Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

Eating wasn’t easy. She couldn’t taste much but she did her best to look grateful. Ella had her chair pulled up to the table, chattering away whilst shoving cakes on her plate. Selwyn was keeping out of their way. She watched the clock moving to the time she must leave but to her surprise she was reluctant to make for her coat and hat.

  ‘What do you think of the garden?’ asked Celeste. ‘I never was one for planting and har-vesting. I keep nagging Selwyn but he’s worse than me.’

  ‘You’ll have to advertise for a gardener then,’ May offered. ‘It’s a big plot.’ ‘I thought if you gave me a hand and showed me how to do things . . .’ ‘I’m not rightly sure. I’ll have to be finding myself work when I get out of . . .’ She

  trailed off.

  ‘That’s what I meant, May. There’s enough room for all of us here. Ella is settled. Would you consider coming to live in, help me in the house and garden?’

  May felt herself prickle. ‘You’ve done enough, you don’t want me hanging round your neck like the albatross in the poem. It’s a kind thought but I ought to stand on my own feet.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with living here and finding your feet on paths you already know? We think it’s a good idea, don’t we, Ella?’

  ‘So you’ve cooked this up behind my back? Don’t I have a say in how I bring up my daughter? I can see she’s made herself at home.’ May rose to leave. ‘It’s time to be going.’ ‘May, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought it would be good for all of us to spend

  some time together, let the children have company. Please don’t get upset.’ May could see Celeste was struggling and shaken by her harsh words. She ushered Ella

  out into the hall and closed the door on her.

  ‘Just because I’ve been in the madhouse, doesn’t mean I have no pride,’ she said toi Celeste.

  ‘Just because you’ve been ill, doesn’t mean you can throw out my offer without giving it some serious consideration. You told me once you were a hermit. I know how you struggled with Florrie and the others at the college. We know a lot about each other. I know Ella doesn’t know she was on the Titanic , though why that is such a secret, you alone know.’

  ‘You know all about me but I know nothing about you except that you’ve run away from your husband. Sharing with friends has to work both ways.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s time I told you what I told Selwyn. I ran away because he was a bully. The night I returned from New York, five days late, he beat me black and blue, and worse. We all have our troubles, May. Not everyone has a happy marriage as you did with Joe, short as it was. You are not the only one with secrets.’

  They stared at each other and then both found they were crying, holding onto each other for dear life. ‘You helped me escape. I will be beholden to you for the rest of my life. So climb down off your high horse and meet me halfway. Come on, I’ll drive you back and we can thrash this thing out once and for all.’

  Ella clung to her as she left, wanting to go with them, but Selwyn held her back. ‘Your mum and my sister have a lot of catching-up to do. Don’t worry, she’ll be home soon for good. Let’s enjoy the peace while we can.’

  New York

  If Angelo heard one more word about Frankie’s First Communion, he swore he wouldn’t go. Kathleen was determined to make a splash and kit her son out in only the best.

  ‘What’s wrong with a second-hand suit?’ he argued. ‘What’s right with it?’ she snapped. ‘Do you want your family shamed before the Fathers?

  He needs boots and stockings and a white collar. The others must look presentable, and you too.’

  ‘Have you robbed a bank? Where will we get such stuff?’ he said. ‘I’m not made of money.’

  ‘No, but you drink plenty of it away. I’ve been putting bits by for the feast and the favours. I want to show the family we can do things proper, not skimp round the edges. It is his spe-cial day.’

  Why did women like all that kneeling in the old cathedral with the incense wafting, the white lace vestments, the candles flickering in the dark recesses and the statues? The sound of Latin in his ears left him cold. It wasn’t real Italian, loud and passionate and full of life, piercing the walls as neighbours rowed, shaking the Holy pictures off their hooks.

  He looked at his two sons: Frankie, neat and quiet, could read billboards in the street be-fore he went to school, and Jackie, his little brother, was a roaring child, tearing round the streets, while Patti pranced around in her second-hand tap shoes, driving them crazy with her antics while he was trying to listen to Caruso singing on the ancient wind-up gramophone they’d acquired for a debt in the shop.

  There’d been such a barney about that. ‘Where did it really come from, Angelo? We can’t afford such things. There’s Frankie’s Communion suit to pay for.’

  ‘You could run him up a shirt and trousers. It’s only for one day. I don’t want my son spending hours in that church. It’s not right. A boy needs air and street fights. You’ll make a sissy of him. Once those Irish Fathers get their hands on his soul . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong with Father Reagan?’

  ‘What’s right with him . . . wanting him to sing in the choir at his age . . . Time was when all we Italians were fit for was to worship in the basement of Old St Patrick’s and now you are wanting my son upstairs with the Irish.’

  ‘He’s half Irish!’ When Kathleen got mad she lashed him with her tongue and he stormed out, uttering oaths under his breath until he calmed down. Their rows could be thunder and lightning one minute and hot and steamy the next.

  Angelo made a little extra from their secret brewery in the fruit store but somehow he would find his feet drifting towards a smoky hall to play cards and to drink, and there was hell to pay when he rolled home and emptied his pockets. If they were full of winnings it was a good night; if they were empty then Kathleen went silent on him.

  On Sunday she took the children to the Irish congregation for Mass. Now they must all make a show of unity for this big passing-out parade and exhibit some enthusiasm for the fancy clothes and new rosaries for which most of the families would be in debt for the rest of the year.

  Angelo never came to church unless it was Easter or Christmas, even though old Father Bernardo always asked after him with a sigh. He did still honour the 15th April and told his kids all about the Titanic. He and Kathleen had taken them to see the Lighthouse Tower, on top of which there was a time ball that rose and fell, dropping to its base each midday to show the time the Titanic departed. The children knew about Maria and the baby and Ma’s sister, Lou, all of whom had drowned in the sea for want of lifeboats.

  Each year he’d bring out the little shoe with its lacy frill that he believed was the baby’s own. Each year it got harder to believe the baby could be still alive, though he’d shed a tear and that made Kathleen cross.

  Sometimes he found he was breathless and tired. Lifting boxes in the store made him sweat and his back ached. He would often need a stiff drink to ease the pain. Now they were scrimping and saving for Frankie’s big day, living off zuppa. Kathleen was the Soup Queen of Lower Manhattan, he’d joke. No one could stretch a bowl of broth better than she could, but he feared his kids went to bed hungry.

  Sometimes they’d all walk down to Battery Park to watch the great liners sailing out of New York Harbour past the Statue of Liberty.

  ‘You are Americanos now,’ Angelo would say, wagging his finger at them. ‘You make this big country work for you . Take no notice if they call you names . You are born Americano boys. Baseball, football, do anything you choose but stay away from the Irish Fathers . . . Church is a cosa femminile. Do you hear me, Francisco? . . . a woman’s thing.’ Frankie was up at four in the morning on the day of his First Communion. He’d been told to fast from midnight and not touch anything until the holy sacrament touched his lips.

  Angelo was furious. The boy was too keen, too young not to have water. ‘It’s my special day. I can’t wait for it to come. Will I feel the Lord when he come
s to

  my turn?’ He had laid out all his clothes so neatly. Angelo felt ashamed of his own lack of faith. ‘You’ll look like a prince in all that finery. What’s this?’ He picked up a long lace collar in the finest lacework. ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘From Italy. Aunt Anna had kept it for her boys. It was Uncle Salvi’s when he was little. Mamma has washed it and pinned it out.’

  Angelo fingered it, examining the stitches, the fine thread, the pattern. He’d had something similar himself when he was a boy but it wasn’t that thought making him weep, it was the pattern, so similar to that of his little baby shoe. They were the same, from their region without a doubt. Just when he was coming to forget his grief there was this remind-er. Perhaps it was a sign.

  May was dog tired. It was a warm day, the marketplace was bustling and Selwyn was in one of his difficult moods. He’d been fettling up one of his motor bikes in the kitchen.

  ‘Get that oily rag off the table, Mr Forester, this is not a garage,’ she’d blasted in anger, seeing the mess on the floor.

  ‘Stop fussing, woman!’ he’d said. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus most days. Give me some peace.’

  It was going to be one of his bad days. She could read him like a book. Once he’d had a pint or three in the Earl of Lichfield he’d start to spout rubbish about the government: the lack of homes for heroes, the state of the country. The more he drank the more angry and argumentative he became. It took courage for her to walk into that public house on her own to tell him it was time to shift his bum off the stool. She hated the smell of those sawdust and spittoon places, the stench of tobacco smoke and stale beer, and she hated that glazed look in his sad eyes.

  She wasn’t cross with him inside, sensing his grief and pain and something of the world he’d lost. He’d never gone back into the lawyer’s office in Birmingham. She often caught him staring into the field, watching his old horses grazing.

  ‘I’ve been put out to grass like them, useless old bugger,’ he’d mutter. ‘What do you make of that McAdam chappie who came for luncheon on Sunday?’ he’d

  asked May that hot morning. ‘Looks sound enough to me. He seems pretty keen on my sis-ter. Not sure she’s a good judge of men, though.’

  May liked Archie McAdam. He had a way with the children, and Roddy hung on his every word. Roddy was now a weekly boarder at Denstone College. Celeste wrote to this young man and had told May how they’d met on the ship home.

  ‘You never risked going down the aisle then?’ May had asked, knowing a man like Sel-wyn would be hell to live with in his moods though he was handsome in his own way, espe-cially now the burns on his face had finally healed over

  ‘Who’d have me? I can’t even hold down a job. Why would I want to bring children into this lousy world?’

  ‘That’s me told then,’ she’d replied, folding her arms. He’d looked down at her and laughed.

  ‘That’s what I like about you, lots of northern fury. Roddy and Ella are fine specimens; you can be proud of your daughter. You’re not a bad looker yourself if you like feisty argu-mentative types.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment, sir?’ she’d mocked. ‘Please yourself, but kindly leave me to my sulks in peace.’ They had a repartee, a banter, a funny sort of friendship that unsettled her sometimes and

  left her wanting more.

  It was over a year since her return to Red House and she couldn’t fathom him. He was distant one minute, talkative the next, as if he trusted her to keep his confidences. The war had done damage to so many lives. If Joe had stayed in England he’d have been among the first to enlist. Perhaps he’d just be some name on a brass plaque on a war memorial by now. Selwyn had survived and a part of him wished he hadn’t. He never said as much – how could he? But she recognized his feelings only too well and it gave her the patience and courage to storm into the pub and demand her due when she’d done the shopping. He al-ways obliged, raising his hat like the gentleman he was and staggering towards her, three sheets to the wind. ‘Here she comes, on the warpath, my aide-de-camp . what would I do

  without her . . . ?’

  May tried not to smile but when he came out with his quips she wished she could shoot him down with one of her own. He was clever with words, educated, and she couldn’t com-pete.

  He didn’t drive back home, he sort of aimed the car up the Greenhill, then left towards the Burton Road and down towards Streethay village, and she prayed that there were no carts or strays on the road. He always carried her shopping into the kitchen while she made him a strong cup of Camp coffee, and sometimes that was the sum total of their conversa-tion until the following week.

  She took her own tray into her sitting room, once a breakfast room, sunny in the morning and cosy at night, where she could leave her tatting and lacework, knowing it would be un-disturbed.

  Celeste was away chasing a new position. ‘Now Roddy is settled, it’s time for me to find work outside the home. I can leave the house and garden in your capable hands with Mrs Allen to do the rough work. I must do my bit to keep this ship afloat.’ It was all very mys-terious.

  May had to admit she liked being in charge. She’d pulled the garden into shape, rein-stated the flower borders and made a shady hidy-hole for herself to read in when it was hot. Her breakdown seemed like a long time ago but there were still nights when she couldn’t sleep and those panicky feelings rose up.

  Ella was growing fast, with a mane of glossy black hair and fine features. She had friends in school, joined in anything she was invited to and now had a shed full of her models and art work. Where did this artistic streak come from? That’s something they’d never know, but it troubled May in the small hours of the night.

  How can I go on lying to her, fobbing her off with half-truths? Because you must. Just calm down and go to sleep. You don’t want to end up in St Matthew’s again. Stop harping on about things you can’t change. The time for speaking out’s long gone. Who would be-lieve your story now?

  The summer garden party on the lawns of the Theological College was an annual event and a highlight of Cathedral Close. This year Celeste brought out her new cream cotton dress with lace cuffs and hem. It was too lovely an afternoon not to dress up and show off the new shorter style.

  She was here to escort Father, who would enjoy the afternoon tea, watch the tennis contest and skittles, and pass time on a bench with some of the other retired clergy.

  She smiled, thinking of how many of these events she’d had to endure as a youngster. How English it all was, how familiar, as if there hadn’t been a terrible war. So many college student faces were no longer present, just names on the memorial plaque.

  But today was about celebrating and relaxing in the sunshine with parasols and large hats to keep the ladies’ faces pale or stop her own freckles from darkening.

  Roddy refused to come, preferring to stay with May and Ella, or pester Selwyn, who never ventured into anything but a public house. Selwyn never attended the cathedral services, much to his father’s sadness, but he had his reasons. The war had destroyed his faith as it had enhanced other’s.

  It was nearly two years since her flight home, and Celeste couldn’t believe how quickly the time had passed. She still dreaded anything with an American stamp on it. There had been no enquiries from Grover’s lawyers but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t appear out of the blue one day. She didn’t want to think what might happen then.

  Part of her was restless to take up the causes she’d fought for with the Women’s suffrage movement. There was a partial vote here now but you had to own property and be over thirty-five to qualify. The steam had gone out of the suffragette campaign. Many women were charting their own courses, going to university or taking up careers, but that was not an option for her. If truth were told she’d been at a loose end at home now May and Mrs Allen, the daily help from the village, were taking over the reins of Red House.

  She’d seen an advertisement in The Times that had intrigued h
er enough to make an ap-plication, but she was sure nothing would come of it and promptly forgot to post it. Her restless spirit had been channelled into escaping from Grover’s brutal regime and keeping Roddy safe by her side. Now he was away at school all week but still only a drive from

  home. She’d wanted to keep him close in Lichfield but all the Forester men had gone to prep school in Denstone. They insisted it would give him the best education and help him settle. She was not so sure. He’d had so many changes.

  Celeste felt the warm sun on her body, the cool cotton crispness of the lace on her skin, the smells of roses in the college garden, which sloped down to Minster Pool, where the sunlight refracted into shards of sparkling mirrors. She was coming alive again, alive to the world around her, alive to smells and tastes and the sound of glasses tinkling, hearty laughter and cheers as someone won his tennis match. Her eyes feasted on the starched lin-en tablecloths groaning with sandwiches and cakes and scones, the teacups with crimson and gilt rims. Deep in her heart she felt safe for the first time in years, safe from the fear of having to hide her words, safe from the constant fear of disapproval and criticism.

  They knew her only as the canon’s widowed daughter, and as she turned to make for the tea awning, there was a man staring at her, a broad-shouldered young man in a blazer, grin-ning from ear to ear. Her heart skipped a beat. Surely not? Not here on the college lawn: Archie McAdam?

  He raised his boater in a mock bow. ‘There you are, Mrs Forester. I thought I might find you here.’

  She stood, her mouth agape, feeling the heat of the flush on her cheeks. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I came up with a friend, Tim Beswick, just to look round . . .’ ‘But we’ve taken you round the cathedral many times.’ ‘When I’ve called on you before, I’ve never really looked around Lichfield.’ Just at that moment, Father strolled up with the principal, Lawrence Phillips. ‘This is the

  young man I was telling you about, Bertram . . . McAdam is an ex-naval officer, Oxford man, now bit of a classics scholar. He’s coming to join us. I told you the numbers are going up. We need new staff.’