‘Yes, of course.’ Keen to get away from that particular subject, I said, ‘But tell me about your aunt.’
‘Hilda?’ She shrugged. ‘Not a very kind woman. She didn’t like Dorothea, I understood that from an early age. What’s more, she didn’t like Nicholas speaking of her.’
‘Disapproving?’ I asked. ‘Or just plain jealous?’
‘Both, I think,’ Lucinda replied with a wry smile. ‘Aunt Hilda is very correct – she was even appalled because I’d travelled alone, without a maid – she couldn’t imagine what my husband was thinking of to allow it!’
I chuckled at that. ‘Clearly, she doesn’t know many American ladies!’ After a moment, I said, ‘Dorothea was never constrained by propriety. And why should she be? In those days Hong Kong was more like a frontier town. It certainly wasn’t England. People there made their own rules.’
There was a small silence. Lucinda looked at her plate, broke a few more pieces of bread. I saw the colour in her cheeks deepen as she appeared to struggle with something. ‘Last night,’ she got out at last, ‘we talked about believing. But I never asked the really important question…’ Her eyes were glistening and suddenly she was looking for a handkerchief. I handed her one of mine, while she tried and failed to control those wayward emotions. ‘Sorry – can’t help it…’
‘I know, I know.’ She was sitting across from me and I couldn’t reach her even if I dared. But I wanted to hold her close and tell her it didn’t matter – none of it mattered. By some miracle we had found each other – everything was going to be all right. Over her shoulder I saw the steward approaching. I shook my head and he retreated.
‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that I am going to break a few of my own rules here. I am going to ask you to come up to my quarters. I’ll get my steward to make some tea, and we will stop being polite and say what we really think. And if we shed a few tears, it won’t matter because we’ll be private there. Is that all right?’ She nodded, and I pushed back my chair, going round to assist her.
A little while later, when Paintin had brought the tea and gone away again, I unhooked and closed both doors. I was beyond worrying what others might think, only certain I did not want our conversation overheard.
Regaining my seat, I tried to find the right words. She seemed so vulnerable, her eyes searching mine for answers. I could see myself in her, all those years ago, longing for things Dorothea would never say.
‘When we were at the table,’ I began gently, ‘were you trying to ask me whether I truly believe you are my daughter?’
Tears sprang afresh as she nodded; she had to set down her cup. ‘I’m sorry – I was all right yesterday. But it keeps overwhelming me. I hardly slept for thinking about it – then suddenly I was doubting everything. Wondering if I’d imagined that moment, when… when it all seemed so clear.’ She broke off, only to exclaim in distress, ‘How I hate that man’s name on my birth certificate!’
‘It wasn’t Curtis,’ I said, reaching out to her. ‘He must have known all along that you weren’t his child. That marriage was no marriage in the true sense, Lucinda – it was a business arrangement.’ I took her hands in mine. ‘Look at me. Never mind the tears. Do I believe you are my daughter? Yes, I do. I was sure yesterday. I’m even more certain today. I hope you don’t mind…?’
‘No – no, I’m happy – so happy…’ With that, suddenly I was by her side, embracing her as I would Mel. She clung like a little girl, as though she would never let go. ‘I felt as though I knew you,’ she said between gulps and sniffs, ‘as soon as you smiled at me. As though I’d always known you…’
She smelled like her mother. Flooded by memories, for a moment I held her tight, then on a deep breath put her away from me. ‘Yes, I felt that, too. But…’ I added with shaky amusement, ‘For me it’s understandable – after all, you are very like your mother.’
My daughter smiled back at me. Like sunshine after rain. ‘But Dorothea had dark eyes, like the rest of the family. My eyes are blue,’ she said, ‘like yours.’
That small observation went straight to my heart.
She wanted to know all about her mother; but it was difficult for me to describe the Dorothea I knew without pain creeping into my voice. I didn’t want to say how very much she’d hurt me by her secretiveness, her inability to confide the things I longed to know. Most of all, that she’d loved me, that I meant more than Curtis, the business, and yes – more than the other lovers who’d come and gone before me.
‘Dorothea kept a lot to herself,’ I said at last. ‘In the beginning I think she was afraid that if she revealed too much, I would go away, never come back. And later – well, maybe I threatened to wreck the boat. So she only told me what she thought I needed to know.’
Struck by an irony, I said, ‘Looking back, it seems to me Curtis could have been plotting to seize your grandfather’s fortune from the beginning. David Lang trusted him – and the man took advantage. But even if your mother had suspected – and I don’t think she did – it would have been difficult for her to divorce Curtis. Especially out there. Too much tit-for-tat, I’m afraid. We discussed it once. But I would have stayed without marriage – if she could have borne it. I would have resigned from White Star, signed up with some other company. We could have moved to India, Singapore – even San Francisco. People need not have known our circumstances…
‘But the business…’ With a shrug I left the rest unsaid, turning away as memories threatened to overwhelm me. Jealousy and bitterness were long gone; looking back, all I could feel was sadness. ‘For all her waywardness, Dorothea had a strong sense of duty – she couldn’t bear to let Nicholas down. Or, I suspect, the memory of her father.’
‘Yes,’ Lucinda whispered, ‘that’s what Uncle Nicholas said. That she stayed in Hong Kong with Curtis because of the business. At what cost, though…’
‘A terrible cost.’ I was looking at Lucinda and thinking of her upbringing – the fighting over Dorothea’s will, the casual cruelty of Nicholas’s wife and son.
‘What happened in the end? Can you tell me?’ When I hesitated, she said, ‘It doesn’t matter – if you argued, parted badly, I’ll understand. I simply need to know.’
‘We didn’t argue.’ I struggled for words to explain. ‘Not as such. In the end I lost heart – as sad and simple as that. Nothing I could say would sway her – and I was suffering. My work was suffering…’ Describing my interview with the Old Man, the choice that was set out so plainly, I stopped, mid-sentence, caught by an aspect of the truth never before considered: I had abandoned Dorothea for the very reason she could not commit herself to me.
Overwhelmed by sudden shame, it was difficult to go on. ‘So, in the end, faced with a choice between her and my livelihood, I chose the latter… It hurt,’ I confessed with painful honesty, ‘like nothing else before it. But after all the intensity – all we’d been through – in some ways it was a relief.’ Unable to bear my daughter’s steady gaze, I reached for my cigars, lit one, drew deep and tried to be calm.
‘I was given leave to explain when we got back to Hong Kong. But Dorothea had gone by then. To London, the letter said, because Nicholas was ill.’ I looked at Lucinda, knowing she had to be the real reason. ‘Because – well, because of things she’d told me before, I never suspected the truth. Although I did suspect Nicholas was just an excuse. To get away from me, I thought at the time. I thought – well, that she’d just decided it was over.’ I struggled to control my voice. ‘Now, I can only imagine she’d realized she was expecting a child – you, my dear – and knew she had to leave before scandal wrecked everything.’
After a little while, Lucinda said, ‘It must have been terribly hard for her to do that.’
‘Yes, it must.’ A fresh wave of shame silenced me. The unknowing had hardened inside me like a lump of ice. Understanding, it melted like a tidal wave. Awash with sudden grief, I whispered, ‘I wish I’d known…’
I had to get up, shake it off. Gazing from my win
dow, I waited until it had passed. When I had myself under control, I felt in my pocket, found the gold chain Dorothea had enclosed in her letter.
‘She left this for me.’ The long gold chain glinted between my fingers. ‘I burned the letter, but was never able to part with this. I think you should have it. A small memento of your mother.’
‘Are you sure?’ she whispered, her eyes alight with concern for me. ‘After all these years, are you sure? I would love to keep it – not just because it was hers,’ she added quickly, ‘but because it makes a link with both of you.’
As she wound it through her fingers I felt the drawing together of past and present. I touched her hair, drew my fingers along the line of her cheek. So soft, so perfect, so like Dorothea. ‘Dear girl, you are the only link that matters.’
27
So many links in the chain of a life. If Lucinda was living proof of the love I’d shared with Dorothea, Olympic forged shackles which dragged me down. I struggle to see the point where I might have broken the chain, unhooked myself from the sequence of events. Maybe only with Dorothea, in Hong Kong or Frisco or some such place: only then might I have avoided what was to come. But we each made our choices: hers the bank and bullion business out East; mine, White Star and the Atlantic trade.
I was ambitious, so I chose my career. I married Eleanor, a woman who supported that.
I thought about her, my love, my wife. Every marriage has its difficulties, but we’d been together 25 years, and mostly we’d been happy. For us, the worst time was the impending move south. Pulling in different directions, then.
I should have listened to Eleanor.
Even Mel managed to make me feel bad. We were in the garden one sunny afternoon. I was seated in my favourite wicker armchair with the papers, reading a piece about the Hamburg-Amerika Line. It outlined the business they were taking from British companies, emphasising the need for a south coast service.
As though she read my mind, eight-year-old Mel wormed her way in beside me. Looking intently into my eyes, she said, ‘Daddy, I don’t want to go to silly old Southampton… I like it here.’
I set my newspaper aside. ‘So do I, little girl, but it’s Daddy’s job.’
She pouted prettily, and said, ‘But your job takes you away all the time. Why can’t you just go there and do it, and leave us here?’
It was a child’s question, a child’s reasoning. ‘Because I want to be able to spend as much time as possible with you and Mama.’
Frowning, Mel studied me, her head on one side. For a moment, disconcertingly, she looked just like her grandmother. ‘But Daddy, you don’t spend hardly any time with us.’
That hurt, deeply. Feeling crushed, I drew her towards me, kissed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, my angel, but going away to sea, driving big ships – that’s my job, it’s what I do.’ Fishing for names, I said, ‘Your friends – Sarah, is it, and Bertie? Their fathers go away too.’
Such similarities cut no ice. She gave me the benefit of her grey, Atlantic gaze. ‘Don’t you miss us?’
‘Of course I do – I miss you all the time.’
‘I miss you too,’ she said, giving me a little hug and sliding off my knee. ‘But you know,’ she added over her shoulder, ‘I’m going to miss my friends lots more.’
That stung. Wondering what I’d done to her, I stood up as she closed the gate, watching her cross the path to join a group of neighbourhood children. Perhaps half a dozen young ones in the care of a couple of older girls. One of them waved to me. ‘We’re just going to the beach, Mr Smith!’
Automatically, I took out my pocket watch. ‘Be careful of the tide – half an hour, it’ll be coming in.’
‘We will!’
They were well-intentioned, but I didn’t trust them entirely. Going indoors I called to Eleanor from the front hall, saying I was going to have a walk, keep my eye on them. Closing the gate, I looked back at the long white Regency terrace: fifteen years of our lives had been invested here. Mel had never lived anywhere else. It seemed too cruel to drag her away.
In her withdrawing of warmth and approval, Ellie had been making her feelings clear for months, while I’d felt badly-used and resentful. It seemed all our domestic difficulties hinged upon the forthcoming move. The argument went round and round in my head, but every time I considered turning down the new route and staying in Liverpool, my desire for new ships, new challenges, won the day. Ambition had always fired me, and in the past Ellie had approved of that. She loved greeting me when I came ashore: enjoyed the excitement and euphoria of each safe return. It kept our love alive.
With each new liner she was keen to come aboard, see my quarters and the bridge, just so – as she said – she could imagine me there, doing my job and doing it well. She was proud of me, she often said so. It kept me going, refuelled my enthusiasm, made me want to find new challenges to conquer, just to see that sparkle in her eye. She’d reaped the rewards, too. She couldn’t just tell me to stop, take a step back. It wasn’t fair. More to the point, it wasn’t me.
Wedged in a cleft stick, I did not know what to do. Perhaps, as my daughter suggested, I should leave them here? It would mean travelling at either end of every voyage – a compromise that left me slack with dismay – but it was beginning to look like the only way forward. I missed Ellie, missed her badly. The Eleanor I was living with seemed another woman entirely, one who had taken all warmth into herself, leaving me out in the cold.
Preparing for bed that night, I tried not to think of the following day. Another Atlantic crossing, six days in New York, and then another week back again. I was tired – wearied, in truth – not so much by the challenges aboard, but by the trials at home. I hoped, tonight, that Eleanor wouldn’t turn away. It had been a long time and I wanted her so much. Wanted to know we were still one, and not poles apart.
To my surprise, she pushed back the heavy curtains and raised the blind. The weather had changed, and half a gale was rattling the window. Frigid air chilled us both. I wondered what was wrong.
‘Look out there,’ she said at last. ‘Can you see them?’
Bending, I could see our faces and the candles’ flame reflected in the glass. Moving closer, blocking out the room, I spied navigation lights beyond the darkness of the dunes. ‘Ships passing…’
‘Yes.’ She turned and looked at me. ‘You know, Ted, I watch them coming and going in all weathers. I think of you, and I pray for you – especially nights like this, when I cannot sleep for wondering how you are, and what…’ As her voice caught, she took a deep breath and turned away. ‘When I’m wondering what trials you are facing…’
Feeling bad, I laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Ellie…’
‘I’m afraid, Ted,’ she said bleakly, looking up at me. ‘Time goes by so quickly, you’re no sooner home than you’re away again…and it seems to me we’re like those ships – just passing. Sending signals when half the time nobody’s looking.’
‘Don’t say that, Ellie, please…’
‘It’s how it is, Ted. You have your ships – I have my life here. If we were moving to Southampton to be together, I’d go – willingly. Anything to be with you…’ She turned, and came into my arms, her eyes pleading. ‘I’m just afraid to be alone in a strange place. Not knowing anyone. Starting again, like it was when we first came to Liverpool – that’s how it will be. Can’t you see that?’
I said yes, I understood – and it was true, I did. Here she had friends, the support of other wives whose husbands also worked for White Star. Southampton was new territory; it would take years to build the kind of life she had in here in the village. It hurt, but I was beyond trying further persuasion: I knew I had to leave them here. We made up and we made love, and it was intense and heart-breaking, like a last farewell, as though next day’s leaving was for the far side of the world.
Neither of us slept well, and I was aware at one point that she’d risen and gone downstairs. But in the morning, just as I’d kissed my daughter’s solemn face a
nd waved her on her way to school, Ellie came softly to my side.
‘Have we time for a walk?’ she asked. I nodded and she called the dog. After last night’s storm it was a fine, if windy morning with white horses racing in the Estuary. Watching the brown and buff sails of vessels bouncing across the waves, I thought of my passengers and hoped they were good sailors.
We passed the Ismays’ old house with its view of the green Wirral, and the headlands of North Wales beyond. I wondered what old Mr Thomas’s reaction would have been to this new move. It was important for the company, but did I really want it? Logic said yes; but, recalling last night, I was suddenly unsure.
‘It’s not really fair, is it?’ Ellie said suddenly. ‘Of course the whole thing’s unfair, Ted, but I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it.
‘I mean the practical side of things,’ she added, meeting my quizzical gaze. ‘I know you’ve been saying it for months, but I got the Bradshaw out and checked the journey myself. You’re right, it will take four trains and the entire day to get from here to Southampton Docks.’ As I nodded, hardly daring to breathe, she went on, ‘And of course, as soon as you board, you’ll have the ship to take out to sea… Or perhaps you’ll have to travel the day before, cutting short your leave? So I thought – realized,’ she added sadly, ‘that it was wrong of me to expect you to do that.’
Disbelieving for a moment, I had to ask her to explain, and when she said, ‘Well, there’s nothing for it, we’ll just have to move – all of us,’ I was so relieved I couldn’t speak. For a moment, as she gazed at me, tensely waiting on my reply, I couldn’t even move. But then I did, enfolding her silently in my arms.
~~~
Very quickly, we started looking for a home in Southampton. Although we would have loved something similar to the house at Waterloo, with views of the sea and open country to hand, it was not to be. Having turned several down, almost at the last minute we were shown a house on the northern edge of town, just a few years old, large with every modern convenience, close to Southampton’s wooded Common, yet within a few minutes’ walk of shops on the Portswood Road. The house, red brick with gables and turrets and deep bay windows, was much bigger than our old home. It was also more expensive, but with its large, private garden at the rear – terraced and south-facing – it was the best we’d seen.
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