Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

  May’s first letter was a little more reticent, written in the careful neat handwriting of a child.

  Dear Mrs Parkes

  I hope this finds you as it finds me, as well as can be expected. Your father has been a Christian gentleman to us. I am well suited with my position in the Theological College. I have found rooms in Dam Street close by with a Mrs Allsop who says she used to help your mother with washing. She minds Ella while I am on duty. It is not ideal but I need to work and Baby can’t come with me.

  Everything around here is flat, which makes taking Ella out easy enough. My landlady found me a stroller to put her in.

  Your father is in good spirits. I’ve sorted out his place to his satisfaction, I hope. Book readers spread them-selves out a bit, don’t they? Your brother Selwyn called to check me over and asked after you.

  Yours sincerely

  Mary Smith (May)

  PS. I forgot to say thank you for Ellas birthday present. You shouldn’t have. The dress is very pretty. She’s sent you this portrait in return. Sorry I look so startled by the flash. Celeste sighed as she recalled the letter. How she wished she was back in Lichfield at cherry blossom time, walking Roddy around Minster Pool, taking tea in the marketplace. She envied May but she could live vicariously through her letters and imagine herself there.

  The silver-gilt loving cup with two handles was passed to Captain Rostron in appreci-ation of his heroism and efficient service in rescuing the survivors so promptly. There was also a framed set of resolutions from the women survivors, the ones they’d decided on that first gathering in the salon on the night of 17 April. They offered their profound thanks to the entire crew.

  ‘You went at full speed into a dangerous sea as soon as you heard of the disaster. But for your heroism none of us would have survived.’

  Celeste saw the captain was almost overcome by the praise. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, bowing his head. Then he took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know

  how to express my thanks for this tribute . . . for the honour you’ve accorded me . . . for this splendid cup of good fellowship. I tried to do my duty, first, as a sailor and, second, as a man towards my fellow men. It is not I who deserves this credit but my crew. I want to thank them for their loyalty, their valour and their trust. And I offer you the thanks of myself, my wife and my family. For generations to come this moment will be spoken of proudly by my descendants.’

  Then, the chairman of the Survivors’ Committee, Mr Seward, turned to the crew. ‘When we saw the Carpathia coming to us as out of the dawn, we gave our heartfelt

  thanks. As a token of this, we’d like to present each one of you with a medal.’ Celeste had seen the medals: six gold ones for the officers, silver and bronze for the rest. It was a bas-relief copy of the Carpathia speeding to their rescue. On the back an inscription read, ‘Presented to the captain and crew in recognition of their gallant and heroic services.’

  Everyone clapped and Celeste felt a lump form in her throat when she saw the young fe-male steward who’d helped them so generously step forward and curtsy. She thought of the crew of the Titanic , who had been taken away for the official inquiry; it was rumoured that they had their pay docked from the very minute the ship had sunk. They were depend-ent on charitable donations too. Then she thought of all those at the bottom of the ocean who would never receive anything more from this life.

  Harriet was appeased when they attended the Memorial Concert on the Sunday at the Moulin Rouge Theatre, Broadway. What a line-up of artists: United States Army bands from the forts close to New York, navy bands from Brooklyn Navy Yard, children’s orches-tras, and some of the finest music in town. It was a great spectacle and hearts were lifted.

  ‘You’re not going to leave us in the lurch now, Celeste, are you?’ Margaret Brown singled her out, strolling over to them at the interval. ‘Your daughter-in-law’s been such a loyal supporter of our cause, Mrs Parkes.’

  Harriet blushed. ‘Of course not. She will make herself useful where she can. She’s already collected hundreds of dollars from her husband’s corporation, the Diamond Rubber Company.’

  ‘Is that so? I’m glad to hear it because we’ve gotten a big task ahead if we’re to recom-pense those who have lost everything. So we’ll see you at the next meeting, then, Celeste? We’ve got an idea for a special memorial statue as well as national monuments.’

  Celeste nodded as Margaret winked.

  ‘Is that the unsinkable Molly Brown?’ Harriet gawped, staring after her. ‘Shush, don’t call her that! No one who knows her calls her Molly. She hates it. She is a

  one-woman powerhouse and never lets up. If anyone can raise a statue it’ll be her and I bet it’ll be a whoppa!’

  ‘Don’t be coarse, dear, it doesn’t suit you,’ said Harriet, eyeing the larger-than-life wo-man in her picture hat and outrageous silk dress. ‘She’s a bit of a rough diamond but rich as Croesus. She’s not your type, surely? All that brash showy style.’

  ‘That woman’s heart is bigger than the ship that tried to sink her, pure gold, and a kind heart is all that matters, don’t you think? I’ll do anything I can to help her.’ Celeste was determined to have the last word, leaving her mother-in-law speechless as she strode off.

  Dear May

  How lovely to receive your letter. I want two pages next time, please. How is Lichfield? Did you get to the Greenhill Bower parades at Whitsuntide? I have always loved the processions and the sports but most of all the fair. Everyone is dressed in summer frills with picture hats. There is always such a jolly atmosphere and of course the streets are full of visitors. We don’t have anything quite like that in Akron, just a circus now and then and the church bazaar.

  We presented the cup and medals to Captain Rostron. Harriet, my mother-in-law, insisted on coming as my chaperone. She was very impressed with all the hats and jewels. Now we are planning a national monument. If I promise to let her come with me on these trips so she can go shopping, I think Grover won’t object to us disappearing once a month.

  He is very protective of me, which is a bore sometimes but I am determined to be involved in the fund-rais-ing campaign and will do all it takes.

  Have you been to Red House yet? It’s where I grew up. The garden is lovely at this time of the year with all its pinks and purples. My brothers will be on their walking holiday in Scotland, I expect. Is Ella walking now? Roddy has a scooter and we’ll take him to the Great Lakes soon. He is growing so fast he’s soon to be britched and have his hair cropped. I’m dreading him not being a baby any more.

  Do write soon.

  Your true friend across the water,

  Celeste

  May clutched her letters as she hurried into Cathedral Close on this chill November morning. It was Monday, her day to ‘do’ for Canon Forester and the cathedral seemed to loom above her under a glowering sky threatening snow. She was glad she’d wrapped Ella warmly in leggings and a thick coat.

  She didn’t like leaving her baby in Mrs Allsop’s care but her landlady was kindly enough and would wheel Ella out to Market Street in her pram when she was shopping. Mondays were always difficult but she could fit in the canon before her duties at the college. She in-sisted Mrs Allsop walked Ella around the Close so May could wave to her from the college window or make an excuse to pop outside and hold her. Ella would howl when she put her down, making May feel terrible for leaving her, but May knew she must do her job no matter what. They had to live.

  Ella was toddling now, gabbling away and thriving in the Staffordshire air. Her curls bobbed under her bonnet and she was the object of so much attention with her coal-black eyes always sparkling. She was such a smiley child. Would her own baby have got the same attention, May wondered.

  Not a day went by when she didn’t ache for her own child, recalling how they used to walk round Queens Park watching the nursemaids with their fancy prams, or take a tram together out to the countryside at Barrow Bridge, and sit on the grass with ice-cream cones. How short their happin
ess had been. But she must quietly bear the pain of her nightly dreams in which she would see her baby’s face drifting away on the waves, fading out of her reach. Once she woke crying out, and Ella was standing in her cot staring at her with those huge black eyes full of tears.

  Don’t think about any of it now, she scolded herself as she scuttled across the cobbles. Without the Foresters she’d have been lost, but now she was safely established in this

  historic city as a domestic help, looking after all the young clergymen in training. She cleaned their rooms, did their laundry, and helped out in the refectory when she was needed. They kept funny hours but she had a room and kitchen off Dam Street and could nip in and out in the evening when Ella was in her cot, knowing old Mrs Allsop would oblige if she cried.

  This letter was going to change things for the better but she needed the canon to check it over first. Her reading was fine but some of the sentences took a bit of swallowing, and what was this about opening a bank account? Celeste would be so knowledgeable about things like that, coming from a world where banks and lawyers and long words were so natural, a world May had never known before.

  She would write again before Christmas and include a card and a little gift of knitted mittens for Roddy. It was hard at first to know what to write but it was getting easier and she had started to enjoy gossiping on paper.

  And now she was looking forward to sharing some news of her own. Thanks to Canon Forester’s encouragement she’d applied to the Titanic Relief Fund in London, explaining her circumstances. None of it was lies. She was a widow with a child to support.

  ‘It’s your entitlement to compensation and if you don’t ask, Mrs Smith, you won’t get it, and it would make all the difference to your comfort and Ella’s,’ the canon had insisted.

  She wondered what sort of a muddle the old man had got himself into since her last visit. He had been staying with his son Selwyn in the family house outside the city for a while but he wouldn’t stay there long, preferring to live in the little cottage behind the Close.

  No one knew May’s circumstances, not even the college principal and his wife. It was better that way, but this letter altered everything.

  She’d almost been tempted to send a note with Christmas cards to Bolton friends, ex-plaining her new circumstances, and went as far as choosing some pretty ones in the news-agent’s. But what if they wrote back wanting her to visit? She put the cards back and hur-ried out of the shop, knowing it was better to remain silent.

  The canon examined the letter with his glasses tipped over his nose. ‘You’re going to get fifteen shillings and sixpence a week, with three shillings for the child. They’ve enclosed a cheque with back payments. You must get this in the bank at once.’

  ‘But I haven’t got a bank account. How do I get one?’ she asked. People like her didn’t have bank accounts. Her spare cash was kept in a tea caddy on the mantelpiece. This was uncharted territory.

  ‘Just present this to the bank on the corner of Market Street, sign the forms and they’ll give you a proper book. They’ll keep the money safe. It gives you options,’ he smiled.

  May looked up from her polishing. ‘To do what?’ ‘To find your own place to live. You could rent a little cottage perhaps.’ ‘But who will look after Ella then?’

  ‘You could afford to pay for proper care or work fewer hours.’ ‘I have to work,’ May answered. ‘I can’t sit at home twiddling my thumbs, I wasn’t

  brought up to be idle.’ The thought of all those unoccupied hours stretching ahead terrified her.

  ‘Bringing up a youngster keeps a woman busy enough, I’d have thought,’ the canon replied. ‘You don’t seem very pleased to have a regular income,’ he added, seeing the anxious look on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s all a bit above me, banks, cheques . . . What’ll people think?’ ‘Who’s to know except a bank clerk, and discretion is their byword.’ ‘So how long will this money go on?’ she asked, trying to keep busy as she listened. ‘Until you leave this world, my dear, or remarry. It will see Ella through school for as

  long as she chooses.’

  ‘I won’t be marrying again but it just seems too good to be true,’ May sighed, her hands furiously scrubbing the tiles. How did he manage to get the floor so filthy?

  ‘Think what you’ve lost, Mrs Smith. No money in the world can compensate for this tragedy, now can it?’

  May wiped her forehead and shrugged. ‘You’re right but I’ve never had so much money in my life.’

  ‘Then let it work for you and Ella. Claim your due and let’s hear no more of it. Money gives you choices, my dear, and it will be there for you in the future whatever that may bring.’

  Christmas 1912

  Dear Celeste

  I hope my parcel arrives before Christmas. It is getting colder here. The wind is a lazy one, one as goes through you, not round you, as my Joe used to say. I miss him so much now this season is upon us. I took Ella to see Father Christmas but she cried at his white beard. I’ve got a bit of good news. The Titanic Relief Fund are giving us a pension, regular. I have a bank book, which worried me but the same clerk always helps me and is sworn to secrecy about money matters, so I am told.

  I’ve enclosed for Roddy some warm mittens I knitted. I expect you get a lot of snow over there. The lavender sachets come from the flowers in Red House, to remind you of the garden and help you sleep. Your brother said to help myself so I did. Mr Selwyn is a bit of a card. He keeps calling me Queen of the May. He made a little wheelbarrow for Ella to push, which was kind of him.

  Your father is on his rounds of mercy delivering to the poor of the parish. I’m getting used to how they do things in the Close and the services, though I go to St Chad’s myself. No, I’ve not been back to Bolton. I’d rather leave that part of my life behind. Yes, I watched the Sheriffs Ride round the boundaries of the city, all those ladies on their mounts riding side saddle. What a sight, and the buckets of horse droppings left behind! The gardeners were chasing after them with shovels. I’d be scared to death to ride but perhaps one day Ella will ride a pony. I saw the picture of you on one.

  Must get on with my baking. I’m making mince pies for your father. The cook in the college showed me how.

  All the best for the season to you and yours,

  May and Ella

  ‘Oh, look, Roddy, aren’t those lovely? We’ll put some string on them so they won’t get lost,’ said Celeste, unwrapping May’s parcel and sniffing the lavender. It was the only present still left under the huge fir tree in the hall.

  Roddy was wide-eyed with wonder at all his gifts, dashing from one to the other while the servants looked on. Susan had the day off so Celeste had her son all to herself after they went to church.

  Grover’s parents were due any minute for the Christmas lunch. How she longed for mince pies, the pastry melting round the spiced fruit, such an English tradition. But she would have to make do with a version of plum pudding that never quite tasted of home.

  ‘Look, Grover, May’s sent such thoughtful gifts and she’s applied for the Titanic Relief Fund. I’m so pleased . Now she can go about building a life for herself. Look how Ella’s grown,’ said Celeste, trying to interest her husband in the Christmas card.

  Once dinner was over, she knew they’d all sit together with nothing much to say and she didn’t want him emptying the whiskey decanter.

  Grover glanced at the formal shot of May sitting posed in her black dress with a pretty lace collar, and on her knee a beautiful child in starched white cotton.

  ‘How did that skinny thing produce that doll?’ he sneered. ‘Oh, don’t be mean. Her husband had gypsy blood, she told me,’ Celeste replied. ‘He must have been deaf, dumb and blind to marry that thing,’ came his reply as he re-

  turned to his cigar. May’s letters were never of any interest to Grover yet he seemed to resent them when they came. ‘What’s she on the scrounge for this time, this protégée of yours?’

  Celeste ig
nored him.

  Selwyn’s Christmas card was illegible and Bertie managed a few lines about rowing on the Cam and trying for a Blue. It was May who was becoming quite the little writer now, keeping tabs on Father’s health. Celeste kept May’s letters in a special drawer in her bureau so she could reread them, hugging them to her chest. They were a life line, a last link with her family home.

  Ever since joining the Women’s Relief Committee, Celeste had felt a new purpose in her life, a new energy and sense of being useful. She was no longer sitting around like a dressed-up doll waiting to be picked up and played with by a petulant child. She had dates in her diary that weren’t just shopping trips or dinner parties or church fêtes.

  She looked across at her husband, now slumped in the chair. Grover was a spoiled bully, and the more they lived together the more she hated her life

  with him. It was getting harder to hide their arguments from Roddy. He was at the kinder-garten during the day but at night she had to make sure he was asleep before she dared answer back.

  Christmas had been spoiled by Grover’s worries at work. Her husband was now a bigwig with the Diamond Rubber Company. The chairman, Frederick Barber, had retired to his mansion after some boardroom squabble. There’d been lots of games played to find his natural successor and Grover hadn’t got that top post and was in a sulk.

  ‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ she offered. ‘It’ll give us all an appetite and Roddy some ex-ercise. He can wear his new mittens. He can take his new bat and ball too.’

  ‘You go, I’ve work to do.’

  ‘But it’s Christmas Day,’ she protested. ‘A family day. Your parents will be here soon. Oh, do make the effort.’ As soon as the words left her mouth she realized her mistake.

  ‘An effort! What do you think I do all day? Those letters from England are turning your head. That woman is currying favour with you, that’s all. All you think about is that blessed Titanic business. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped all this scribbling?’