Working part time in the office, Celeste found herself alongside brave single women who broke every convention. They were militants, loud and courageous in their fight to get the vote and rights for female employees. She wondered if any of them would have been sub-jected to the humiliation she’d allowed for so long. They had borne imprisonment and pub-lic derision for the cause, sustained by friendship. She’d been starved of women’s company for such a long time.
‘When you put your hand to the plough you can’t put it down until you get it to the end of the row,’ their leader, Alice Paul, used to say.
Celeste had put her hand to it the night she’d fled from Halifax, taken the long train south to Washington and sought out Margaret Tobin Brown’s advice by letter. They’d met in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, amidst the grandeur of marbled pillars and a floor that gleamed. Her words had given Celeste the courage to forge a new life.
So far Grover hadn’t sought her out but she was always wary. It was Roddy he would snatch, not her. She assumed he’d hire private investigators to find her in England but where better to hide in the States than in the capital, amongst the crowds. She was free to work and was learning to live on her wits.
Only May knew the truth and she did her best to glean news of the family as best she could while not pushing her for answers. Now Celeste must stick it out and stay her hand to the plough with this new life for her son’s sake. His future had been sacrificed for her bid for freedom. She couldn’t afford to send him to private school. He was growing coarser, tougher and more defiant, and, at times, she saw a flash of Grover ’s petulance in his eyes.
What else could she do? She earned more on a Thursday and in the evening than from the humble office work she did all week. It kept them in decent clothes and in a reason-able property in a safe district. May had parcelled up a few pieces of precious china, which somehow arrived intact, much admired by her students. They still had the smell of home on them, mementoes she’d have to sell if times got tough.
She steered clear of the few young English wives that she came across in church. They were all excited about building the new cathedral and busy raising funds. She had neither the money nor the interest in its erection, magnificent though it was going to be. She yearned for the ancient quietude of Lichfield. Their English voices reminded her of home and she wouldn’t relax until she and Roddy had made the journey back to England. This time she’d applied for the right documents to get an entry back home but the passport rules were stricter now and Roddy would have to go on hers. She claimed his father was dead and she was a widow. What else could she do? Every penny she could save went on tickets and preparations for this homecoming.
How they’d live once they were there was no matter. One thing Celeste had learned over the past year was to survive on little, to exaggerate the truth where necessary and to take one day at a time. She hardly recognized who she’d become in a year: older, more suspi-cious of folk, careful with every dime and not so easily impressed by outward show.
Why was she surprised? A woman who had defied the ocean and survived the Titanic sinking knew how precious life was. A woman who’d endured physical humiliation at the hands of a brutal husband valued the shutting of her own front door without fear. She may now be a woman who lived hand to mouth from month to month but she managed their meagre budget as if it was that of the State Treasury Department.
One thing was certain: her aching hand was welded to this damned ploughshare and she was not turning back when the end of the row was almost in sight. No one was going to stop her and her son returning to where she belonged.
Lichfield
June 1915
Dear Friend,
I beg you read the enclosed letter before you read my own. I don’t know what to say other than you have my deepest sympathy on your loss. Bertram was killed in action close to a place called Neuve Chapelle. Like so many students he was so eager to enlist. He came to say goodbye in his smart officer’s uniform. Now he has paid the ultimate sacrifice, as the papers say. They have a way of making death seem so clean and peaceful and dignified. We know otherwise.
I know you will feel so helpless not being here to help your father but he has such good friends around him, many of them losing sons and grandsons too.
Everyone is trying to be brave and keep cheerful with fundraising concerts and sewing bees for the troops. I am not one for those sorts of gatherings but I have a little job serving tea at the station to passing convoys of troops. How many of them will ever return home? Hearts are sad, money is tight and the winter was long, but the Lichfield blossoms don’t know there is a war on and cheer us no end.
Ella continues to bloom and chatter. I have got her a place in Meriden House School, in the nursery, where she can play with other children. She loves to be in company but I am such a hermit, it’s not fair to hide her away. She is a comfort to your father, who spoils her with sweets I fear she will choke on. She is a constant worry and delight.
I wish I could hold your hand at this sad time. War must end soon and you will be reunited once more with all you love. God protect you and comfort you in his loving arms,
May
PS. I have just read a terrible account of the sinking of the Cunarder Lusitania off the coast of Ireland. 1200 souls perished. Only we know how it must have been for those struggling in the water. I have not been able to sleep for the memories it brings back. There were Americans on board with children. The Hun will pay for this cruel act.
Washington
January 1917
Dear May,
I hope the Christmas parcel arrived safely. You hear rumours of things going missing at the port. It was a good idea to number our letters so we can know the gaps. I hope the preserves and cans of butter and meat were useful. I hear things are pretty tight over there and I know my father has a sweet tooth.
We are well enough. The news of Selwyn’s wounds in the Somme offensive brought me low but your assur-ance that he was on the mend in hospital gives me hope of a full recovery. I will write but Father hinted to me he was not ready yet for corresponding. I still can’t believe I will never see Bertie again in this life.
Your new lodgings near Stowe Pool sound good with a fine view of the cathedral spires. One day I hope I will see those Three Ladies of the Vale for myself again.
There is a chance of work in government offices if America comes into the war. I will have to expand the truth a bit. They won’t accept married women but a widow might just get an interview. I’m still doing the re-finement classes. Friends of friends seem to like what I organize for them. I suggested we all read the same novel and discuss it together, which they thought hilarious at first. I’m sure some of my clients usually never read anything other than fashion journals, but it was a lively session.
If America enters the conflict in Europe, surely this wretched war will come to an end. The might of this country has to be seen to be believed; millions of young men on the march will end the stalemate.
Can I ask you in all honesty, does my father suspect anything? I ought to tell him our true position but I don’t want to burden him further with bad news. He has enough to worry about at the moment.
My parents’ marriage was all you could ask for in love, friendship and trust. He will be so disappointed in me for not sticking to my vows. You are my ears and eyes, as always, and words can’t tell you what a relief it is to have someone who knows the truth.
I hope the blouse fitted you, and little Ella will grow into the dress. They were clothes discarded by one of the rich wives in my class. Little does she know I wear some of them myself. Did Papa like our portrait? Roddy looked so smart in his sailor suit, don’t you think?
I look forward to your next epistle. For someone who said they couldn’t write a letter, you put me to shame. Your dear friend,
Celeste Rose
Celeste didn’t know how badly Selwyn was injured, not so much in the body but the mind, May sighed. His father had visited the as
ylum where they treated wounded officers for something they called shell shock. He didn’t speak or listen. He just stared out of the win-
dow in another world, the canon had told her in confidence. She didn’t know what to say. ‘I am glad that one of my children is safe away from all this mayhem,’ the canon told
May. ‘I couldn’t bear for anything else to happen to them.’ It was then that May offered to go and see to Red House herself. They were billeting sol-
diers there and Mrs Allen, the daily help, was none too happy with the state of their rooms. The garden was dug over for vegetables and Ella liked to play there and chase the rabbits. May was glad to get away from the college. Florrie Jessup never let up, mocking May’s ac-cent, hiding her dusters and brushes, trying to goad her into a row. One of these days May would give her one she’d not forget. You don’t grow up in an orphanage without learning to defend yourself.
When they were in the kitchen garden, she could forget college bullies and tidy it all up. Outdoor chores they may be, but keeping busy was the best tonic. She would watch Ella prancing around trying to be helpful. ‘Who is this dark child with the deep sparkling eyes? Where was she born? Who does she look like? Why is she happiest with pencils and paper in her hand, drawing pictures? How could I have snatched her for my own?’ she asked her-self.
The burden of this secret crept up on her more and more over the years. Did I do a wrong thing for a right reason or a wicked thing for my own selfish needs? Always at the back of her mind was the dreadful thought that someone somewhere might be mourning the loss of their child. Was it fate that brought them together? Was it fate that the Titanic should sink? These thoughts tore at her mind so that she feared that if she gave into them it would make her mad.
Then she saw Ella digging up plants, making mischief in the borders. ‘Just stop that, young lady, put them back this minute!’ Ella was here and she was here, and nothing could change this now.
Boston, October 1917
Private Angelo Bartolini woke to find himself in a hospital ward sweating, not knowing how he came to be prostrate. His throat was burning and there was a stone slab on his chest.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living, son. You’re one of the lucky few who cheated death.’ A man in a white coat was standing over him, feeling for his pulse.
Angelo couldn’t reply. His brain couldn’t translate. It hurt to think as he stared up at the ceiling. One minute he was in the yard outside the barrack huts playing baseball, waiting for transport onto the ship for Europe. Where was he now? Everything was a blur of pain, heat and strange dreams. He’d seen Maria with outstretched arms waving him to her side, smil-ing, and he’d felt himself floating towards her and then . . . nothing.
‘You’ve had the flu, boy, a very bad dose, but you’ll live.’ ‘Dove sono?’ he said. He’d been drafted in the first wave posted for infantry training,
ready for the big push in France.
‘Speak English . . .’
He could recall Kathleen waving him off at the station, little Frankie howling at the sight of him with cropped hair and in a strange uniform. Jacko was still a babe in arms. Angelo could have tried for exemption but he was a patriot, proud to serve. His family would look after their own. There was a medical, an inspection, then weeks of training to toughen up the new recruits for combat duty. They were all squashed in barrack huts with no air in the summer heat. There were colds and coughs aplenty but nothing like this. He remembered standing in a train to the port, feeling queasy and shivery, his limbs stiff and aching. By the time they stood down he’d crumpled to the floor, the stone flags came up to meet him and he’d flaked out. How long had he been here?
‘They gave you the last rites but you’re a tough son of a bitch. Still stateside.’ Angelo couldn’t understand half of what the doctor was saying. His head was fuzzy.
‘When do I go?’
‘Not so fast. You stay here until we tell you to go. First you must eat and get some flesh on those bones.’
He tried to rise up again but his head was spinning. Where were his buddies, Ben and Pavlo, all the guys he’d trained with for weeks? Now he could hardly breathe, as if there was a hole in his chest and air was in short supply. It took the nurses days to get him walk-ing on those stick-like legs. What had happened to his tree trunks? Angelo felt only shame not to be with the other men. He was stuck in this terrible place with sick soldiers arriving every day, trading places with those wheeled out at night on the death trolleys. What the hell was going on?
His only comfort was Kathleen’s letters. This sickness was all over the eastern seaboard but particularly bad in Philadelphia and the ports where the soldiers were gathered. She was gargling with some concoction Salvi swore would cure all, and so far they were clear. Some hero he was turning out to be. Then came the final blow to his pride when the doctor examined him.
‘Discharge for you,’ he said, pointing to Angelo’s heart. ‘You’ve done some damage there. Still, better a clock with a slow ticker than getting your head blown off over the pond. You’re gonna have to take it easy, build up your muscles.’
‘How can I support my kids like this?’ Angelo cried. ‘I’m useless.’ ‘Give it time, nature heals,’ the doctor replied. ‘You’re young and tough enough to sur-
vive when thousands haven’t.’
That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. How could he hold his head up when he had never fired a shot in anger? He’d prove them wrong.
It was as much as he could do to change into a suit, pick up his kit and head for New York. He felt like an old man, sitting on the train wheezing, people staring at him as if he were a deserter.
Kathleen was waiting at Grand Central station to greet him. She immediately smothered him in her arms. ‘I’ve been so worried. The flu is everywhere. I didn’t bring our babies. They told me you might die,’ she sobbed.
‘I’ll never make a soldier now.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I’ve got you back in one piece, that’s more than some folks in our block. Come on, let me give you a hand. You look done in.’
Angelo felt limp and lifeless. She mustn’t know yet about his heart and its weakness. It would worry her too much. He needed time to heal or how could he ever be a man again?
Lichfield
Christmas 1918
Dear Celeste,
Your parcel arrived safely and unopened this time. What treats there were. Thank you from all of us. Our first Christmas of peace at long last. How we’ve all prayed to be released from the terrible mess this
war has become. After those first days of celebration and excitement at the Armistice, there was a horrible dampening of spirits. No one who has lost boys and girls has the heart for any festivities. We remember those who won’t pull the crackers, who won’t eat plum pudding, nor sing carols round their family tree. Our food shortages still go on but I saved enough coupons for a few treats for Ella. She will have her stocking, some sweets and home-made toys, thanks to your brother’s kindness.
Selwyn is back at Red House. His face is scarred. He shuts himself in the coach house and mucks about with things that need mending. I go up with your father and tidy the garden. He doesn’t speak much to me so it was a surprise when I found a toy cot in the hall. He’d knocked it together out of scraps and smoothed it down and oiled it to a sheen. It looks brand new. Father Christmas will be sending it down the chimney on Christmas Eve for Ella’s dolls. Ella is such a one for dollies and lines them up as if she was the teacher.
Now for my big news. I did it. I gave Florrie Jessup what for and saw her off. She went too far. I was telling one of the cooks about Selwyn’s kind gift and Florrie overheard and started mouthing off about how I had earned the toy on my back. How I was always nipping off to the house to give the soldier his comforts and such like.
Did I see red? I certainly did. I gave her a right-side winder round the ear. She had it coming but the house-keeper saw the whole thing and sacked us both on the spot so that w
as me out of work with a child to support, just when they have the students rolling back to college. Some of them are in such a sorry state.
I was all for packing my bags but to my surprise some of the girls stood up and told Matron how things had been for years and how I had put up with rude remarks, so in the end it was Florrie who got her marching orders, not me, which is a relief.
I told your father a little of the hoo-ha. Word gets round like wildfire in the Close. He suggested I might like a change of employment, helping Mrs Allen at Red House and doing for a few of the other clergymen, which was so kind. I will think about it. I’m not sure Selwyn will want two women round his ankles. He has black moods some days.
It felt as if I’d found a bit of spark in myself I thought I’d lost and perhaps I’m not such an offcomer in the city after all.
Let us hope 1919 brings hope and relief to all of us.
Your loving friend,
New York, Summer 1919
Kathleen was keeping their apartment off Broome Street spotless. Not a speck of dust was allowed to settle, even in this hot summer. There were lace nets at the window to catch any flies daring to enter, but there weren’t many six floors up in the tenement. The family had three rooms and a living room with water on tap, and a parlour with a box bed for the little ones, Jack and Frankie. Now there was another on the way. She was praying for a little girl. It had been almost two years since Angelo returned to them. He complained of a bad back and so she helped out in the fruit store as best she could. Kathleen showed she was no slouch, but a hard worker willing to serve behind the counter and mind their ever-growing troupe of
wee ones.
It was Angelo she’d married, not Salvi’s tribe of dark-eyed, wild-haired Latinos, who raged and stormed at each other. Together the couple had raised themselves from one room to three, but the thought of another mouth to feed was daunting. Sometimes she wondered if it was right to have stayed on in New York after the sickness. Her own family pleaded with them to return back home, but to what? Picking potatoes on her uncle’s farm or in service on some English estate? And there were troubles back home too.
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 17
