Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. ‘I am.’

  All the touring and excitement made him very tired and hungry. He bought some post-cards as souvenirs to send to Ella and Mom. He always had stamps in his leather school wallet. They went to see a musical, which was all singing and a bit sloppy. He could hardly keep his eyes open and fell asleep in the taxi on the way back to the hotel. His father was so concerned he gave him a warm drink to help him settle for the night and he went into a deep slumber.

  When he woke in the morning he found himself in a railway carriage rattling along the coast with no idea how they’d got from the hotel onto the train.

  ‘Hi there, sleepy head,’ Pa smiled. ‘Welcome aboard.’ ‘Where am I?’ Roddy asked, staring out half awake. ‘On your way home, son, to the U S of A . We’re almost at Southampton water. You

  and I are going on the trip of a lifetime. Back to where you belong on the White Star Liner, Olympic , no less, sister ship of the Titanic . . . what do you know?’

  Roddy felt the panic rising. ‘But I have to go home. Mom will be worried.’ ‘Don’t you fret about that . it’s all sorted. Your mom doesn’t mind. She always knew

  I wanted you to be educated in the States. She knows it’s for the best.’ ‘But I haven’t any books. All my stuff . . .’

  ‘You’ve enough for the journey and when we get across the pond, I’ll be kitting you out in some decent clothes. Don’t you just love the idea of living back there again?’

  Roddy didn’t know what to think. His head was fuzzy and his mouth dry, and he wanted to pee. Had his mother given permission? Was this a big surprise they’d thought up togeth-er? He didn’t think so. ‘Can I ring her on the ship . . . we have a phone.’

  ‘Sure, if you can get a line free. Why not send her one of these postcards. She’ll like that.’ He handed him a picture postcard of an ocean liner.

  The train slowed down at the dock and a huge ship with four huge funnels rose up over his head. They were escorted up the gangway to a First Class apartment with twin beds, its own bathroom and sitting room looking out onto a balcony. He’d never seen anything so grand. Roddy bounced on the bed, excited but scared to be doing this without saying good-bye to his family and friends.

  How could he get off the ship without hurting his father’s feelings when he’d gone to so much trouble to secure this passage for them together? They’d been apart for so long, perhaps he owed him this time with him. He could always come home at a later date. He sensed this man might get angry if he said he didn’t want to sail. Roddy was torn.

  He sat down and wrote three of the ship’s postcards, one to Mom, one to Ella and one to Grandpa, telling them he was safe and with his father, and going to sea again on a vacation. He walked down the corridor to find a steward and asked him to post them before the ship left the dock. The young man saluted him and put them in his pocket, which made Roddy feel very important.

  Later, Roddy stood on deck watching the liner slowly edge its way from the dock. He saw the passengers waving to friends, waving hankies, and he wished he could have his own family waving back to him. That was when he felt sick. Had he done the right thing? A flutter of panic rose into a wave and washed over him, making him tremble. Now everything was out of his control. He’d set this meeting up in the first place. His father had taken it as a sign that he was important in his life again. There was no turning back. From now on, he guessed, his life was never going to be his own again.

  May was rushing round trying to keep the household running, taking broth up to Celeste, who lay prostrate, under sedation from their doctor. Red House was plunged into a black house of mourning. Everyone was tiptoeing around on the morning of the canon’s funeral, pinning on brave faces. May needed time to get Celeste dressed. She was so weak and ex-hausted, sitting on the edge of the bed shaking, holding the letter that had broken her heart.

  ‘He’s taken my son. They met in London and he says Roddy wanted to come back to America with him. I don’t believe it! Roddy was settled. How could he go behind my back like this? What have I done, letting him go unescorted to London? He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I have to go after him now.’

  ‘Not today you can’t. It’s your father’s funeral and you have to bury him as he would wish. That’s enough for today. Things will be clearer tomorrow. Let’s find your dress. It’s a beautiful day outside but it will be cool in the cathedral.’

  Selwyn was interviewing policemen and phoning round to his former office in Birming-ham to get advice. In fact, he was taking charge like it was a military operation, ordering them about. May had never seen him so bossy, but someone needed to steer this rudderless ship and she was glad of his knowledge of how to go about things.

  Roddy had claimed his American citizenship. The police said they could not interfere in this domestic dispute. He’d gone of his own free will and would now be in international wa-ters, out of their reach, in the care of his legal father.

  One silly postcard had shattered his mother. On it was a picture of the Olympic , the identical sister ship of the Titanic. One look at it and Celeste had fainted clean away in the hall. May had stood firm at the sight of those funnels and bow. She never wanted to see that image again and pushed it out of sight. Then came the letter from Mr Parkes, claiming his right to Roddy as if he was a lost parcel in left luggage, and all this the day before the can-on’s funeral.

  ‘Of all the ships in the world, he takes him back on that one! He will ruin my son, teach him to be a bully. His mother will spoil him. I have to have him back with me.’

  Celeste was beyond reason but May sat with her until she fell into an unnatural sleep. May’s next job was to be the gatekeeper, ushering out visitors if she thought they were

  lingering too long with their condolences. How were they going to explain Roddy’s ab-sence?

  The locals thought Celeste a widow, not a runaway wife. This news would be a nine-day wonder in the Close once it was known, so the longer they kept this situation secret the better. Who better than May Smith at keeping secrets? Selwyn would say nothing and Ella must be ordered not to spread any gossip.

  Celeste was glad of the thick crepe veil covering her face as she stood to receive her father’s coffin. The cathedral organ boomed out, the congregation stood in respect as they followed behind it, and she remembered the day of her mother’s funeral and all that had happened since.

  She couldn’t believe Roddy had deserted her like that, her only son walking out of her life as if she was nothing. Anger and sorrow burned in her throat. To mourn her father was natural but the thought of losing Roddy was unbearable. He must have been bribed, be-mused by Grover’s attentions. She felt sick knowing how her husband had charmed her so easily. Roddy was an innocent; how would he survive back in Akron without her? How would he go from one world to another? He didn’t even know his grandpa was dead, and he was still little more than a child, and a devious one to hide all this from her.

  She had so few rights in the matter. Selwyn explained that legally she was still a married woman. A custody battle would be useless at this stage. She was so full of hatred of Grover, so angry that Roddy had put her in such an impossible position. She’d worked so hard to bring them back to England and this was how he’d repaid her. The boy had no idea who he was dealing with. Grover wanted him as a trophy, a son he could control. He’d pay her back by making him into a miniature of himself. Roddy wasn’t used to that sort of discip-line. How would he cope with Grover’s outbursts if he were to be disobedient?

  As they were walking down the aisle she caught a glimpse of Archie McAdam staring at her with concern. He knew everything now. He’d turned up on the day of the postcard to offer condolences for her loss and had found himself in the middle of a maelstrom of confusion and tears. There had been no point in disguising from him what was going on.

  ‘My husband’s lured my son back to America,’ Celeste said, showing him the postcard of the Olympic. ‘Better you know the facts. I left him
years ago, brought up my son alone and now this . . .’ She’d not been able to continue or look him in the face.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ was all he said. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ She shook her head wearily. ‘Selwyn says we can only wait and plead our case, try to get

  access and custodial rights. I’ll have to go back to the States. I won’t lose my son, I can’t. He’s the only thing that matters to me.’

  ‘I don’t think you will ever lose him. He’s just temporarily mislaid,’ Archie offered, but she was in no mood for joking. ‘That’s not funny,’ she snapped.

  ‘Forgive me, but it wasn’t intended to be. He’s mislaid, misguided, a young boy on an exciting adventure. Children don’t think of the consequences of their actions. Why should he? He’s been well brought up, loved and cosseted. He trusts people. He may be a little confused right now, but you have to trust that all you’ve taught him won’t be lost. I know a little of young people and Roderick will come through this. Chasing after him will only tighten the noose your husband has thrown around his neck. Selwyn has told me a little of his nature . . . I’m sorry.’ He reached out to her hand but she pushed it away.

  ‘He had no right to tell you about my private affairs.’ Celeste couldn’t believe her brother had been so indiscreet. ‘You don’t understand any of this!’

  ‘Sadly I know only too well what it is to lose a child, but I also know love given freely is never lost. Roddy knows you care. He will find his way back to you in time.’

  Celeste stormed off, not wanting Archie’s advice. She wanted Roddy now, not tomorrow. But somehow, now, the warmth of this man reached out to her as she clung onto her brother down the aisle. She felt Archie’s strength. She sensed his concern and his kindness. They were going to need all the friends they could muster to live with this sorrow. Every word of Grover’s letter was burning into her heart.

  You didn’t think I’d let you get away with stealing my son, did you? He is mine, by rights, and I have seen to it that he will be brought up a true son of his country, not some mollycoddled English schoolboy at the behest of females.

  Don’t come chasing after him. He will write to you when I permit in the holidays and on other occasions. He must be left alone to develop the strength he gets from his father, which will take him far in this new world. He will have only the best money can buy.

  You’ve had your turn, now it is mine to form his character and make my heir. You’ve done your part. You stole his early years, now I will have his grown-up ones.

  There will be no divorcing until I say so. It may be prudent to find a more suitable wife to offset your in-fluence, but until such times, my own mother will suffice.

  We could have been spared all this business, if only you’d learned obedience. But you English never learn, do you? You are a cussed obstinate race on the whole. I thought I could train you up, but you were a disap-pointment. Roderick will not make the same mistake. I shall break him in slowly to our way of doing things. He’ll soon learn what is best for him.

  I hope you are suffering as I suffered when you stole him all those years ago. So you can go to hell in a hand cart.

  Grover Parkes

  How will I live with this? How can I survive knowing he’s so far away from me? Who will take this pain from my heart? Why ever did I let him go to London on his own? And why did he hide his father’s letters from me? How could I have been so stupid not to know that Grover wouldn’t try to take him back? Oh, my son, my poor silly boy, you don’t know what you’ve done.

  There was nothing to hope for, nothing to do but count the days until she would hold him in her arms again. Her life from now on would be an existence. She stared up at the great West Door opened in honour of her father. As God and the saints are my very witness, I’ll not sink without a struggle. She saw again the giant ship plunging into the waters on that terrible night. There must be no giving up now. She was unsinkable. She had survived certain death. There must be a way back to him somehow. There just had to be.

  Part 3

  BROKEN THREADS

  1922–1928

  For months after Roddy left, Celeste was inconsolable, unable to function, lost in her own despair. May began to wonder if she would end up in hospital, as May herself had done. Their whole world had been turned upside down and now May was in charge of running the household, making all the mundane decisions, writing lists and giving orders, while Celeste drifted along as if in a bubble, interested in nothing but news from Akron, news that had been filtered out through Roddy’s grandmother, news that was not helpful at all. Roddy is fine. He’s settled in school, he has a bicycle and his own horse to ride, and he loves hiking around the country with his friends, so don’t go pestering him with pleas to return. He doesn’t want to. The attorney’s letters are not helping your case with Grover. He throws them in the trash. Do not waste your money paying their fees. Roderick is here to stay. He will write you in due course.

  You brought this on yourself when you ran from all your duties here. Everything has its price, my dear. Everything has its price . . .

  ‘How can they keep my son from me? They’ve turned him against me. I have to go there right now and make him see sense,’ Celeste wailed, kneading her hands in anguish.

  Selwyn tried to calm her down. ‘Not yet . . . it’s too soon.’ ‘I shall go mad waiting here,’ she cried.

  ‘Then go out and find yourself something to get out of bed for,’ he offered, just as he had spoken those words to May all those years ago. Now he too was back in harness, back practising law in Birmingham again, fighting cases for war veterans who desperately needed homes and medical treatment. Roddy’s drama had shaken Selwyn out of the lethargy that had plagued him and May felt that for the first time in years he was back in charge of him-self. Even his drinking sprees had diminished. Now he came home only to potter around in his barn. Sometimes May took out a drink and sat down on the bench watching him tinkering about. They didn’t need to talk to feel comfortable with each other. The silence was com-forting.

  In stark contrast, Celeste was hard work, flitting from one idea to the next. Thank good-ness her friend Mr McAdam called in so often to take her for a walk, bringing her back a little more settled. May wished she had a friend like that, one who’d look out for her and

  cherish her. Joe had always been attentive and generous with his compliments. Sometimes she wondered if Selwyn would ever notice how she spruced herself up and made an effort around him. But if it was not metal, rusty or in need of repair, it barely received a glance.

  Much as May loved her friend, she was beginning to trip over her in the house and garden. She left her stuff everywhere and then promptly forgot where it was. An untidy daughter was enough, two people making a mess everywhere was shredding her nerves. Then one morning as May was clearing away their copy of The Times, she noticed that Celeste had ringed round an advertisement for a domestic agency in London. It was a start. May felt a flicker of hope for the first time in months. She cut the advert out and placed it on Celeste’s writing bureau.

  May seized the moment while Celeste was sitting slumped over her cocoa. ‘Here, why don’t you reply?’ she demanded, shoving the notice under her nose. ‘It can’t

  do any harm finding out what they do, can it? You’ve too much time to brood and that’s a highway to nowhere, as I well know.’

  Celeste looked up and smiled, shaking her head. ‘I’ve seen this before. It does look in-teresting, in fact . where did I put my application . ? The Good Lord knew what he was doing the day he brought you into my life and no mistake.’

  ‘Get away with you! What are friends for but to hold each other up when the going gets rough? I’m only doing what you’ve done for me in the past. Remember what you used to say: “If I’m busy, I don’t think.” It’ll come right, I promise, but in the meantime why not try something new? It just might help.’

  Akron

  Roddy stood on the Portage Path trail. He’d gone to see the Indian statue, a
nd was looking out westwards to where the old boundary between Indian country and the United States began. He paused, gazing out over the wooded ridges, trying to imagine how it must have been in the olden days, but his heart wasn’t in this hike. He was feeling homesick for the flat Trent Valley, for his old brick school and the cathedral city, for the rough and tumble of life in Red House. But most of all for his mother.

  Since the letter came telling him Grandpa Forester had died on the very day he’d set sail for New York months ago, he had felt awful, wishing he could have gone back to pay his respects and comfort his mother. How she must have despaired losing her father and son on the same day.

  He looked around at the tall trees leading down towards the deep ravine of the Cuyahoga River, which snaked along the edge of town. Houses now dotted the Portage Path. The coun-try club encroached on Injun territory, pushing them ever backwards and out of sight.

  This place was where he had been born but it didn’t feel it was where he belonged. It had all been a big mistake to walk away from his old family. But what was done was done, and he couldn’t see a way back.

  His thoughts roamed to Ella’s accusatory letter telling him he was a traitor and an ungrate-ful pig. How on earth could he reply? She didn’t mince her words, she let him know exactly how distressed his mother was, how ill she’d been since he had left.

  ‘She blames herself for not going to London with you, and she cries when no one is look-ing, so come home and make her smile again . ’

  Roddy had pored over her letter, feeling wretched. He hadn’t written home much since he’d been here, just a letter of condolence to his mother and Uncle Selwyn, and a brief ac-count of his new school. He’d added some snippets of information about Granny Harriet, but not mentioned the fact that his father had a constant companion called Miss Louella La-mont, who sometimes sat with them in St John’s Church, and came for tea. She was pretty enough in her fancy clothes but she had a voice like a foghorn.