He picked it up and examined it closely. Yes, it was finely executed Italian lace over a little cloth shoe, the sort of shoes women in his village made for their babies. He had lived surrounded by lacework all his life. It was how the women earned extra money in the mar-ketplace. It was one of the designs from their region. His heart leaped.
Angelo smiled with sheer relief. He must have missed them in the crowd. They’d arrived and passed him by. That was it. He shoved the baby shoe in his pocket and made for the welfare stand, his feet now dancing with relief. Holy Mother of God, they were not lost after all!
‘Maria, Alessia, where are you? I am here. I’ve been waiting. Look, Baby has lost her shoe. I’ve got her shoe,’ he shouted into the crowd.
‘Come on now, son,’ said a priest he didn’t know, trying to comfort him. ‘It’s just a shoe. Don’t take on so.’
‘No, it is my baby’s shoe. I know it. It is . . . They go to my address.’ Angelo was pushing his way through the crowds fuelled by a surge of hope now. When
he got to Baxter Street they would be there. Locked out, cross maybe, but alive. It was wet and cold. He must hurry. He didn’t want to lose them again.
In the days that followed, May and Celeste were overwhelmed with kindness and offers of help. The stalwart matrons of the Women’s Relief Committee arrived with endless boxes of provisions. In fact kindness was a poor choice of word for the sympathy showed to them all.
‘Look at these!’ May shouted across the room. ‘They’re new!’ Clothes were arriving in all shapes and sizes, good-quality garments, some brand new from stores that had donated racks of blouses, cardigans, trousers, a box of corsets and underwear, gloves and stockings. There were garters and suspenders, even hairpins and boots of all sizes, each with laces or button hooks inside them, and a box of discreet sanitary napkins, for which May was grate-ful. The stress had brought on her monthlies early.
There was a scrabble as women tried on dresses and shoes, shouting for the right size. For a moment they were just women let loose in a toy store. Suitcases were given to each
of them, along with a sympathy card from well-wishers. In fact, hundreds of cards and let-ters had been sent to the Star Hotel in Clarkson Street, where May was staying with Celeste, along with many other stranded survivors.
‘There’s a memorial service tonight in the cathedral. We should go,’ Celeste suggested. ‘It won’t be for the likes of me. Besides, I’m not leaving Ella with strangers.’ ‘Why not for you? And bring her with you. It’ll help the cause if the congregation see the
real widows and orphans who need their money.’ ‘I’m not a charity case or a freak show,’ May snapped in irritation. ‘Don’t be so touchy. They only want to help and feel needed. Everyone wants to help the
survivors. One look at Ella will open their purses wide.’ ‘I’d rather not.’
Celeste turned away and bit her lip. ‘Please yourself, I’m only trying to help.’ May could see Celeste was hurt.
‘You’ve been so kind but I think you ought to be heading back to see your little boy. Mr Bryden called in twice while you were out. I hope you don’t mind me saying . but he seems to think he’ll be in trouble if you don’t leave soon. He told me Mr Parkes wants you back as soon as possible and doesn’t like being checked.’
‘He can wait a little longer. I’m needed here too. I’ll telephone Grover and explain.’ From where May was standing it was as if Celeste was enjoying every minute of her stay
in New York, going to meetings, talking to newspapermen, stirring up comment. She didn’t have to earn a living or worry about the future. They came from different worlds and it was beginning to show.
‘You go to the service. I’m tired. I’ll be no company for anyone tonight. It takes every ounce of strength just to get through the day.’
Downtown Manhattan had been taken over with Titanic Disaster events; special services of remembrance had been organized in every district; Episcopal, Presbyterian, Catholic churches opening their doors in hospitality. Celeste frequently disappeared to give inter-views on behalf of the Women’s Relief Committee in the city to try to raise more funds while interest was high.
There was camaraderie among the survivors, a dazed exhausted retelling of their stories. Everyone huddled in groups but May had clung only to Celeste for comfort at first. Now she realized she must fend for herself.
Ella was being fractious, sensing all the change and fuss. No longer so docile or sleepy, she watched everyone with those huge eyes. She was dressed like a little princess, fussed over and handed round like a doll, which May knew was giving comfort to the other wid-ows even though she desperately wanted to keep the baby to herself.
The welfare officers arrived to take their details and informed May of a passage home the following week on the Celtic , if she chose to return.
‘Is there anyone you wish us to inform?’ the officer asked. May shook her head. ‘All I love lies at the bottom of the sea,’ she replied, and he bowed
his head in sympathy. ‘Liverpool will be fine. I can make my own way after that.’ Celeste was having none of it. ‘No, she will not. Mrs Smith will fill in all the forms and
get what she and her child are entitled to from the White Star Line and the relief funds. You must send a forwarding address to keep them informed. May, you must understand that as a dependant you’ll certainly be making a claim for support. She has no husband now and no belongings, nothing. Her sponsor in Idaho has been informed but Mrs Smith has no desire to stay on in America now.’
May hadn’t the energy or confidence to speak up for herself. She just wanted to disap-pear. ‘I just want to go home but I can’t think what to do now. I can’t go back to Bolton, not without Joe. I don’t want to see the faces of folk who knew us both. I haven’t got an idea in my head.’
‘Well, I have,’ said Celeste. ‘I’ve got an idea. If you really want a fresh start, I think I’ve got the answer but not before I’ve shown you some of the sites of this great city. You must see Central Park.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘It will do you good.’
When Celeste had an idea it was hard not to listen. How could May explain this was no holiday but a living nightmare, filling in time until she could return back to her own coun-try? She didn’t want to stroll in the park. It should be Joe who should be on her arm, not some stranger, kind as she was. She didn’t want Ella being fussed over and photographed – for reasons she must keep to herself.
May still couldn’t believe that no one in this past week, on board ship or on dry land, had laid claim to the baby. Holding Ella took her mind off Ellen, who visited her dreams every night, holding out her hands to be picked up when she fell in her little black leather boots. She woke crying out and it was always Celeste who came to her bedside.
‘It’s only a dream. Ella is safe. You are safe. Go back to sleep.’ Safe, May thought bitterly. If she only knew . . .
Angelo raced through the streets, alive to the thought that his family would be waiting in the rain. He was exhausted, it was the worst day of his life, but now there was hope. What if they got lost, or worse? The last few steps were agony. Breathless, he shouted, ‘Maria, I’m back . . .’ Then he saw Uncle Salvi’s face peering down at him, worried and drawn.
‘Oh, Angelo, we heard the news. We’ve been waiting.’ ‘Are they not here yet?’ he said, collapsing on the stairwell. ‘She has the address. She will
come.’
They waited for an hour in silence, Angelo pacing the floor in agony. ‘Just another hour and they will come. It’s a big city. Maria wouldn’t leave me.’
‘It’s late now. You must come home with me. It is no time to be alone.’ ‘No, I have to be here in case she comes. She’s travelled so far. I can’t let her down now.’ ‘She’s not coming, Angelo. She wasn’t there, was she?’ ‘But I have Baby’s shoe, look. Tuscan lace . I’d know it anywhere. Did we not bring a
whole package over to sell to the lace shops? Ple
ase, a little longer, Salvi.’ It was dawn when he was led like a child weeping, muttering to himself as Salvi took him
back to the shop, to Anna and into the bosom of his family. Dr Fortuna called and, seeing the state of him, administered a sleeping draught. They let him sleep on the sofa, not wanting him to return to the empty rooms.
‘I have to go. There might be news,’ he pleaded. Visitors called with cakes and flowers and condolences. He had a strange fever, hot and cold, breathless. He couldn’t work or think, crying out for his wife.
Father Bernardo came every day to comfort him, offering Mass for their souls. ‘Your heart is breaking but it will heal. Only prayer will ease your pain. They are in a bet-
ter place,’ he offered.
Angelo did not want to hear this. ‘But I want them with me. I know they are out there somewhere. I have put cards in the shops and the Italian newspaper. Look,’ he said, bright-ening, ‘there’s a woman coming to see me. She says she saw Maria on the ship with our baby. She is sure it is my Maria but she has to come a long way to talk to me so I sent her dollars for the train.’
‘What’s her name?’ Bernardo asked. ‘Let me see the letter.’ ‘Signora Bruno . . . look.’
‘Did she come?’
‘Not yet, but any day soon.’
The priest sighed. ‘I don’t think whoever wrote this will be coming. They’ve got your dollars. There’s always those who prey on suffering. The city is rife with hustlers claim-ing to be survivors needing cash, asking for favours, giving false hope to desperate people, telling lies for their own ends. I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m not giving up, Father. I have my baby’s shoe. She’s here. I know she is. She has been kidnapped or worse . . .’ He was back up pacing the floor.
‘Stop this, son. It’s grief talking. It’s been over a week now. You must face the truth. They didn’t survive.’
Angelo put his hands over his ears. ‘I’m not listening. They’re alive, my baby lives. Someone has stolen her.’
‘Oh, Angelo, listen to yourself. You are talking like a madman. This will not make your pain any easier. Come to Mass, to the memorial, see others like you who are trying to be brave.’
‘How can I pray to a God who destroys families?’ he said, turning on the priest in anger. ‘He didn’t sink the Titanic. From what I hear, it sank itself. He calmed the sea and kept the survivors safe. They say the ocean was like a millpond. Don’t blame God, blame the ship’s design,’ the priest answered, trying to calm him. ‘You must carry on as Maria would
want you to.’
‘What is there to live for now, you tell me?’ Angelo beat his chest. ‘Son, you have life and breath while others have none. The why of it all is a mystery too
big for me to fathom; how some are saved and some lost. We’ll be finding out soon enough. There’s to be an inquiry into the sinking. The truth will out. Until then, be brave. Salvi and Anna are so worried about you. I told them it’s early days but you are strong and young. Don’t let me down. Accept what must be borne, son.’
Angelo nodded politely. These words made sense in his head but not in his heart. It was still too full of hope.
Celeste and May made an emotional farewell at the quayside before the Celtic s ailed. What was left of the Titanic ’s returning crew would not be on board. They had been immediately separated from the other survivors, impounded to make witness statements, and were not al-lowed to return straight away. Celeste had offered her own statement to the officials but no one had seemed interested in her story. She had added the story of the captain’s heroism and the rescued baby but couldn’t recall the names of other witnesses on the lifeboat to verify her account.
‘How can I thank you?’ May cried, clinging to her. ‘You saved our lives. I shall never forget you.’
‘We’re sisters now.’ Celeste found herself crying too. ‘Sisters of the Titanic , bound by what we saw that night. You must write and tell me how you get on in Lichfield. Promise to write and maybe, God willing, I’ll come over with Roddy and we’ll meet again. When I write to you I will think of home. You will be my special link.’
‘I expect you will be very busy with your committees. You don’t have to write, you know. I shall never forget your kindness. Oh, and tell your husband, thank you for letting you be by my side. He must be desperate to see you.’
‘I will write and I’ll send you a photograph of Roderick and you must send me a portrait of Ella and yourself. We must never let people forget what happened to the Titanic. You must tell people at home what you saw and heard, all of it, good and bad. It must never happen again.’
They both looked up at the liner and May shivered with apprehension. Celeste felt herself hesitating. Why did she not want May to leave? ‘You don’t have to go
so soon. You can stay on and build up your strength before you face another sea voyage. I know what you are thinking: how can I get on another boat?’
May tried to be brave, and attempted a smile. ‘I just want to go home and get away from here. There’s no future for us here. We’ll manage now you’ve given me an opening. We’re better off in our own country, I reckon.’
‘Here.’ Celeste smiled, shoving a silver hip flask into her hand. ‘Someone gave it to me on board for Dutch courage. Take it. It’ll warm you through and help you sleep. It’s good French brandy.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve never tasted spirits in my life so I’ll not start now. I’ll manage with sweet tea and cocoa.’ May handed it back.
‘You are such a brave woman. I’m proud to have met you. How do you stay so calm?’ Celeste had tears in her eyes.
‘She gives me the strength to carry on.’ May nodded to the sleeping baby. ‘She comes first. We’ll be fine. You’d better go. Everyone’s been so kind but the sooner we board, the sooner we’ll be off. No long goodbyes. Thanks from the bottom of my heart. You’ve been a pal. You needn’t have bothered with me but you did. You saved my life, keeping me warm and awake on that lifeboat. There are no words I can say to thank you for that.’
‘I mean it, May, write to me. Tell me how things are, paint me pictures of my home town. I would be so grateful for your correspondence. I do get homesick sometimes.’
‘I’ll do my best. Never had much use for pen and paper, just lists and stuff like that. I’ve never had anyone to write to before but I’ll give it a try. I just hope this thing floats better than the other.’ May glanced up with a wry smile on her face. ‘I never thought I’d make a joke like that. What’s happening to me?’
‘Change, that’s what. None of us will ever be the same because of what happened. But we survived and we will continue to. Look how brave you’ve been, and so determined, go-ing back over the very ocean that . .’ she hesitated. ‘Good luck and bon voyage.’ Celeste felt tears welling up as she kissed the baby and then hugged May tightly. ‘Go on before I make a fool of myself. I will never forget your courage and will to make a new life after such a tragedy. God be with you on your journey. You’ve given me so much to think about.’ May walked away and Celeste stood until she was just a speck in the distance, then lost amongst the bustle of the docks. ‘Will we ever meet again?’ she sighed, turning towards
the gate.
Every day since his recovery, Angelo took his well-trodden path to the offices of the White Star Line. Surely someone somewhere had news? He’d heard of mistakes on the passenger lists. The clerk with the furrowed brow and weary eyes looked up and sighed heavily on re-cognizing Angelo.
‘Not you again, son. Now listen, I’ve told you before, if we had any more news we’d send you a wire. We have your address.’ The clerks had been sympathetic at first, but over the weeks they grew impatient as Angelo pleaded daily for them to recheck the survivors list. ‘They embarked at Cherbourg, your wife and baby but they didn’t make it. The numbers all tally. Sadly they’re not on any list.’
‘But I heard some gave false names.’
‘Rumours and press speculation, that’s all. You have to
accept they went down like so many other poor souls on that night.’
‘But look at this shoe . . . My wife was skilled with lacework, like my mother. In our re-gion they make special lace and she told me she was bringing it over to New York to sell. No one else could do this work, no one.’
‘Maybe someone bought it from her on the ship, one of the passengers. Maybe it got stolen. There are all manner of possibilities,’ the clerk replied, deliberately turning to the mountain of paperwork on his desk and thereby signalling to Angelo that he considered the conversation closed.
People behind him started tutting impatiently. Angelo knew his dishevelled appearance – the days’ worth of beard growth, his wild-eyed stare – made him look deranged. He could quite see how he would be mistaken for a madman. In truth he questioned his own sanity. He turned round to show the little shoe to the other folk in the queue.
‘Who would steal a baby’s shoe?’ he asked them. ‘There are passengers who’d steal the fleas off a dog, given half a chance,’ muttered a
man behind him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the clerk. ‘Go home and write to your folks, wherever they live, that the news is bad.’
‘How can I tell her mamma that I caused her daughter’s death? It was me who said it would be a good life here. It will kill them to discover this.’
‘Look, sonny, face facts. They’re gone and you have to break the news as best you can.’ ‘What if they are wandering the streets looking for me?’ The clerk took off his horn-rimmed glasses and wiped them, shaking his head. ‘You Itali-
ans have your own newspapers and shops. They’d find you.’ ‘I’ve stuck cards everywhere I can: in the church, lodging houses, on billboards, even
on the sidewalks. I have this feeling. I must keep looking just in case someone knows something,’ Angelo pleaded. He couldn’t give up, not now. He was haunted by the thought of Maria and the child stuck in the city somewhere, alone in a foreign land, unable to make themselves understood.
‘Your effort does you credit, but we’ve also done everything we can at this end. Talk to your priests and city folk, but you have to face the truth.’
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 8
