again. All you think about is babies. We’ve got our son and heir. He’s out of diapers now and becoming more like a human being every day. I am not having you growing fat and ugly again and drooling over cribs like some ignorant peasant. It’s not as if you even enjoy making babies, is it? You’re a cold English spinster at heart. I should never have married you.’
Stay calm, don’t respond, Celeste urged herself, but the anger flared up like a wild horse on the rampage, and the words were out of her mouth before she could rein them in.
‘And you are a cruel bully who shows no mercy in getting what he wants when he wants it, no matter how tired or ill I feel. You know I’ve always wanted a larger family. How can you deny me another child?’
Grover was up out of his chair in a second and he grabbed her by the hair, pulling out the padding and the combs. ‘You go too far, madam. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been reading in secret: women’s suffrage and women’s rights pamphlets. I’m not having that garbage in this house! I let you squander your time with the Titanic Committee because at least you meet the right people there. Contacts like them with husbands in power will help our company. The other mob are just a bunch of blue stockings. I don’t want you going near them. They are man haters, the lot of them. There’s only one place for a woman like that and it’s on a bed with her legs in the air. They need to know their place and so must you.’ He pulled her from her seat, out into the hall and across to the stairs.
‘No, please, not now, you’ll wake Roddy. Just calm down. We have to talk this through . . .’
She was not going to say she was sorry for speaking her mind. She pulled back but he pushed her forward, grabbing her again by the hair. ‘Get up there and shut up! You should know by now, you do not argue with me. Move it!’
‘No, I will not!’ she shouted, not caring who heard her. He slapped her hard across the cheek, dragged her the last few yards to the bedroom, punching her in the stomach as he threw her on the bed.
‘You, madam, are my wife and I will fuck you when and where I please.’
Celeste struggled to free herself from his determined grasp. ‘This isn’t right. What did I say to make you do this? I won’t submit to this degradation any more . . .’
‘Oh, yes, you will!’ She saw the hatred in his eyes but a moment’s hesitation too. This was her chance.
‘Why do you hate me, Grover? What have I ever done that makes you do these things to me? There has to be a better way than this,’ she pleaded, trying to reason with him. When she turned her face she saw his eyes glinting as if he was in another place, looking at her as if she was the scrapings off his shoe.
‘There you go again with your fancy airs and graces, all prim and proper. I should’ve known better than to take on a parson’s daughter. You’ve never been a real woman to me. You’re so flat-chested and skinny, you look down your nose at my family as if they are nothing.’
‘I’ve never ever done that, and worry has stripped the flesh off me,’ she protested. His reply was a punch to her jaw and she felt her remaining strength crumble.
‘Don’t argue with me! Shut up or there’ll be more where that came from. I am your husband. You owe me everything, bed and board. You are nothing without me. Women like you are nothing but simpering ninnies.’
‘I bet you don’t say that about the girls at Lily’s Place downtown,’ she whispered. ‘Is that where you have most of your fun?’
‘What of it? Those girls know how to please a man, not like you, you frigid bitch. You think you’re so special . . . a survivor of the Titanic. Let me tell you, I wish you were at the bottom of the ocean . . . It’s always Roddy first and foremost, or Margaret Brown and her fancy cronies. I’m sick of you looking down your nose at me. I didn’t pick you out of the crowd to make a fool of me.’
‘That’s not fair and it’s not true. Are you saying you’re jealous of our son or my other life? It doesn’t have to be this way. I thought you’d be proud that I’m helping others. Why are you so angry? Please, you’re hurting me . . . We can talk this over,’ she gasped, but it was a mistake.
‘I’ll show you just what hurt is!’ he said, throwing her onto her stomach, pulling up her skirt, ripping her underwear and pulling her legs apart.
‘No, no, please. Not that again,’ she moaned. But there was no arguing. She had no strength left to fight him. She felt her supper gagging in her throat. There was nothing left but to bury her face in the counterpane and submit to the agony. But she would not cry out, or move or show him how much he was hurting her. Even as she gasped for breath and tasted the silk of the bedding on her swollen mouth, she vowed he would never do this to her again. She would kill him first.
Never had she felt so alone, yet a fire inside was burning. I hate you, she repeated like a prayer over and over again until his pumping ceased. I will find a way out. I didn’t survive the Titanic to end up like this.
Afterwards she lay on the bed, exhausted but defiant. If my brothers knew what Grover was really like . . . But how can I ever tell of such dirty shaming? How can I explain such a terrible mistake made in all innocence? How easy it is to believe what is on the surface is the real Grover inside. Did he only see her as a prize and trophy or an obedient pet? How could she let Roddy grow up with such an example of what it meant to be a man?
It was then she turned to see Roddy’s sleepy face staring at her. He was holding his special teddy bear.
‘Why are you are lying like that? Are you sick, Mama?’ he asked as she tried to raise herself.
‘Yes, but back to bed now, darling.’
‘You woke me up. I heard shouting. Is Daddy angry again?’
‘No, no, just tired. He works so hard. He likes us to be quiet,’ she offered. Why am I defending him? Only so that Roddy doesn’t know the truth.
‘What have you done to your face?’
No one else must see her like this. Her cheek was bruised, her lip busted and she looked a mess. Oh Lord, how was she going to explain this away?
If only there was someone she could trust here, someone who would give her the courage to tell the truth. But Grover had discouraged close friendships. He said the wives they knew were only out to get a promotion for their husbands.
Harriet and her husband might call tomorrow so she must stay in bed and claim a cold or something.
She must seek help. Someone somewhere would tell her what to do or point the way out of this living hell. But who? There were mature ladies in the Episcopalian church where she taught in the Sunday school. But since Grover’s promotion onto the board of the Diamond Match Company they’d set themselves apart from her, no matter how many friendly overtures she made. And how could she attend Matins looking like this? She considered wearing a thick veil, but she was now out of formal mourning.
There was only one woman in the country she trusted, whose shoulders were broad enough to carry her and her face showed she’d lived some and a lot more. Margaret Tobin Brown. She was living apart from her husband, so she must’ve seen life in all its shades of grey. Yet to talk behind Grover’s back was such a betrayal. For better or for worse; she’d made the marriage vow in all sincerity.
Grover had given her a new world, a comfortable life and a lovely son. In exchange for what? The appalling indignity she’d just endured? How did this battering tie in with the love of marriage; that two shall become one flesh? It was making her head spin with confusion.
Love was the only thing that mattered – not wealth or status, love – and there was precious little of that left on either side. She disappointed him and he disgusted her. There had to be an end to this and soon.
In the morning a bunch of cream and red roses appeared outside her bedroom door with no note. Was this an apology or a warning? Whatever it was, she was trapped in this gilded cage unless she could set herself free.
41
Angelo paced up and down the sidewalk in the snow waiting for the linen shop to close. He wouldn’t dare to go in, not with all those female clothes hanging in the window. For over six months now he’d been walking out with Kathleen O’Leary. He’d kept her a secret at first but now he wanted to take her to meet Uncle Salvi and Aunt Anna for supper.
Sometimes he felt it was too soon to be seeing another girl. He tried to explain that Maria would always be his wife and he wasn’t looking for anything other than friendship.
Kathleen had speared him with those green eyes of hers. ‘And what makes you think I’d be after anything more myself?’ she retorted. ‘If and when I marry it’ll be one of my own kind, full of Irish blarney.’ That had felt like a slap in the face until he saw the twinkle in her eyes.
The Irish and Italians might live and work cheek by jowl but the Irish had been over here longer, with their own customs, festivals and language. Even their Catholic devotions were more intense.
Angelo’s family were suspicious of the friendship at first but suggested he must bring Kathleen round for a look over. He hadn’t dared to subject her to the inquisition, not until he was sure that she was the one for him. Kathleen was a city girl, a shop girl living in a hostel with a family from Dublin. She’d been in service and come over to the States for the opportunity of a new life. She was as proud as she was pretty, with a mouth on her once she got over her initial shyness.
They’d been drifting along, going nowhere, sitting in cafés, walking in the park, going to the Moviedrome. It was time to firm up where they were heading. They hardly even held hands, and Angelo was confused.
He hugged his jacket round him against the chill of the evening. She was late. Had she stood him up?
Then there she was, scurrying out of the door, her hand clinging to her green beret, her hair tumbling around her face as usual. She wore a long jacket with a hobble skirt and neat boots: a smart city girl.
‘Where’s it tonight? It’s too cold to hang about,’ she said, linking her arm in his and making him feel ten feet tall.
‘Would you mind if we went to my uncle and aunt’s for supper? They like to meet my intended,’ he blurted out, and knew by the look on her face he’d not got his English right.
‘Is that your idea of a proposal? Is that how you did it first time around?’
Angelo shook his head confused. ‘We were in Italy. There are customs, meetings, arrangements, you know?’
‘No, I don’t know. I’m Irish and when a guy asks a girl to be his wife, he goes down on his knee and makes a meal of it. I’m not second-best. Good night!’ She spun round and made in the opposite direction, trying not to slide on the sidewalk ice.
‘Per favore, Katerina, what I do wrong?’
‘Everything.’ She stopped and sighed. ‘You walk the soles off my shoes for six months and not a word of this, and now you want to parade me around strangers, with no warning, no chance to change my clothes. This is not Italy or Dublin. This is New York and we both have a say in making a marriage. If I’m only allowed to do this once, I’ll do it right. If you want to marry me, you will court me properly. You’ve got to persuade me to spend the rest of my life with you.’ She was walking back to him now.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We’ll make it up as we go along. In America we can make everything different, if we choose.’
‘But I promised Anna I would bring you. She’s in America but it is still Italy too. She never met Maria. Please come.’
‘We’ll call there later. It’s still early take me somewhere special to mark our engagement,’ she smiled.
‘We could go to Battery Park?’ he offered.
‘In this weather? I thought Italian men were romancers?’
‘I don’t have much dollars, I have to pay my rent.’ How could he explain how every bit of his wages went on paying back his old debts.
‘That’s another rule. We share the tab, we go halves. I got my wage. Let’s find a hot dog stall and go wild.’
Angelo was shocked. ‘But it’s Friday, fish only.’
‘Forget that. We may be good Catholics but we’re not that holy. It’s not every night a girl gets herself engaged.’ When Kathleen laughed she lit up the street. ‘Come on, Romeo, show a girl a good time.’
His heart lifted. Kathleen would never be Maria. She was a fiery Irish girl with wild eyes and hair. But she would suit him well, and she was right. It was time to start anew. They were in America now.
42
March 1914
‘I’m not going back in that church again.’ May was spitting fumes as she banged the crockery down on Canon Forester’s sink. ‘Have you seen what the vicar wrote in the Lichfield Mercury about Captain Smith’s statue being unveiled in Museum Gardens? He says that the officers received a warning that there was ice in their path and yet the speed of the ship was not reduced.’ She paused. ‘Is this true? It wasn’t like that, I’m sure. Mr Fuller says we shouldn’t honour this captain above others. I don’t understand. We’ve all contributed to this statue. He did his duty and he saved my child.’
‘Then write to the paper and tell them, Mrs Smith. That will silence them. You can bear witness to his brave act,’ the canon replied.
‘Oh, I can’t, I’ve never written a letter to a paper before, not me . . .’ she hesitated. ‘It’s Ella that should be writing . . . not me.’
‘Then write on her behalf. Tell them your story. Celeste has written about what he did that night but she wasn’t sure if it really was Captain Smith in the water.’
‘Would you write on our behalf?’ she asked, but the canon shook his head.
‘I don’t think I ought t
o get involved in this argument. Feelings are running high about what really happened. There are those who say the captain was careless and improvident.’
‘Never!’ May put down her washing-up brush, all hot and bothered. ‘He came to the side of the boat and handed over the baby from the sea. They offered him a place onboard but he refused it . . . Celeste told me so . . . I didn’t actually see him but one of the crew did.’
‘It’s all hearsay my dear, but you must write on his behalf if you feel so strongly.’ His words gave her courage. She loved this kind old man; he never made her feel small or stupid.
‘I will, but you’ll have to check over the spellings, sir. I don’t want to make a fool of myself or sign my name in public.’
Over the next weeks the arguments piled up in the paper for and against the statue being placed in Lichfield. May bought notepaper and a new pen. She drafted letter after letter, evening after evening, saying nothing in church. To tell the vicar to his face he was wrong, that wouldn’t be proper coming from the likes of her. She started to attend the cathedral services instead.
Then came an anonymous letter in the paper, which drew her fury.
It would be a pity to allow our garden to become a dumping ground for monuments of men who have no connection with the city and are unknown to fame. We must face facts and I believe it is a fact (and I say this at the risk of being labelled uncharitable) that the late Commander of the Titanic was unknown to fame before he committed the error of judgement which . . . led to one of the greatest catastrophes of modern times . . .
The gloves were off now. May tried to read the rest but her eyes steamed up with fury and exhaustion. This wasn’t fair. The dead couldn’t defend themselves. It wasn’t like that. He didn’t design the ship or put too few lifeboats on it. He didn’t ignore the warning shots and pass by like the Pharisees who let people drown. Everyone knew it was the Californian, the mystery ship on the horizon, that was to blame for not answering the distress call when it was nearby. Others said there was some other ship so close they could see its lights but it passed by on the other side too.
