by Leah Fleming
All he hoped for now was that in returning with his father to the States, he hadn’t sacrificed his mother’s love and compassion. She had once said that love was like an ever-flowing cup that refilled itself over and over again and never ran dry. He hoped that was true. This visit would prove it one way or the other.
81
The wound on May’s leg just wouldn’t heal. It itched like mad and she kept scratching it open. She tried the old bread poultice treatment to draw out the infection and then smeared it with goose grease to seal it but it grew hot and swollen, making her leg stiff. She tried to ignore it but when Selwyn saw her limping he insisted on driving her to Dr Howman’s surgery. The doctor took one look and said he didn’t like the look of it.
‘How long has it been swollen and fiery?’
‘Two or three weeks, I think,’ she replied.
‘Doesn’t it itch like blazes?’ He gently pressed it, feeling the heat of it.
‘A bit,’ May confessed. ‘I shouldn’t have kept scratching at it, should I?’
‘No, you shouldn’t. You must be a saint to put up with that for so long. I want you in the hospital. Now. We need to get that infection down.’
‘But it’s only a scratch,’ she protested.
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mrs Smith. It’s creeping up your leg. You should have come sooner. I’ll give you a letter to take with you. The sooner you get down to Sandford Street clinic, the sooner we can start treatment.’
May was bemused by all the fuss. Yes, she did feel a bit feverish but not enough to justify a hospital bed.
There was so much to do with Celeste away. Selwyn and Ella would have to fend for themselves. The injury to her leg was such a nuisance but it wasn’t getting better of its own accord, she acknowledged. Perhaps it would be better to rest it. Perhaps there was still a little bit of grit in it. Now it looked like a great purple spider spreading out in all directions up her thigh and all because she’d fallen off her bike. She didn’t understand how such a graze on her skin could make her feel so ill. The doctor was right, she should have gone to him earlier before it went septic, but once she was in the clinic they would soon sort it out so she could get on with her life again.
82
October 1926
Ella loved college. Every day was new and exciting, different from anything that she had experienced before. There were lessons in observing the shape and form of objects. They spent hours in sculpture class looking and thinking and trying to put what they saw down on paper. There was a chance to work with traditional implements, learning how to transfer ideas onto a block of stone, seeking out the shape within the stone.
She’d even attempted to sculpt a head from clay, making drawings from one of her classmates, looking at how each head was unique. But most of all there was the amazing work of other artists, teachers who were famous in their own right, whose work adorned the walls and distracted her from the worry of her mother in hospital.
She rushed back on the bus for visiting hours and found Uncle Selwyn standing outside the ward, looking worried. ‘Your mother’s got a fever and they’re trying to get it down. She’s rambling a bit. But don’t look so worried, I’m sure it’ll be over soon, once the fever breaks. They’ve put her in her own room off the corridor.’
Her lovely day suddenly fizzled away to be replaced with a sinking fear. Mum had been in hospital for a week and it seemed things were deteriorating rather than improving. ‘Can I go in and see her?’
‘She may not know you; fever befuddles the brain,’ he warned.
Even so, Ella wasn’t prepared for the change in May. She seemed to have swollen up more. The nurse smiled, ushering her to the bedside. ‘Your mother’s sleeping. We’re keeping her cool.’
‘Is she going to get better?’
‘She’s very poorly. The infection has got hold of her system, I’m afraid, but we’re doing all we can to hold it at bay. You’ll have to be a brave girl.’
Hearing voices her mother looked up with glazed, bleary eyes, staring at Ella as if she wasn’t quite sure who she was.
‘It’s me. Mum, I’m here.’
May shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t be here, I’m not fit for company. Go home. Your tea’s on the table and tell Celeste I want to see her. This isn’t getting any better so tell Joe too. I want to see Joe . . . Where are Joe and Ellen?’
‘It’s the fever,’ said the nurse, mopping May’s brow.
‘Uncle Selwyn did warn me,’ Ella nodded, trying to be brave and stop herself from shivering. The words brought back memories of that day at the seaside all those years ago when Mum had had that episode and ended up in St Matthew’s, but somehow this was worse. ‘She will get better, won’t she?’ she asked again.
‘We’re doing everything we can. With God’s help . . .’
Soon her mother fell asleep again and Ella crept out, but when she saw Selwyn she burst into tears. ‘Who’s Ellen?’ she snivelled, hurt that May hadn’t once asked for her. ‘Mum asked for Joe and Ellen.’
‘You are Ellen,’ he said.
‘But I’m Ella.’
‘It’s short for Ellen, didn’t you know that?’
‘She’s never called me Ellen before. Is that really my name?’ The name took her aback for a second. It was as if he was talking about another person.
‘Don’t ask me. It’ll be on your birth certificate. I told you she’s not really with us.’
‘Is she going to die?’ she asked, desperately hoping he’d reassure her.
There was a long pause and Selwyn gave her a kind look. ‘The infection is in her bloodstream, and that’s not a good thing. I saw it in the war in some of my men. But there is always hope. Her body can fight it off if it is strong enough. And your mother is nothing if not a strong woman.’ That was not the answer she’d hoped for but Ella couldn’t take in any more bad news. ‘When is Celeste coming back? I wish she was here. Why did she have to go away now, why can’t she come back?’
‘I’ve sent her a wire. I’m sure she’ll be back as soon as she can.’
How could Selwyn be so calm? Did he not care? Ella felt as if her whole world was falling apart, a million miles away from the grown-up she’d felt earlier. If Mum wasn’t here, who would look after her?
83
New York
Angelo was finding it hard to breathe in their apartment. There was a fight going on next door; screams and shouts were coming from the open windows but not a breath of air. Patti had the wind-up gramophone at full volume and was trying to do her tap routine. She was in Mandelo’s Tiny Troopers, dancing and singing wherever they could, showing off their frilly costumes that Kath sewed using remnants from the garment stores.
Jack was cheeking his mom again but Angelo hadn’t the energy to cuff him. He was turning into a tough street boy and had fallen in with a gang of hoodlums who hung around the alleyways. Who knew what he got up to out of their sight? He feared the Padrones, who funded the secret speakeasies that littered the city, were ruthless in getting boys touting for business in exchange for dimes and nickels.
Angelo coughed again. He’d been ill for weeks, exhausted even by climbing the stairs. It was the same old problem and everyone knew about the weakness he tried to hide. Across the room Frankie was trying to study for his entrance exam with Patti’s racket going on around his head. Angelo looked to the portrait of the Madonna for comfort. How could he sort them all out, cut Jacko down to size and shut Patti up? Now Kathleen had to go out to work in an Irish linen store and he was left to rein in these holy terrors.
He couldn’t shift the nagging fear that his time was running out. He, who’d never darkened the door of the church for years, had started making his confessions to old Father Bernardo once more. The doctor said he’d suffered dust on his lungs from too much smoke and bad air, and the weakness from the flu would take him early to his grave unless he got some fresh air and proper rest.
Kathleen had been distraught, wanting them to go and live in th
e country; easier said than done. Now all the energy had gone out of her, and Jacko was taking advantage by skipping school to roam with his gang.
Frankie had offered to leave school and work in Uncle Salvi’s store but Kath wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We came to this country for a better life, maybe not for ourselves but for our children. You won’t be leaving school, Frankie, not when the Fathers of the Blessed Sacrament are so pleased with you. They say there will be a place for you at junior seminary. We’ll survive. Jack will settle down and make us proud, and little Patti will have her name in lights on Broadway one day, so she tells me.’ She smiled, eager to hide her fears from her beloved son.
Angelo had never felt so helpless. If only he could get some strength back to be a proper husband and father instead of watching life carry on without him. It was bad enough that Frankie’s head was stuffed with Latin and Greek, with math and the liturgy. He loved music, too, chanting in the choir stalls, plainsong, carols, organ music. Frankie’d never wavered from his calling, even from his First Communion, no matter how many times Angelo had sneered at him. It was a never-ending argument with Kath and for once she was getting her way.
‘If God is calling him for a priest who are you to say nay?’
‘I’m his papa, I say no son of mine will join the Church.’
‘Well, I’m his mamma and I say he will.’
Once the illness had struck hard, taking the wind out of all these arguments as he struggled for breath, there was no time to worry about any of it.
Angelo was stuck in a bed made from two leather armchairs, looking out over the street, watching the horses and carts, listening to the honking horns of automobiles, putting on a brave face while he waited for the priest to call for the last time. He sat staring at his little box of photographs of Maria and the baby he never got to meet. And of course that little shoe.
They all knew the story of the scarpetta, the one Angelo was convinced was his first daughter’s bootee. ‘She lives,’ he smiled, waving towards the street. ‘Out there . . . my Alessia. I know it.’ He would point to his heart and the tale of the Titanic’s sinking was repeated over and over again until the whole family knew every detail by heart. How he’d been on the building site when the news came, how he’d waited at the dockside but Maria and Alessia hadn’t appeared, how he’d gone to the White Star offices every day and seen for himself their names on the list of missing passengers.
Kathleen would calm him when he started to cough and splutter, getting upset. ‘If she’s out there, one day she’ll find you . . . and if not, she’s with the saints and waiting for you.’
One day the doctor called, accompanied by a colleague from the hospital, who pounded Angelo’s chest and made him take deep breaths. ‘What he needs is good sea air away from the city – mountain air,’ was his verdict.
Angelo laughed. ‘Have we won the lottery? There’s a family here who needs feeding, or haven’t you noticed?’ he sneered at Gianni Falcone, a good man but not living in their world. ‘I’m a goner. Just give it to me straight, how long?’
The man ignored his question. ‘You lost your wife on the Titanic, every one knows. There is a fund still going, and a chance that you could qualify for some financial compensation. And you lost your health in the army, yes? Two cracks at the whip, Angelo.’
‘I ain’t no charity case.’
‘No, listen,’ Kathleen said, pleading, flashing those magnificent eyes. ‘With that money we could get you away, give you a chance to heal. There are medicines we could buy.’
‘You can’t heal what I’ve got, they’ve already told me.’
‘Not so fast before you order your shroud; things have moved on since the war.’
‘Where could I go, out west?’ he asked, suddenly feeling hope surging through his veins despite himself.
‘Better than that, Angelo.’ Kathleen waved a slip of paper into his face. ‘How about Italy? The sea air, the mountain breezes of Tuscan hills, a chance to see your parents before they pass from us? I have sent off a form for a special grant. The doctor will sign it.’
‘But the children, it’s a long way . . .’
‘They stay with me. This is your trip. It’s you who needs the cure. I don’t want to lose you. We love you.’
Angelo felt the tears coursing down his cheeks. ‘You are a good woman.’
‘I know, but I need you around for years to come. I’ve lots of work for you to do. Don’t you think it’s worth a try?’
He nodded, seeing how serious her face was, and after they’d gone, he sank back with relief at the thought of seeing his old country once more.
84
Akron
Celeste dressed with care for this most important visit of her life.
She was nervous, having sat for hours on the train dreading the thought of returning to a place where she had been both happy and sad. Only the thought of seeing Roddy again made her determined. She’d wired ahead, hoping someone would meet her because she didn’t know where their new house was. It was a grey cloudy day, in keeping with her mood. What if this visit was a disaster?
As the train drew in, she caught a glimpse of factories and chimneys, wide roads busy with trucks, all the industry of the town. Akron was growing prosperous. It had left her behind almost fifteen years ago. She picked up her suitcase and parcels, trying not to shake. She was all fingers and thumbs today.
Then on the platform she saw him: her son, no longer a chubby boy in knickerbockers, but a lanky youth crowned with a flock of blond hair, wearing jacket and flannels. He had come himself; a good sign. She choked at the sight of him, so tall and handsome. ‘Oh, Roddy! I’ve missed you so much.’
She wanted to hug him but sensed he would be embarrassed by any public show of emotion. She’d seen it so many times when parents left their boys in her care to escort them back to boarding school: the little ones clung, the older boys always swallowed and coughed and pretended it was all very easy.
‘You look neat,’ Roddy smiled politely holding out his hand to her. ‘Have you had a good journey? Grandma has made tea for us. You’ll love the house.’ He carried her case and took her arm. She could have cried with the pain of being separated so long and this excruciating politeness. Who was this young man? Celeste suddenly felt afraid. I’ve lost him. Things will never be the same again. And another fear sprang to her mind. How was she going to survive after these precious days? But she was here now, a dream at last fulfilled, and nothing could or would spoil this reunion.
The house was ridiculous, an ostentatious facsimile of an Italian villa, all turrets and fancy stonework. It had a formal front drive and wide iron gates, which were flung open. Harriet stood at the door, a shadow of her former self, shrunken and wearing a deep grey long skirt and a fussy ruffled blouse of the old pre-war style. She was now quite white-haired and had to wear spectacles.
‘So you’ve made it,’ Harriet said with a coolness that couldn’t be mistaken for manners.
‘Yes, I’m here, I can’t believe how Roddy has grown.’
‘Grover is away on business. So we have the house to ourselves for a while. Roderick will show you to your room. Tea will be in the sun room at four. I’m sure you’d like to freshen up and rest for a while.’
This was going to be harder than Celeste had hoped, but she was relieved Grover was away. She looked up at the brightening sky. ‘What I’d really like is a brisk walk; I’ve been sitting so long on the train. Roddy, could you recommend us somewhere to get fresh air?’ She turned to her son. The chance to spend some time alone with him was uppermost in her mind.
‘Cuyahoga Falls. The riverbed walk is good but not in those shoes,’ he smiled, looking down at her. She couldn’t stop marvelling at his height.
‘Give me five minutes to unpack and change. I’ve got just the pair,’ she said, forcing herself to sound casual yet bullish.
‘Tea at five, then, Grandma?’ said Roddy.
‘If you must,’ Harriet sighed, ringing the servants
’ bell. ‘But don’t be late.’
‘When am I ever late?’ Roddy joked and his face broke into a wide grin. Celeste felt herself relax. A spring of hope bubbled up inside her. If this visit worked it would be a springboard for others to come. And then maybe, just maybe, he’d come home.
Roddy couldn’t believe his mother was here, striding out across the river path as if they’d never been apart. She filled him in on all the news: Uncle Selwyn’s new mission to help war veterans, Ella’s first term at college, Mr McAdam teaching class and playing cricket for the Theological College.
He created pictures in his mind of the tree-lined road to Red House, with the conker tree and the gate to the canal bridge at Streethay. He could see the cathedral lit with candles and the choirboys in their stalls. It felt so real but so far away. It was another world, a world he’d left behind all those years ago. Mom asked him about school and what his father had planned for him next: Harvard or Akron University in town? He didn’t know why she was asking this. He’d once dreamed of going to Oxford, when Mr McAdam told him tales of river punting, boat races, the stone colleges and rugby games, but that was before he moved here.
There were so many questions he wanted to ask her about home, and so much he sensed she wanted to ask him. He was sure she’d want to know why he had deserted them but it was safer to stay on casual topics for now, idle chitchat. He took her in the direction of the Portage Path and the Indian statue.
‘I used to walk here before you were born,’ she smiled, staring out over the view. He’d forgotten how pretty she was and how her hair gleamed like gold in the sunshine.
‘Why did we leave here?’ He blurted out the question troubling him for years now.
‘Because your father and I couldn’t agree on lots of things.’
