by Irene Carr
4
MARCH 1894, SOUTH ATLANTIC
The storm came on them suddenly as they were rounding the Horn. First there was just a black bar along the horizon but this thickened with every blink of the eye until it loomed as a huge cloud. Young William Morgan stood on the bridge of the SS Glendower with the other apprentices, receiving instruction in the noon observation of the sun from the first officer. This was his first voyage and his sextant was brand new. So was his uniform, but that already showed signs of wear: weeks at sea had seen to that. He had a small sum, left him by his father, but that was held in a trust, so Edward Spencer had paid for his kit and the sextant. At thirteen he was the youngest of the four apprentices but not the shortest. Tall for his age, he stood eye to eye with one of his colleagues and topped another by an inch or two.
The first officer finished taking his sight and ordered, ‘Belay that! We’re in for some dirty weather. See everything is lashed down.’ He called the captain to the bridge as the boys scattered to put away their sextants and turn to.
When the gale struck William was returning from working on the forecastle. ‘Buck up there, lad!’ a voice behind him bawled. ‘You don’t want to be out in this. I’ve just been in the fo’c’sle spinning a yarn wi’ Billy Danvers, him that has splints on his broken leg. I told him, “Stay where you are in your bunk, you’re better off there.” Aye. Who’d be a sailor at a time like this? We’re in for a blow!’ It was the ship’s cook, Archibald Godolphin, short, stout and prematurely bald — he was only in his early thirties. He was going back to his galley in the superstructure amidships. As he passed William he grabbed the lifeline rigged along the deck. ‘Come on, lad!’
William followed, used to Archie’s patronising him; he got it from the seamen as well. He knew there was no one more useless than a raw apprentice. He had to earn their respect. But one day he would captain his own ship, he was sure of that. Meanwhile he would not take the patronage tamely. ‘Aye, aye, Admiral,’ he twitted Archie.
They were down in the waist now and working their way aft, hand over hand along the line. As the ship rolled they saw dark sky at one moment, then the sea standing above them like a cliff. The last wave that broke inboard washed around their knees and tried to pluck them loose. Archie swung round on the rope to point a warning finger: ‘Don’t give me any o’ your lip, lad. I’m the cook aboard this flaming ship and you’re just—’
William yelled a warning as the ship rolled wildly and the next wave hung over them. Then it fell. It battered William to the deck, washed over his head and he clung to the line desperately. When he could see and breathe again, he struggled to his feet. Archie was no longer with him. The line looped along the deck but William was the only one on it. Then he saw that the cook had been snatched from it and lay in the scuppers ten yards away. He was scrabbling at the deck as he tried to regain his feet. Now came another big wave, hovering, falling.
‘Look out! Hang on!’ William shrieked. Then he realised there was nothing for Archie to hang on to. The big sea slammed on to the deck. William braced himself and while it surged up to his chest he stayed on his feet. It covered the hatches of the forward holds and took the cook with it in a tangle of arms, legs and bald head. It carried him inboard then sucked him out again. By God’s mercy it took him close to William and he reached out as the man passed, clamped his hand on Archie’s fat wrist. The ship rolled, the sea fell away and the cook hung from William’s grip as the ship tilted and the deck was nearly vertical rather than horizontal. William hung on grimly — his arm felt as though it would be pulled out of its socket.
Slowly the ship righted herself, and Archie reached up with his free hand to seize the lifeline. Together William and he worked their way along it to the safety of the superstructure. They stepped over the coaming into the passage and slammed the door behind them. Their struggle had been seen from the bridge and now one of the officers and a clutch of seamen came running. They gathered round, relieved to see the pair safe and sound. ‘That was well done, young Bill,’ the officer said.
William smiled bashfully, but Archie, recovering now, said, ‘Thank you, lad. If it hadn’t been for you I’d ha’ gone to the bottom.’
‘No,’ William replied. ‘The sea took you but then it washed you inboard again.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think it wanted you, Archie.’
The men around them guffawed and Archie grinned sheepishly. ‘I asked for that.’
William was glad when talk of his lifesaving prowess faded away with the days, as they entered the Pacific and ploughed north. But the captain entered an account of the incident in the ship’s log and wrote a letter of commendation for William’s gallantry. And the boy had gained Archie’s respect and a friend.
* * *
Months later, when the Glendower came home and paid off, Edward Spencer learned of his ward’s bravery in a letter from the captain. There was also a report stating that William’s conduct had been Very Good throughout the voyage. Edward took it with him when he travelled to London to visit his brother in his big house at Wimbledon. This was at Charles’s invitation; he had spoken of it as an olive branch. In fact, the younger man only wanted to display the ostentatious signs of his success: his house, horses, his fashionably dressed wife and their friends.
‘I’ve more than doubled my investment over the past two years,’ he told Edward, ‘buying and selling on the Exchange, y’know. But you have to know what you’re doing. And I’m trying to get into Lloyds, as a Name, insuring ships. There’s money to be made there, by Jove! But you have to take a risk, and again, know what you’re doing.’
Edward wondered uneasily if Charles did. But he knew he was in no position to argue. And then Charles said, ‘It’s good to be friends again. We can put all the other business behind us.’
Edward agreed wholeheartedly with that. But when he tried to talk of William he found that Charles preferred to gossip about London and his life in the City, casually dropping a name here and there. Nor was Charles interested in his daughter, except as an exhibit, like his wife. Edward was not impressed by the eight-year-old Cecily: she had listened to him talk of his home and his work but was obviously bored and said so as she walked away. Edward thought her precocious and ill-mannered.
Millicent seemed to live her own life, entertaining or being entertained by other rich wives. Edward saw little of her or Cecily during the week he was there, except when Charles ordered a dinner party, in honour of his brother’s visit, on the night before his departure. Then mother and daughter attended, richly gowned and undeniably lovely. Brought out like the best china, Edward thought. He also thought, uneasily, that Millicent was paying too much attention to a young Guards officer, but told himself he was probably imagining things. Charles did not seem to notice.
After the other guests had gone Edward and his brother sat in the library for a nightcap. It was a handsome room, expensively furnished like the rest of the house, and all of the books were new and untouched. Charles had soon finished his whisky, although Edward’s glass was still half full. ‘I’m going to retire,’ he said. ‘I have to go to my office tomorrow — some important business — so I’ll bid you farewell now.’
‘I’ll be another ten minutes,’ Edward said.
They shook hands and Charles said, ‘It’s been good to see you, to be together again.’
Edward was sure he meant it. As he sat on alone, though, he felt melancholy. He told himself that it was because he was leaving the next day — but knowing the cause did not make him feel better. He downed the whisky in a gulp and went to bed. As he came to the head of the stairs he heard voices.
Millicent, from her room: ‘Edward will hear—’
Charles: ‘He’s still in the library. Don’t make excuses. You were fawning on that chap tonight and we’d agreed we’d both be discreet. Disgraceful!’
Millicent: ‘What about you and that Tierney woman just last week?’
Charles: ‘You were otherwise engaged yourself that night. I
told you I’d be more careful. I’m just telling you to be the same. Now come here.’
Millicent: ‘Why?’ There was a pause, then she laughed softly. ‘Well ...’ A door closed.
Edward walked quietly back down the stairs and into the library. He poured himself another whisky, a stiff one, and sat staring into the embers of the fire. He was shocked. They were man and wife and it was none of his affair but— He consoled himself that at least Cecily had not overheard the conversation.
He did not know she had heard others.
* * *
As young William Morgan completed his first voyage, Andrew Thornton came home from his last. He pushed in through the kitchen door with his big sea-bag on his shoulder. It held all his kit, including his ‘donkey’s breakfast’, a straw-filled mattress. He let it fall to the floor with a thump as Kitty and eight-year-old Eliza threw themselves into his arms. He held them both and laughed. ‘Aye! I’m home for good! I’ve been promised a job ashore and I’ll plough the seas no more!’
Kitty shed tears of joy and Eliza pleaded, ‘Can I stay home from school today, Mam?’
Kitty was firm, though sympathetic: ‘I know you haven’t seen your dad for three months but he’ll be here tonight when you come home. In fact, he’ll be here every night from now on so you must go to school.’
Andrew backed her up: ‘Aye, you go to school. I might meet you when you come out.’
So Eliza trailed off disconsolately, but soon became more cheerful and finally danced into the teeming playground. She told everyone she knew that ‘My dad has come home for good.’ She even told the new girl, Betty Wood, who had just come to the school because her father had moved from Stockton to work on the Tyne. Betty was a small blonde girl and Eliza found her in the girls’ lavatory. She flinched when Eliza entered and only blinked when she heard the news. Then the bell rang out in the playground and both girls ran to join their class. They formed up two by two under the watchful eye of their teacher.
Amelia Parkin was straight-backed, thin, with a prim mouth and no-nonsense eyes looking bleakly down her nose. A teacher for twenty years, she had established her authority early and maintained it throughout the school lives of her charges. At school they respected her. When they looked back afterwards they added affection to respect.
Eliza put up her hand. ‘Please, Miss, my dad came home from sea today. He’s not going away again.’
Miss Parkin smiled briefly. ‘That’s good news. I’m pleased for your sake.’ Her voice raised only fractionally, ‘Quiet now.’ A hush fell over the forty children, whose eyes were on her. ‘March in.’ They trooped into their classroom to start their day.
Eliza soon settled down, behaved herself and answered quickly when called upon. Some of the others could only produce a blank stare when asked a question. Betty Wood was the worst, seemingly capable of saying only, ‘I don’t know, Miss.’
Amelia Parkin pursed her lips disapprovingly.
When they stopped for the morning playtime break she called, ‘Eliza and Betty! Stay behind!’ When the others had streamed out she said, ‘I want you two to sit together and, Eliza, you must help Betty to catch up. You understand?’
‘Yes, Miss Parkin,’ Eliza replied, and followed Betty out to the playground.
‘Here she is!’ The hissed call came from behind the shed where the caretaker kept his tools. It stood close by the high school wall, but with a yard-wide gap between. Una Gubbins had spoken, a tall, narrow-faced, bony girl, whose parents ran a cheap boarding-house with a dubious reputation. With her was Luke Cooper; his mother kept a drunken husband and a corner shop selling sweets and toffee, and it showed in Luke’s bulging belly; he was known as ‘Piggy’. Both were bigger than Eliza and in the class above her, and while usually the children played and made friends with their own sex, these two had formed an unholy alliance. It was Luke who grabbed Betty by the hair and yanked her into the hidey-hole between wall and shed.
Eliza, startled, said, ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ But she had already guessed.
Luke was holding Betty while Una laughed and punched her. ‘You shove off,’ he said. He threw out a careless hand to push Eliza away and succeeded in slapping her face.
Fury gripped her. How dare he? She reached in, twined her fingers in his hair and hauled on it as if in a tug o’ war. ‘How do you like it?’ He did not and howled, then let go of Betty. Una tried to reach over him to get at Eliza but only for her legs to tangle with his and they both fell. Eliza gave one last yank to help him on his way and he hit the ground nose first. Una tried to seize her leg but Eliza evaded her and stamped on her clutching fingers, then kicked out for good measure. She missed, almost, but grazed Una’s thin-lipped mouth. The blood shed mingled with that from Luke’s nose. Una saw it and screeched in horror.
Eliza held out a hand to Betty: ‘Come on!’ She dragged her out into the playground — just as Miss Parkin appeared.
She saw the panting Eliza and the tearful Betty, as Luke and Una spilled from behind the shed, bleeding. ‘What is going on here?’ Eliza told her, and a weeping Betty admitted that the two had bullied her ever since she started at the school. ‘Mind you tell me if anything like this happens again,’ said Miss Parkin, tight-lipped. She glanced at Eliza. ‘Off you go, the pair of you.’ When they had left she snapped, ‘Not you two!’
Una had been edging away. ‘My mouth’s bleeding, Miss,’ she whined.
‘Serves you right.’ Miss Parkin glared from her to Luke. ‘It’s not the first time you two have been in trouble. It’s the headmaster for you, and if you don’t improve, one of these days there’ll be a policeman coming for you and it will be the reform school. Now, go and tidy yourselves.’
That silenced them. First the head and then— The reformatory was a fearsome place of legend.
They never bothered Eliza and Betty again.
Sitting side by side in the classroom every day, the two girls soon became friends. Early on, Betty said shyly, ‘Would you mind if I called you Liza? It sounds more friendly, like.’
‘Liza?’ She listened to the sound of it and liked it. ‘Aye, that’s all right.’ And she told her mother, ‘I’m Liza now.’
‘I called you Eliza because I thought your father would like it. That was his mother’s name.’ She glanced at Andrew, who was sitting on the other side of the fireplace.
He grinned. ‘Kitty, Eliza or Liza. I’ve got what I want now, anyway.’
5
SUMMER 1899, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE
‘Now you’ve got to say, “Yes, Miss Parkin.” Go on.’ Liza stood in front of the class, pointing at the blackboard with the teacher’s cane and looking down her nose as Miss Parkin did, lips pursed.
They all giggled and chorused, ‘Yes, Miss Parkin.’
‘Do Mr Blackaby again,’ Betty said.
Liza gave her imitation of the school caretaker as he came to stoke up the fire at the front of the class, shuffling bent-kneed with an imaginary scuttle full of coal, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. This time the giggles were louder. ‘Do Mr Stewart!’
Miss Parkin, who had been watching surreptitiously from outside, decided now that enough was enough and walked in. The giggles were replaced by a shocked silence. Liza straightened as her teacher raised a warning finger. ‘I trust you do not dare to mimic the headmaster.’ In fact, she knew that Liza did — and so did Mr Stewart. She did not wait for an answer but waved Liza to her seat beside Betty Wood. ‘Now, then, dictation and handwriting ...’
Liza and the class heaved a silent sigh of relief: there was to be no punishment. They did not know why, were just glad.
Amelia Parkin knew that their schooldays were nearly over now and that they would soon be cast out into the world of work, which would probably be back-breaking and certainly poorly paid. She was fond of them and could not chastise them now, could only pray that what she had been able to do for them would help along the way.
The following day Betty sought out Liza in the schoolyard. ‘We’r
e moving,’ she said miserably. ‘My dad’s found another job in Hartlepool and we’re all going to live there.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Liza said. They had been friends for five years now. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I won’t know anybody there and I’ll be going out to work in a strange place.’
Liza put an arm round her. ‘Cheer up. I bet it’ll be really nice and you’ll love it. Now come on, smile.’ And, when Betty managed a feeble response, ‘That’s better. I’ll be starting work as well, but I don’t know where.’ A week later they embraced for the last time and Betty went off to Hartlepool.
Liza’s parents were concerned for their daughter’s future and discussed it. ‘When she leaves school I’d like her to go into service in a big house like I did,’ Kitty said. ‘It’s hard work and long hours but you have some security. She can sew, wash and iron, and she’s been out to confinements a dozen times with me and Jinnie. There’s not many can say that.’
Security was important. Andrew’s work in the shipyards was broken by periods when the yard he worked for ran out of orders. Over the years when he had been ashore he had been out of work for weeks, sometimes months. More than once he had said, ‘I’ll get a ship.’
But Kitty had answered fiercely: ‘No! You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’re nearly sixty now and that’s far ower old for going back to sea.’
He had obeyed reluctantly and until he found work again they had lived on their tiny savings and what Kitty could make from cleaning.
Now he argued, ‘She’s still only thirteen and I don’t want her leaving home yet.’
Kitty sighed. ‘Neither do I. And, anyway, all these big houses want older lasses with a bit of experience. But, remember, both of us left home early. It’s the way the world is.’ She looked out of the window to the backyard where Liza was pegging out some washing. ‘But isn’t she growing up a bonny lass? And aren’t you glad you gave up the sea and you’re able to see it?’
