by Irene Carr
On that first night Walter Ferguson came to cast a jealous eye over this new rival and was shaken. Talking to Lance Morgan’s face he smiled, offered his congratulations and good wishes but told him, ‘It’s nice but you’ll never make anything out of a place like this. It’s been dead too long.’ But later he told a meeting of his directors, ‘We’re going to have to try a bit harder, gentlemen. We’ve got some competition there that’ll take a lot of our business if we don’t watch it.’
One of them said disbelievingly, ‘Did you say the place has a woman for a manager?’
‘That’s right, sir. The chap who was manager, Tommy Johnson, has stayed on as her assistant at the same salary he had before.’
‘That’s ridiculous! A woman can’t cope with a business like that!’
‘I think she can,’ Walter said wrily. ‘She learnt the trade with us and she’s made a start by taking Mrs Wilberforce from us.’
The chairman of the board said, ‘The cook? We can replace her.’
Walter shook his head. ‘Not easily. She was a treasure.’
‘But André is the chef—’
‘He’s all show.’ Walter had been against hiring the chef in the first place. ‘Mrs Wilberforce made the kitchen work while André got the kudos. She knew it. So when Chrissie Carter offered her the job at the Railway – at the same money, mind, so we can’t say she was lured away by that – she grabbed it. Because there she’ll be running the show and getting the credit for it.’
The chairman looked at the others then turned back to Walter and asked, ‘So what do we do?’
The manager told him, ‘We’ll have to try a lot harder, gentlemen, and settle for a smaller share of the market.’
So Chrissie Carter, come from nothing, now knew she was someone. One part of her ambition was achieved. Next she wanted a place of her own. She would have to work and wait but she was ready to do both. She was happy.
Then on the Tuesday the powder train of events ignited by the killing of the Archduke Francis Ferdinand exploded into war.
Chapter 19
October 1914
‘Hello, Miss Carter.’
Chrissie was writing behind the reception desk of the Railway Hotel, giving the girl who did the job a few minutes’ break. She looked up to see Jack Ballantyne, tanned and black hair tousled, smiling down at her. Her heart thumped and she felt the blood rising from her throat to touch her face. She found she was smiling in welcome. ‘Why, hello, Mr Ballantyne. We haven’t seen you in here before, have we?’
‘No. But only because I’ve been in America for the last three months.’ Jack’s eyes left her face and she was glad of that. He looked around the foyer and nodded approvingly.
Chrissie had been shocked and fearful at the outbreak of war. She heard that the Territorial officers had sharpened their swords on the grindstones of the shipyards. She saw them march away with their battalions, to the brassy blare of the bands and the rattle and thump of the drums. She saw the tearful wives, sweethearts and children the soldiers left behind.
But she had her work and the results showed. The hotel had been decorated throughout in light pastel colours and fresh new curtains hung at the windows. Huge mirrors were now set on to the oak-panelled walls, reflecting light and giving a feeling of space. In place of the potted ferns and aspidistras there were vases of flowers. A thick pile carpet covered most of the polished floor and deadened sound.
Jack said, ‘People who wrote to me said how this place had changed.’ And he thought, So has she. He saw that she was no longer in mourning and wore no ring. She was twenty now, poised and darkly attractive. In repose there was a hint of sadness in the turn-down of the corners of the wide mouth. But it was usually curved upwards in a smile, as now.
Chrissie said, ‘And you’ve come to see.’
That was not true; he had not come to inspect the hotel, but he nodded agreement. ‘People also told me this is the best place in town for a meal.’ That was true, due to Chrissie and Mrs Wilberforce. They worked together on buying stocks and drawing up menus.
Jack finished, ‘I thought I’d have a bite of lunch before I caught the train.’
‘You’re going away again?’ Chrissie’s smile slipped away.
Jack’s grin was sardonic. ‘It was suggested to me in London. My ship docked at Tilbury yesterday morning and I was accosted by a lady on King’s Cross station.’ He fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced a small white feather. ‘She asked why I wasn’t in the Army and when I said I hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to join, she gave me this.’
Chrissie thought, Oh, the bitch! The country had been at war for just two months. But already, besides the long casualty lists of the dead and wounded in Flanders, there were shortages of some foods, rumours of atrocities perpetrated by the Germans in Belgium and persecution of anyone with a German-sounding name. And there was this practice. She said, ‘I’ve heard of this going on, women haunting the railway stations and handing white feathers to any young men not in uniform. Take no notice of her or people like her.’ She snatched the feather from him and threw it into the basket under her desk.
Jack laughed. ‘Thank you. You’re quite right and I should have done that and not let it annoy me. In fact, I’m joining the Navy. To be exact, the RNVR, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. That seems more in my line.’
Her first thought was that he might be hurt. She tried to hide her dismay and said lightly, ‘Well, you certainly know about ships.’
Jack grinned. ‘A bit about building them, yes, but they’ll want me to sail the things. I’ll probably wind up with it in the High Street.’
Chrissie laughed and then asked, ‘Do you want a table for two?’ Her eyes searched beyond him, looking for the inevitable girl but not seeing one.
He said, ‘That depends. Will you have lunch with me?’
That silenced her. She stared at him, lost for words for long seconds, then she jerked out, ‘No. Thank you.’
He said, ‘You’re on duty? But I hear you’re the manager. Can’t you find someone to take over?’
‘It’s not because I’m on duty.’ And as he waited, still with a trace of a smile, she said, ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea.’
‘Why not?’ That came out crisply.
‘Please, Mr Ballantyne—’ Chrissie did not want another row.
He corrected her: ‘Jack!’
But she persisted quietly, ‘Mr Ballantyne, you have your life and I have mine. I think we should stay like that, but we can be friends. Please?’
‘Why, Jack! I didn’t know you were in town!’ The girl appeared at his shoulder. She was tall and slender with wide, china-blue eyes under a mass of blonde hair. She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘You should have called.’
Jack still looked at Chrissie, and eventually answered her: ‘As you wish.’ Then turning to the girl he said, ‘Yes, I should have called. But you’re just in time, Lilian. I’m off to join the Navy this afternoon and about to have lunch first. Will you join me?’
Lilian slid her arm through his and purred, ‘Love to.’ She clung to him, gazing into his eyes as they walked into the dining-room.
Chrissie told herself that she might have expected that reaction from Jack Ballantyne. One girl would do as well as another. She had made the right decision.
Tommy Johnson stopped by Chrissie, on his way to the office they shared. His eyes followed Jack and Lilian and he sniffed disapprovingly. ‘From what I hear that Enderby girl is no better than she should be; a fast piece o’ goods.’
Chrissie questioned: ‘Lilian Enderby?’
Tommy nodded, ‘Aye. Her that’s just gone through wi’ the Ballantyne lad. She’s an only child. Her father has a couple o’ shops in London, but his brother, Bernard Enderby, died not long ago leaving a dozen shops up this part o’ the world. So Lilian’s father left his managers to look after the shops in London and he moved up here to keep an eye on all the rest. That must have been about eight or nine months back, just a
fter Christmas.’
Then Tommy changed the subject: ‘That Jack Ballantyne is a good sort.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t know if I’d trust him wi’ my daughter but you could say that of a few about here. I’ve always got on all right with him. What did he have to say?’
Chrissie told him about the white feather and he scowled, muttering, ‘Some of these women are like bloody vultures – begging your pardon, miss – but I’ve been given a couple o’ those feathers myself.’
Chrissie was angered again and laid a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Tommy. Just ignore them. They’re stupid.’
He grumbled, ‘You’re right, Miss Carter, but it isn’t easy. I did my bit in South Africa fifteen years ago. I could wear my Boer War medals but I don’t see why I should.’ He strode off, still scowling.
When Lilian Enderby and Jack emerged, laughing, and made for the street door, Chrissie intercepted them. ‘My best wishes, Mr Ballantyne. Come back to us safe and soon.’ She was aware of Lilian’s puzzled and amused stare, and that she herself was pink cheeked again. But she held her ground.
Jack gave her a little bow. ‘Thank you. I trust I will.’ She held out her hand and he wrapped his hand around it. She felt its pressure for a moment, the roughness of his skin on hers. Then he released her – reluctantly? He went on. Chrissie returned to her desk, blinked and wiped her eyes then tried to pick up the threads of her work and her life again.
In the street Lilian Enderby held on to Jack’s arm, her face turned up to his, her eyes shining and lips parted. She asked, ‘Now, what do you want to do? Just say!’ She had picked out Jack Ballantyne soon after she arrived in the town, had looked at the tall strength of him, at the Ballantyne yard and the Ballantyne money, and determined to have him. So she would be at his side, at his beck and call, every possible moment. She was ready and eager to give him anything he wanted.
At the same time Lilian was aware that there were other fish in the sea and Jack was often away. She had told herself, looking into the mirror, ‘You only live once, my dear. Take all you can, while you can.’ So she had an eye for other men.
Frank Ward came home in the bad weather of the new year, 1915. Chrissie was lending a hand in the public bar of the Railway Hotel. There were staff shortages – Tommy Johnson and one elderly porter were the only males left at the hotel, the others had gone to the war – and flu had laid low some of the women. Through a gap in the crowd she saw the sailor shoulder in through the swing door, his round cap jammed down on his head, strap under his chin to hold it on in the wind, the collar of his navy blue overcoat turned up to protect his face. Once inside, he paused to take off the cap and turn down the collar, and Chrissie cried, ‘Frank!’
He shoved his way through the drinkers to fetch up at the bar and greeted her with a broad grin. ‘Hello, Chrissie.’
‘I thought you were in the Mediterranean.’
‘I was – until three weeks back. Then I got a draft. Now I’m in the Terrier. She’s a destroyer sailing out o’ the Tyne.’
Chrissie clapped her hands in delight. ‘So we’ll be seeing a lot of you.’
He laughed. ‘Not likely! We put in a lot o’ sea-time. If it isn’t escorting convoys, it’s patrols. I’m only here today because o’ the bad weather. We took such a battering this last voyage that we’ll be in the dockyard for a few days. But I will be through now and again.’
They talked about old times as Chrissie bustled about, and Frank was still there at closing time when the doors were locked behind the last customer. Then she took him through to her office. He stared around. It was big enough to hold, comfortably, the two desks with their swivel chairs, Chrissie’s and Tommy Johnson’s. A leather armchair stood at either side of a glowing coal fire and a Persian rug lay on the polished floor. The glass-panelled door looked out on the foyer of the hotel, the reception desk and the front doors.
Frank said in admiration, ‘By, lass, you’ve come up in the world.’
Chrissie tried to dismiss it, embarrassed. ‘Get away! It’s just where I work.’ But her office was one of her few extravagances. Her room upstairs was another. She said, ‘Here! Sit down!’ She pushed him into one of the armchairs then brought him a meal from the hotel kitchen and ordered him, ‘Get that inside you. It’ll keep out the cold.’
He thanked her and ate. Then before he left to catch the train to take him back to his ship, he said, ‘Can I come and see you again?’
Chrissie laughed. ‘Of course you can. Why?’
‘I mean—’ He fiddled with his cap, then said in a rush, ‘I never said before because it was always Ted wi’ you. And when he died, I couldn’t say then, could I? And while I was out in the Med – well, it’s not something I could write down, so I didn’t write at all.’ He stopped, then as she stared at him, just beginning to comprehend, he went on, ‘I mean, can I take you out some time?’
Chrissie almost said ‘yes’, but remembered Ted and the pain her decision had cost her then. She was over that now, had accepted that she had made a mistake when she was young and in a moment of weakness, had put it behind her. But she would not repeat the error. She said, ‘Not like that, Frank.’
He let out a sighing breath. ‘You’re still not over Ted and I can understand that. I know you thought the world of him and he was a better sort than me, that’s always getting drunk and fighting.’
‘It’s not Ted. It’s – I just don’t feel that way about you. I’m fond of you, but . . .’ Chrissie did not know how to finish and her voice trailed away.
Frank nodded understanding. ‘You just want to be friends.’ He managed to grin at her. ‘That’s what I expected, really, but I had to try.’
Chrissie put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Why, of course we can be friends!’ She had said the same to Jack Ballantyne – but that had been different. She thrust the thought aside, snatched Frank’s overcoat from the back of a chair and held it out. ‘Come on! Get into this and away for your train or you’ll be in trouble.’
She bundled him up, pulled on her own coat and went with him to the station. As his train moved away she waved and called, ‘Come and see me!’
One corner of his mouth went up and he answered, ‘I will.’
He did, through the rest of that winter and into the spring.
One night that spring saw Sub-Lieutenant Jack Ballantyne, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, at the tiller of a boat off the coast of Gallipoli. The Turks and Germans held the Gallipoli peninsula that commanded the Dardanelles, the entrance to the Black Sea and the way to Britain’s ally, Imperial Russia. The British Fleet was trying to capture the peninsula and force that passage.
The moon was down and the sky filled with stars. Jack could see the pale blurs that were the faces of his men who pulled at the oars on either side of the boat. And between them, those of the Australian soldiers who were packed into the boat, ranked on the thwarts, rifles held between their knees.
The shore loomed black against the darkness of the night and beyond the line of silver that was the surf breaking on the beach. Jack judged it to be no more than a quarter-mile away now. He could see the lift of cliff and hill. Steam pinnaces had towed the boats in from the transports out at sea, each pinnace pulling a snaking line of twelve boats crammed with soldiers. The surface of the sea was covered with them. The tows had been slipped only seconds ago, the men had just started to tug at the oars.
The Australian officer, an infantry captain, sat beside Jack. He looked to be in his forties and Jack thought him an old man for his job, though that was an observation he had made earlier in the light of day. Now the captain’s face was hidden in the shadow cast by the wide brim of his slouch hat. One of his men spoke to him: ‘How much longer are we goin’ to be in this flamin’ boat, Andy?’
Jack blinked, still not accustomed to the Australians’ familiarity between officers and men. But the captain took it in his stride and answered in a drawl, ‘Not long, but don’t rush it. You might wish you were back aboard before long.’
There followed a low rumble of laughter and another growl from the captain: ‘All right, you jokers! Shut it!’ And that brought silence. There was only the creak of the oars and the breathing of the men who pulled at them, the wash of the sea alongside the boat. Then darkness and silence were ripped apart.
Jack saw the ripple of muzzle flashes that marked rifle-fire, a long line of sputtering flame stretching along the high ground above the beach. The reports came to him across the sea like fire crackers. Bullets kicked up water and foam and forward in the boat a man yelled and slumped to one side as he was hit. The line of flickering flame was neverending now, stretching all along the coast as far as Jack could see.
He shouted, ‘Get down as far as you can!’ though that would not be easy in the crowded boat. He saw the soldiers obey, bending down so their heads rested on their knees. A steady tirade of curses came back to him. He shouted again, this time to his bluejackets at the oars: ‘Pull like hell!’ The soldiers were literally sitting targets now and the sooner they were ashore, the better.
They were close now and rapidly drawing closer as the sailors rowed furiously. Jack stood up, the tiller gripped between his knees, the better to see ahead. There was the line of surf and the rising and dipping bow of the boat was fast approaching it. Beyond was the beach and then the black cliff. He heard, through the crackle of rifle-fire, the tearing thud as bullets slammed into the boat. More men cried out as they were hit. Something snapped past the side of his head like a hand clapped on his ear, a flame seared his side and he yelped and swore. But there was the shore, right under the bow and he shouted, ‘Way enough!’ The oars came in, the boat ran on with the way on her, then grounded.
Jack told the captain, ‘This is as far as we go.’ And thought, I sound like a bloody tram driver!
The captain laughed and said, ‘You sound like a bloody tram driver!’
Jack thought, Snap! He remembered one of the young Australian lieutenants saying of the captain, ‘Don’t let those grey hairs fool you. Andy is a feller who never gives in, just gets up and starts again. The men will follow him anywhere.’
