Perhaps that was for the best. So many people wanted to forget the war and the loss of so much that was precious in their lives. But grief, someone once said, was like an ever-present lodger hogging the fireside and blocking any heat from getting to you. You learned to put on an extra jumper to stop the shivers. She’d never pursued the quest to learn the identity of her real parents after promising herself to make the effort after the war. Her work and other distractions got in the way. You make time for what you want to do, she sighed. Somehow the quest for information was always bottom of the list. It was all too late now.
Life was about now, the present and the future and yet . . . What was the point of looking back to what she could never change? But still she felt a niggle of guilt that she’d never even tried.
Celeste was just back from Roddy’s in the States. They’d gone to see their grandchildren for one of their birthdays. She still couldn’t get over Roddy settling down with his Italian-Irish wife, becoming a Roman Catholic and opening a chain of diners across the highways of America. Roddy’s businesses had hit the big time. He’d had a good war. Ella and Clare had been invited to his lavish wedding, of course, but the trip was too time-consuming to make: that was her feeble excuse. Celeste and Archie had dined out on their experience for months afterwards. No expense was spared. Patti had looked like Maureen O’Hara in her lace bridal gown and veil imported from Italy. Everyone had danced until dawn, the food was piled high and after wartime British austerity each course made Celeste’s mouth water. There was talk of their moving over to the States permanently, but Celeste knew Archie would never leave Britain.
It was strange how life had worked out. If Roddy hadn’t met that chaplain whose family had helped him escape, he would never have met Patti.
Ella forgot about the film until, a few months later, out of the blue, an unusual invitation arrived from Mel Russell-Cooke, who was hosting a private dinner to celebrate the premiere in Leicester Square of A Night to Remember. She hoped that Ella and her family would attend with Celeste, as guests of the film company in July.
‘You’ve got to go.’ Clare pranced around, delighted. ‘You just have to. You’ll meet all the stars. It’s not fair, though, I shall be still at school.’
‘It’s not really my idea of a night’s entertainment, watching people drown,’ Ella began, but when she talked it over with Celeste she knew it wouldn’t be an easy invitation to re-fuse.
‘We were there, my dear. It’ll be interesting to see how they muck up the storylines. We owe it to those who didn’t survive to represent them. I heard they built half a ship on a lake and sliced a decommissioned one in two to get the angles right. It’s the first time there has ever been any real public interest in the Titanic since the war. I wonder if there’s even a mention of you, or the story of how Captain Smith rescued a child and put it in the lifeboat. You never know, you might find out something to your advantage,’ she argued.
Ella was not convinced. ‘I don’t want my story all over the papers. I’m not going.’ Celeste was not easily dissuaded. ‘When do you and I get a free trip to London, all ex-
penses paid, dinner and the best seats at a West End premiere? Think about it. It sounds fun to me.’
‘Fun? How can you say that? You were there, you saw it all happen.’ Ella was shocked at Celeste’s breeziness.
‘It’s all history now, all so long ago. It’s become a famous drama all of its own. We could talk to other survivors but, Ella, I couldn’t go on my own.’
It was that heartfelt plea that made Ella change her mind. She owed Celeste so much; to deny her this trip would be churlish and ungrateful.
‘I’ll go on one condition. I go as Ella Smith, Ella Smith Harcourt, not as Ellen God only knows who. That knowledge must stay in the family for my mother ’s sake.’
‘May wanted you to find out more. It was her dying wish.’ Celeste lifted up May’s pic-ture as if to emphasize this. ‘Her dying wish. That’s why she told me, I’m sure.’
‘I know, but I don’t want history rewritten or any sensational stuff. I can see the head-lines: “Mother of British artist steals Titanic baby girl. The lost baby of the Titanic found at last! Do you know this child?” That’s not going to happen.’
‘You drive a hard bargain. I take it you’ve never told Clare your true history? She’s so like you, so determined when she gets an idea in her head.’
‘Why, what has she been telling you?’ Ella was curious. ‘She’s given me an autograph album to collect signatures. She hopes to sell them at a
pound a time for her travelling fund. So you see, we have to go now.’ 121
Roddy and Patti made sure Kathleen was sitting between the two of them at the premiere of A Night to Remember. Angelo was advised not to go as it might destabilize his heart murmur. There’d been mixed feelings in the American press about this low-budget British attempt. William MacQuitty, the producer, had done his homework and invited some of the Titanic survivors, officers and crew to flesh out the human stories behind his epic. His radio ap-peals asked for Americans survivors to come forward with their own tales. Immigrants, now well-established matrons from all over the world, answered the call and Kathleen received an invitation as a sister of one of the Irish victims.
Patti, with her Broadway connections, made sure they got good seats and met all the VIPs. Roddy ensured they had a wonderful weekend in New York visiting friends and relatives, shopping in Macy’s for presents for Frankie Junior and little Tina, who were at home with their nanny.
Prosperity sat easy on Roddy, but he’d worked hard to develop the Express Diner end of the business. Will Morgan headed up Freight Express, and with Patti’s flare for décor and the theatrical, they’d cornered the market for reasonably priced roadside comfort stations where you could dine at ‘Mamma Joe’s’ Italian style, or ‘Murphy’s Irish kitchen’.
They bought up old rolling stock and pitched them by the state highways in fields or close to gas stations. They’d hacked out the interiors using the carriages as dining rooms decked out with pretty curtains and furnishings.
Like many veterans, Roddy found it hard to believe he had survived with hardly a scar. The scars he had were invisible to the eye, but his dreams told other stories.
When the film was over he had a sudden urge to phone his mom in England. How had she managed to survive such an experience and remain so calm all her life? The music score kept drumming in his head like rolling waves. It was a simple well-told storyline of different families coping with the sudden disaster: the fate of the officer in the lifeboat and the wo-men trying to keep spirits alive, the stoicism of the great industrialists as they watched their wives leaving the ship without them, the frustration caused by the absence of rescue boats, resulting in so many unanswered questions.
The whole audience was moved. This was no great Hollywood biopic with stars flaunt-ing themselves before the camera, just ordinary faces, good acting and a convincing enough set that gave a sense of the scale of the ship.
Moviegoers left in silence, deep in thought, moved by the enormity of the disaster. Roddy knew it was going to be a box-office hit.
‘What did you think then?’ he said, holding on to Kathleen’s arm. ‘I want to light a candle for Louise, and Angelo’s poor wife. If what he once believed
about his little girl is true, do you think she could be out there watching this, not knowing who she really is? All this time, we just pushed his dream away. It’s not right, is it? We could go to the papers, tell them the story. They would investigate for us.’
‘We have to be sure of the facts first. Papa has accepted that the shoe belonged to someone else. Don’t raise his hopes only to dash them,’ offered Patti. ‘I kept thinking of the young mother and her children, the little boy sleeping through it all, and the look on his father’s face as he waved him goodbye. It makes me never want to go to sea again with the children. How did those men bear to let them go, knowing they’d never see them again?’
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sp; Roddy shrugged. ‘You do what you have to do, it’s instinct.’ He shivered, thinking of the sights he’d witnessed during the war, children strafed with bullets, their mothers clinging to them in desperation. Men murdered before their families for helping the Allies’ advance.
‘What got me was that so many lifeboats were virtually empty so many more passengers could have been saved, like my sister, Maria and Alessia. They were the real victims, those in steerage. I’m glad Angelo wasn’t allowed to watch this. That ship was doomed, wasn’t it? Unsinkable indeed! What arrogance in tempting Providence.’
Later they sat in a restaurant, the gloom still heavy upon them. Roddy was trying to lighten their mood, desperate to think of something to cheer them up. It was one of their favourite trattorias in Mulberry Street with pictures of Italian scenes on the walls, familiar scenes of poplar trees, fine churches with hills in the background. How they brought back memories of his escape. Then he smiled. He’d just had the most brilliant idea. Celeste leaned back in bed, laughing. ‘Just listen to this, Archie. Roddy and his big ideas. I’ve booked us all a trip to Europe next July. I’ve reserved a big house with room for all the family to share a few weeks under the Tuscan sun. I know it sounds crazy but I want all of you over there to join me. Don’t worry about the cost; I would like to cover that. I mean everyone: Ella and Clare, of course, and Selwyn, if you can drag him out of ‘The Anchor’.
Kathleen, Patti and the kids are dying to meet everyone and see where Grandpa Angelo came from. We hope he will be well enough to fly with us too. Of course we all want to see Frank’s final resting place and meet those dear people who sheltered me during the war. It’s all arranged, flights, car hire, everything. You know me, once I’ve decided it’s a done deal. I can’t wait, this is going to be one hell of a vacation. She turned to her husband. ‘Do you fancy driving to Italy?’
‘No, I’d prefer to go by train. At least there are plenty of loos. You know my bladder,’ Archie laughed. ‘Do you think Ella will come?’
‘Clare will give her no peace if she doesn’t. She’s such a recluse these days, stuck in that studio till all hours.’
‘It’s what she does. It’s her world, but artists and Italy are a good combination. I think she could be persuaded. I wonder what’s brought this on. Roddy seems very determined.’
Celeste sank back into the pillow, thinking. ‘Guilt at surviving the war. I guess he has a lot of people to thank,’ she sighed. ‘You and I both know about that.’
Ever since the film premiere her dreams had been full of that terrible night; the awful screams and then the even worse silence. They’d got one bit wrong. The Titanic didn’t slip silently into the sea all of a piece. It had broken in two and crumpled before it disappeared, such an abiding memory.
The likeness of Captain Smith had been uncanny. Mrs Russell-Cooke remarked on how the actor had unnerved her at first. She’d been an excellent hostess, taking time to talk to all the survivors, just as charming as her own father was at the captain’s table, Celeste noted.
Ella whispered that not only had the captain’s daughter lost her son in the war but her only daughter, Priscilla, had died from polio as a young bride. It was rumoured her husband was killed in a tragic ‘shooting accident’ in his office six months before her own mother was killed in a road accident. This brave woman was a fine example of British grit sitting round the table that night.
They’d all made new lives for themselves just as so many were having to do after the war. Celeste would have loved to throw a grenade into the table by saying that the striking woman sitting next to her was really an orphan from the ship who never knew her parent-age. But she would never break the promise made to Ella to remain silent. How many other secrets would never be told about the passengers on the Titanic? She shuddered, thinking how she’d wished her first husband, Grover, dead that night. Now he too had passed away, just after the war. She no longer felt any bitterness towards him, just pity for his unmourned passing within the family.
Watching the film was like watching the world a lifetime ago, the clothes, the manners, the graciousness of an era that would never return. The Great War had seen to that. She was part of that time, born a Victorian but living in the Elizabethan age, and Britain was prosperous and peaceful once more.
They would take a cross-channel ferry, a train to Milan and hire a car for the rest of the journey to Tuscany. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for them all to be together, with a chance to pay respects too. She was proud of her son for planning such a splendid
122
There had never been any choice in the matter once Clare took control. She could be such a bossy madam at times, Ella smiled. ‘This will be my grand tour before university Mummy,’ she announced. ‘I want to see Paris, the Swiss Alps, the South of France, and go round the bay to Florence, of course. And you could show me the galleries and then we can go inland to Arezzo and see the paintings of Piero della Francesca. We can share the driving now I’ve passed my test. I’ve one condition, though. You are going to buy some decent clothes for once. I’m not being seen dead with you looking like a tramp.’
That was the trouble with daughters. They told it like it was, not like Roddy, who cher-ished his mom and treated her like bone china. Still, it would be good to go away. Selwyn refused to budge. No surprises there. He would guard the house, feed the cats and dog, and see to the garden, or so he said. Ella was curious to meet Patti, a beautiful Irish colleen, judging by the look of her wedding photographs.
Celeste said they were a loving family and Roddy was a very proud father. If Ella felt tinges of envy, she brushed them aside. Each to his own, and Anthony’s clever daughter was all she could wish for, even if she was growing up too fast. Soon she’d be off to university and then Ella really would be on her own, a prospect suddenly filling her with uncertainty and fear. At times she felt cast adrift, unwilling to let go of Clare, but when she started nag-ging she couldn’t wait to see the back of her.
This time together would be precious. The funny thing was she’d never had any intention of not going to Italy. Ella was not that bothered about getting there, but driving down French roads together in the shooting brake would be fun. If only Anthony could be by their side. He seemed so far away now. She’d given Clare his letter on her fourteenth birthday and it was always in her bedside drawer under the photo of him in his uniform.
‘I don’t look like him, do I?’ she sighed, looking at her passport photograph. ‘We’re so dark. Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ was the only answer she could come up with on the spot. It had troubled her, this lack of curiosity about finding her true identity. This ambivalence was tinged with fear, apprehension and not a little laziness. What was she afraid of? If she didn’t look, she
wouldn’t be disappointed if there was nothing to find, but hadn’t Clare a right to know the truth by now?
Perhaps on the journey down she would broach the subject. It wouldn’t hurt May now. Since the film, more information was coming out about Titanic survivors. It would not be impossible to track down some of the truth. If she was too scared to do it for herself, she ought to do it for her daughter’s sake. It was her heritage too.
The bust she’d made of Anthony for Clare showed him forever young while she was ageing not very gracefully. Her black curls were dusted with grey, but her eyes were still jet-black and her jaw firm, if a bit saggy in the middle.
Perhaps a few new tops and slacks would not go amiss. Clare refused to compromise, insisting Ella bought a fitted swimming costume and decent underwear, two sundresses, some Capri pants and a smart evening dress. ‘You could look really glam, if you just tried a little harder.’
‘I shall stay out of the sun or my skin will end up like crinkled leather after a few weeks in the heat. It did last time.’
How strange to be wandering across Europe again, this time in style and comfort, staying in a mini palazzo rather than some flea-bitten mattress in an attic. Ella s
miled, thinking of her old self, free-spirited, fancy free, strolling through the French markets with just a few centimes in her pocket. The young have no fear, no cause to doubt the future, she mused. She’d once been confident, gregarious, so sure of herself, but not any more. She envied her daughter. How beautiful was the bloom on Clare’s young face. She hoped no Italian Lothario would wipe that shine away: war had taken its toll on her generation. It mustn’t scar the next.
War had been exciting and dangerous at first, and Ella had relished living for the mo-ment, her life full of passion and risk, but grief and loss had been its unavoidable conse-quences. How she wanted to protect Clare from heartbreak. She was glad she was finished with romance and the agonies of being in love, but Clare had it all ahead of her.
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Italy, July 1959
Roddy stood dumbstruck by the sheer number of white crosses in the American War Ce-metery outside Florence. He paced along the granite panels lined with the names of the miss-ing, looked up at the tall stone pylon and saluted his comrades before the hillside chapel. He thought of all the men he had known who were buried here, and with that thought came the inevitable flashbacks to faces, smells and explosions.
Here, everything was so clean, so beautifully preserved, so quiet, so American in its effi-ciency and detail, and so very moving. Angelo was not up to the long journey so Kathleen wept at her son’s grave alone and Roddy held young Frankie’s hand, praying he’d never have to know such a life-changing experience. He was too young to understand much of it, but the atmosphere touched both his children just the same as they tiptoed round the graves, curious but respectful.
He wanted them all to see what sacrifice looked like. Every one of those crosses was a life unlived, a lighted candle stubbed out before its time. We make death clean and peace-ful, clinical and safe here, he thought, but it was not like that the first time they crossed this country. Battle was a filthy business.
They’d arrived in Rome and made as many of the cultural tours as they could. Jetlagged, after many hours of flight, they had stood in St Peter’s Square soaking up the atmosphere of Vatican City, before driving to Florence so Kathleen and the family could pay their respects. Now she knew where her boy lay it would help her to rest her own sadness.
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 44
