by Anna Jacobs
He’d probably never see her again, but he was deeply grateful to her for wakening his senses. It gave him hope that one day he might feel himself a proper man again, even be able to marry and have children. Was that possible? Dare he hope?
What was the old saying? One swallow does not a summer make. He mustn’t get his hopes too high. But still …
Then he remembered his eldest brother Robert, who had children, two delightful little daughters. Gil dismissed his own problems, which were minor matters. Robert and his family had been on the Titanic, might even have been killed.
Please, God, let them all have got off the ship safely!
‘We’d better visit my parents, Walter, and catch a later train back to Swindon. They might need me.’ He didn’t always visit them when he came to London, because they always found something to nag him about, couldn’t seem to believe that he was happy living at Oakdene House. But this was a time for families to stick together.
He found his mother at home, trying and failing to keep a stiff upper lip. She fell into Gil’s arms and for the first time he found himself in the comforting, supporting role with her.
‘They must be safe. They must be. They can’t be dead. Not my lovely boy! Not those little girls.’ She sobbed against his chest.
‘We must hope for the best, pray for them.’ Such trite words, but what else could he say? He felt so helpless.
‘Your father’s gone to the club to see if he can find out more there.’ She mopped her eyes again. ‘I don’t know why he thinks he will. He should have stayed home to comfort me, be with me, in case we … heard something.’
Gil could guess exactly why his father had gone out. His father couldn’t cope with sadness and tears, even in a minor way. And now, with a family tragedy possible, he wouldn’t know how to deal with a wife in such distress.
‘You won’t leave me, Gil, will you?’ she begged. ‘Not till we know?’
‘Of course I won’t.’
In the end, he sent Walter to buy a few things they needed and used his old clothes from the attic, sharing some of them with Walter. His mother wanted him with her at all times and clung tightly to his hand every time the parlourmaid brought in the latest edition of a newspaper.
He realised in mild surprise that his parents had probably never faced anything so disastrous. They’d had a pleasant, uneventful life and hadn’t lost a child, as so many families did. His own accident had been the worst they’d faced.
If Gil hadn’t learnt the hard way to cope with problems, he’d be no use to them now. Strange to be thankful for that. He knew now that you could face major upsets in life and continue. They had yet to learn that.
But perhaps Robert and his family would be all right. After all, a third of the people on board the ship had survived, so there was a fairly good chance Robert might have been among the lucky ones.
Not as good a chance that all four of them had survived, though. He shivered. What a dreadful thought.
Renie hurried round to the rear of the hotel and went in by the employees’ entrance. She found the staff upset by the tragedy, stopping in small groups to discuss it and share the latest news. She didn’t join in these conversations, but nodded occasionally or muttered, ‘Mmm’ or ‘Terrible’.
It seemed that several of their regular customers had been on the ship. That wasn’t like having family on it, though. She felt sorry about the customers in a vague way, but she felt far more sorry for that poor young man whose brother had been involved. She remembered his surname, would check the lists of deaths that would surely be published in the newspapers to see if anyone called Rycroft was on it.
It was none of her business, but she couldn’t help being interested. Gil was such a good-looking man, and so kind. Very different from her brother-in-law Cliff, or the men who sometimes pestered her at the markets. She’d have liked to get to know Gil.
There she went again, daydreaming like an idiot. A gentleman like that wouldn’t even look twice at a girl like her, and even if he did, he’d not marry her, even if she wanted to get married, which she didn’t. At least most of the time she thought she didn’t …
But still …
‘Oh, Irene, there you are.’
She turned. ‘Yes, Mrs Tolson?’
‘Could you please stay in the foyer and keep an eye open for lady customers who might need soothing.’
Renie did that, and was able to provide cups of tea and encouragement to keep their hopes up to two elderly ladies, whose nephew was on the Titanic, and later to the wife of a regular customer who had also sailed on that ship.
It was a strange sort of day at the hotel. Customers were upset by the sinking of the Titanic, even when they didn’t have friends or relatives involved. Staff were upset too. New editions of each newspaper were rushed in and snatched from the counter before their purchase could be noted against the room numbers.
In the end, Mr Greaves sent a message round to all staff to stay calm, and they tried, they really did. But it was such a terrible tragedy that the smallest thing would set some of the women off weeping.
Mrs Tolson came to find her later. ‘You’ve done well today, Irene. Mr Greaves saw you help those old ladies and was very pleased about how you did it. They needed a woman, not a man, at a time like that.’
‘Thank you. I was glad I could help them.’
‘Once this fuss is over and done with, we’ll be moving you into the office for a while.’ She smiled as she added, ‘And you’ll have a new title from now on – “housekeeper’s assistant”. We’ll raise your wages to go with that. You’ve worked very hard, and both Mr Greaves and I are proud of you. Young as you are, you’re doing just what he wanted.’
When she was alone, Renie couldn’t help beaming. She had tried her hardest not to let them down. She’d paid for her new status in loneliness and less money, but now she was about to get her reward. Housekeeper’s assistant! How grand that sounded. Nell would be so pleased.
The news came to the Rycrofts at last and it was very bad. Gil’s father was at his club, his brother Jonathon was at home in Tonbridge Wells, where his wife had inherited a house. As second son, Jonathon had become a lawyer and had joined his wife’s uncle’s practice. In fact, it had been a very useful marriage in several ways and Jonathon was doing very well for himself. He was now awaiting the birth of his first child.
When the butler brought the telegram in to Gil’s mother, she took it with a hand that trembled and dismissed him with a mutter.
She sat staring at the telegram for so long, Gil took her hand. ‘Shall I open it for you, Mother?’
Nodding, she passed it to him, then clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles showed white.
He opened it and read it first, feeling sick with sadness. There was no way to soften the news but he hated to say the words.
‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes. Very bad.’ He took her hand. ‘We’ve lost three of them, Mother: Robert, Harriet and little Jennifer.’
He half expected her to scream or fall into hysterics, but instead she sat very still, rocking slightly, staring blindly towards a patch of sunlight on the carpet, her hand limp in his.
‘Mother? Are you all right?’
She turned slowly to look at him. ‘No. I’m … frozen. I can’t seem to think beyond the news. What must we do? Tell me what to do.’
This was so unlike her. She normally knew exactly what to do. Gil spoke gently. ‘I think I should go and fetch Father from the club, then we’ll decide together what to do next. Don’t forget there’s little Elizabeth, on her own in New York.’
‘Poor thing. Someone will have to go and fetch her, I suppose.’
‘You and Father, presumably. Harriet’s parents are in India.’ He waited a moment then asked, ‘Will you be all right if I go and fetch Father now? I don’t think we should send a servant or even a note. Not for this.’
‘Send for my maid first, then go,’ she said. ‘You’re right. Ber
tram has to be told in person. And I … must change into my blacks.’ She pressed her hand against her mouth as if to hold in her anguish, but tears spilt from her eyes and ran down over her fingers.
At the club Gil had a word with Peterson, who was a sort of glorified butler and ran the place. When he explained why he’d come, there was no question of finding someone to sign him in. Peterson himself took him to his father, who was sitting in his usual armchair, hidden behind a newspaper.
But though it was late in the morning, only one page had been turned and his father was staring blankly at the nearby window. He didn’t put the newspaper down until Gil said, ‘I need to speak to you, Father. There’s … news. Bad news, I’m afraid.’
He waited until his father had carefully folded up the newspaper, then told him, not going into details, or asking what to do.
His father’s face was expressionless, but it began to flush, turning a sort of purplish red. He smelt of port, early as it was to be drinking, and he kept pressing a hand against his chest. ‘Indigestion.’
Gil waited, but his father continued to sit there, saying nothing, just frowning and continuing to press one hand against his chest.
‘We need to go home,’ he said at last. ‘Mother will need you.’
‘Mmmh.’ His father tried to stand up and fell back. His eyes rolled up and he slumped in his chair.
Gil shouted for help and Peterson came running, taking in the situation at a glance.
‘I’ll send for a doctor. There’s one nearby we’ve used before.’
It seemed a long time till the doctor came, though it was only minutes. Gil loosened his father’s tie and removed the stiff winged collar, making soothing murmurs. He didn’t know what else to do and was glad to stand back and let the doctor examine his father.
The doctor shook his head and whispered, ‘It’s a seizure. Not much you can do but nurse him and hope for the best.’
Gil looked at him in shock.
‘It’s in God’s hands whether he’ll survive or not. Take him home and I’ll send a nurse round to your house.’
‘Thank you.’ Gil turned and found that the redoubtable Peterson had already borrowed a carriage from another member and arranged for two men to carry Mr Rycroft out to it.
Gil followed, tipped them all for their trouble and asked if the two men could come with him to do the same service at the other end of the journey, after which they could ride back in the carriage.
He sat crowded on one seat with them, watching his father’s still body on the other. He made sure the unconscious man didn’t roll off, but that was all he could do.
At the house, he flung the front door open and hurried inside, relieved to find Walter coming across the hall towards him. Gil whispered what had happened and left Walter to show the two men carrying his father up to his bedroom.
His mother’s maid opened the door of her bedroom. ‘She’s lying down in her dressing room, Mr Gil.’
‘I need to see her.’
‘But—’
He pushed past the maid and went across to tell his mother what had happened. To his relief, the dreadful frozen expression was replaced at once by a more alert look.
‘I’ll organise his bedroom,’ she said. ‘Please get Rawson to send for our own doctor and thank the men who carried him up.’
After that there was little Gil could do but wait while others tended his father.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she told her son. ‘You’ll stay, won’t you? Till we’re sure … what’s going to happen.’
‘Of course I will.’
He didn’t sleep well. The night was disturbed by voices, doors being closed quietly, though not quietly enough that you didn’t know someone was moving around.
The first day or two were the most dangerous time after a seizure, everyone said. Gil could only doze and hope for the best.
His parents had never shown any sign of loving one another, until now.
In April, Renie received a letter from her sister. It was passed to her in the evening when she was sitting with the others after their meal. She’d been worried because she hadn’t heard from Nell for a couple of weeks, but she’d been so busy the past week that she hadn’t found time to write and ask her sister if something was wrong.
She was relieved to see the letter, but it felt very light, with only one sheet of paper in it. This had happened a time or two before when little Sarah was sick, or the minister’s wife wasn’t well. Mrs Garrett had helped Nell when they first moved to Milnrow, so if she needed help in turn, Nell always helped out. Cliff grumbled about that, but her sister would never turn away from a friend in need.
The handwriting was shaky and there was what looked like a tear stain on the address. Her heart clenched. It was bad news, she was sure. What could have happened? Was Nell ill?
She hesitated, because she usually liked to open her letters in private, but she couldn’t bear to wait. Inside was less than a page of writing and not only was the ink blotchy in places but the paper was blistered. Nell had definitely been crying when she wrote this.
Dearest Renie,
I have sad news to tell you and no way to soften the blow.
Over two weeks ago there was a gas explosion in our house and it killed Cliff and Sarah. I was out at the shops at the time, so I escaped.
I’ve buried them both and am trying to pull myself together, but I can’t help weeping for my darling child.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself, but for the time being I’m staying with the Garretts. They’ve been very kind to me, but nothing really helps.
I’m all right for money because Cliff had taken out insurance on our lives.
Don’t try to come up to Lancashire to see me. I mean that. I won’t be staying here much longer. I’ll let you know where I go when I figure it out myself. I just know I have to get away.
Nell
Renie burst into tears, weeping wildly and rocking to and fro. After a moment’s shocked silence, one of the other women came to sit beside her, then held her as she continued to sob. A circle gathered round them.
‘What’s wrong? Tell us what’s wrong.’
She couldn’t speak for weeping, and the next thing she knew, Miss Pilkins was there.
‘Come with me, Renie.’
They tugged her to her feet and someone picked up the letter and gave it to Miss Pilkins. Renie let them take her where they wanted. She kept seeing her little niece’s face, remembering the cuddles and fun they’d had.
It was a while before she could calm down. She realised she was in Miss Pilkins’ bedroom, next to the dormitory, and Maud was there with them.
‘What’s wrong, Renie?’
She tried to put it into words and couldn’t. ‘It’s in the letter.’
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Miss Pilkins held out a crumpled piece of paper.
She nodded. ‘Read it.’ Then she pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to keep her anguish in.
Little Sarah was dead.
She couldn’t seem to get past that thought. Her lovely little niece. How could Nell face that? How could God let such a terrible thing happen to an innocent child?
‘Dear heaven! How terrible!’
Miss Pilkins passed the letter to Maud, who gasped and said in a choked voice, ‘I read about that accident in the paper, only I didn’t know it was Renie’s sister. Oh, my dear girl, how can we help?’
Renie could only stare at them, feeling blank, unable to think clearly.
‘She needs some time to be quiet. We’ll move her to the sickroom. Is that all right, dear?’
It was a moment or two before the words sank in, then she realised that they were offering her a chance to be alone, so Renie nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
They moved her things, brought her cocoa, fussed over her. But it didn’t help the pain. She kept thinking of Nell, wanting to be with her sister. Only she couldn’t be, because Nell was moving and might not even be there if Reni
e went up to Milnrow.
All she could do was write a letter. Not till she’d calmed down, though. And even then it’d be hard. What comfort could you offer at a time like this?
‘You’re very kind,’ she said at last. ‘But I need to be by myself now, to try to … take it in.’
‘Of course. And don’t bother if you’re late for work in the morning. I’ll explain.’
But she shook her head. ‘I’d rather go to work. If I sit here, I’ll just weep. I’ll write to my sister after breakfast, though, before I start. Would that be all right?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll make sure someone fetches your breakfast to you here and some writing paper, too.’
Then they were gone.
But the pain wouldn’t go. Or the deep sorrow.
Little Sarah was dead and Nell was all alone in the world, with no one to comfort her.
Renie was alone, too. This tragedy had made her feel utterly helpless.
It wasn’t until the following morning that she really considered the fact that Cliff was dead. She didn’t feel any sorrow for him, only a vague regret that anyone should die in such a terrible way. She couldn’t help being glad her sister was free of his petty, carping ways.
She remembered all too clearly how the gas stove had sometimes gone out for no reason for the whole time they’d been living in that slum. He’d refused point-blank to ‘pay good money’ to have it mended. There must have been a fault and … She sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling sick. Was it … could the explosion have been because of that?
It must have been. The stove was the only thing that used gas in that mean little house.
She wasn’t going to waste any more sympathy on Cliff. It was all his fault. She’d keep her sympathy for her poor sister and her dear little niece.
After Renie had written a long, loving letter to Nell, weeping as she wrote, she went to work, conscious of her swollen eyes. It was a while before she realised how gently the men in the hotel were treating her this morning.
They should have been kind before. People should always be kind to one another, because you never knew when fate would take away someone you loved. She’d lost her own mother when she was young and been brought up mainly by Mattie.
