Mary's Child

by Irene Carr

  Now the captain was first over the side into the sea that was churned into foam, plunging in up to his waist and wading towards the shore. But his men were only a second behind him, crowding at his back then shaking out, deploying into a straggling line in obedience to his yelled orders and the barking of the sergeant. So they came to the beach and started up it without hesitation. Only the captain turned and waved back at Jack Ballantyne. Then Andrew Wayman led his men up the beach into the fire of the Turks.

  Jack took his boat back to his ship waiting offshore. He spent the next thirty-six hours ferrying troops and supplies ashore, always in the face of harassing fire from the enemy. He was not hit again, but when he was finally relieved and plodded below to his bunk, he found his shirt stuck to his side with dried blood. The bullet had torn a shallow furrow six inches long. He thought slowly, numb with fatigue, And six inches to the left would have been a bull’s eye, old lad.

  He soaked off the shirt, got one of the sick-berth attendants to put on a dressing and then fell into his bunk. His last thought before sleep stunned him was that the Australians had been brave, particularly that captain. He did not know he had just met Chrissie’s father.

  ‘Do you think you can manage on your own, Chrissie?’ Lance Morgan asked worriedly.

  Chrissie answered, ‘I’ll have to, it’s as simple as that.’

  They talked in her office, behind the glass-panelled door looking out into the foyer of the hotel. A huge Christmas tree stood out there now and paper chains hung from the ceiling. Yuletide cards were crammed on every flat surface in the office but two held a special place on her desk. One was from Frank while the other bore the signature ‘Jack’. It had come from the Dardanelles. He had been there for nine months now.

  Chrissie sat in her own swivel armchair and Lance slumped in that of Tommy Johnson. She went on ruefully, ‘There’s nobody else to run this place now.’ Because Tommy, at the age of forty-three, had been asked once too often by some old man or shrill woman, ‘Why aren’t you in uniform?’ He had volunteered for the Army and was now on Salisbury Plain, serving as a waiter in an officers’ mess ‘and likely to stay here,’ he had written to Chrissie. That last was some consolation to her, knowing he was not going to be in the firing line.

  Lance coughed, shook his head and said breathlessly, ‘That’s right enough. I can’t do any more. It takes me all my time to run the Bells these days.’

  Chrissie silently acknowledged that was almost true, although Lance did not run the Bells entirely on his own: Millie Taylor was a hard worker and Chrissie had always continued to keep his books for him. She still helped out for an hour or two when Lance was ill and had taken to his bed and Millie was hard pressed to cope alone. His health had deteriorated still further since the outbreak of war. No one asked him why he was not in the Army because he was plainly too old and unwell, grey faced and breathing stertorously. He did not dare to venture out of doors when the bitterly cold wind howled in off the sea.

  Now he wheezed, ‘But I think we’ll have to come to a new arrangement. You’re doing Tommy’s job as well as your own so it would only be fair if you drew his salary as well.’

  Chrissie shook her head. ‘We told Tommy we’d make his Army money up to what he was getting here. While he’s away his wife still has to feed and clothe herself and their bairns. That eldest boy is growing out of everything he gets in a few months and kicks the toes out of a pair of boots in no time. And him and the three little lasses, each one of them eats as much as their mother. No, I’ll not take Tommy’s money. Set that aside in the accounts. I’ll settle for twenty per cent of profit – if you think that’s fair, Mr Morgan.’

  Lance blinked at her, then grinned. ‘I reckon you’ll be better off that way. But, aye, fair enough. It’s my capital in here and my mortgage, my risk. But you’re the one who’s making the money, so right you are, twenty per cent.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Morgan.’ Chrissie knew to a penny what profit the hotel was making.

  Lance waved her thanks aside. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Chrissie. You’ve built up the trade right through the place. Every damn thing’s scarce on account of this war but you always get enough food so the dining-room’s always full, lunchtimes and evenings.’ During her years spent in the Bells and the Palace Hotel Chrissie had built up a list of contacts in the trade. Now they were keeping her supplied. And over the years she had learnt how to make an appetising and nourishing meal out of next to nothing.

  Lance had not finished. ‘Every night I look in here, the public bar and the rooms are crowded. There’s a lot of fellers coining money, in the yards or outside, and this place gets full of them. Then there’s the residential side; it’s rare that you have a room empty for the night.’

  Chrissie had decided right at the start on the kind of business she wanted for the Railway Hotel. ‘We can’t compete with the Palace for style, it’s far too grand for us. We want to be comfortable and cheap, not dirt cheap, but a shilling or two less than the Palace. And we’re handy for the station.’ She had gradually attracted the commercial travellers visiting the town. They stepped off the train, crossed the road to the hotel and reserved their room for the night. Then they returned for their dinner in the evening when their business was done, their orders booked. She also put up young officers come to join a ship fitting out in the river, or older ones visiting the town to check on some admiralty contract in the yards.

  And Chrissie led. When the kitchen staff were under pressure, she cooked. If the bar staff were run off their feet she served drinks. When the cleaners were short-handed she pulled on a boilersuit she had bought from a workmen’s clothing store and set to with mop, duster and scrubber.

  Lance knew this and as he rose to leave, said, ‘So, well done, Chrissie, lass. But I still think you should have an assistant.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find somebody.’ Chrissie was not optimistic. Too many good men had gone to the war.

  But one came back the next day. Chrissie looked into the public bar, saw a familiar face and called, ‘Arkley!’ Because he had said, long ago when they had both worked for Lance Morgan at the Frigate: ‘Nobody calls me Dinsdale except me mother’.

  He had been scowling down at the bar but now he looked up, blinked in surprise and gave her a quick smile. ‘Aye, aye, Chrissie.’ Then he corrected himself and said awkwardly, ‘But I suppose it’s Miss Carter now.’

  She laughed and asked, ‘How are you keeping?’

  He grimaced. ‘Not very good. I was wounded at Hooge in Flanders, lost a leg.’

  Chrissie’s joy at seeing him evaporated. ‘Oh! I am sorry.’

  He shrugged. ‘Worse things have happened to better men than me.’ He shoved away from the bar, turned and took a few limping paces, right leg swinging stiffly. Then he returned and said, ‘See? Near as good as new.’ But he finished bitterly, ‘Not good enough for a job, though, except as a watchman. And it might come to that.’

  Chrissie said, ‘Come and sit down in the office for a minute.’ And twenty minutes later a stunned Dinsdale Arkley had accepted the job as her assistant manager.

  He lifted the glass of beer she had given him, toasting, ‘Here’s to you, Miss Carter.’

  ‘And you, Arkley.’

  He added, ‘And absent friends.’

  ‘Absent friends,’ Chrissie echoed, but flushing. She was conscious of the two Christmas cards on her desk. Lance Morgan had only known they came from ‘Frank’ and ‘Jack’. He did not know the surnames and the first names were common enough. He thought the two young men were both suitors, while she knew that was not the case at all. But she would not, could not argue the point. She thought of them now, Frank who was somewhere at sea in his destroyer and Jack Ballantyne in the Dardanelles. The campaign there had degenerated into a stalemate, but was still taking its toll of lives every day. She prayed that he would live to return.

  He walked into the hotel a month later and Frank Ward preceded him by an hour.

  Frank strod
e into the bar with a sailor’s roll, a battered suitcase under one arm. He told Chrissie, ‘There’s a good show on at the Empire tonight. How about you coming with me? The ship’s in for a boiler clean and I’ve got a week’s leave.’

  Chrissie hesitated, but saw the pleading in his eyes, decided the Railway Hotel could manage without her for one evening and agreed ‘I’d like that.’ Remembering his relations with his father, she asked, ‘Where are you staying?’

  He said, ‘Not at our Ida’s place; it’s full o’ kids. She has enough on her hands without me.’ Chrissie knew his sister had produced a child every year since her marriage. Frank added grimly, ‘And I’m not going home, that’s a certainty.’ He gave a jerk of his head towards the river. ‘I’ll book a bed in the Seamen’s Mission.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, Frank Ward.’ Chrissie was indignant. ‘You’ll stay here.’

  Frank laughed ‘You don’t know how much us sailors get paid! I save a bit being so long at sea but it doesn’t go far ashore. I can’t afford to stop at this place.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’ She lied without shame, ‘We’ve got some empty rooms and you can have one of those.’ She went to the reception desk and gave him a key. ‘Put your stuff away. I’ll get ready and meet you here in about an hour.’

  She had to give some instructions to staff before she left for the evening. One of them was to the receptionist: ‘I’ve given room sixteen to a Mr Ward. It was booked for one of those two sub-lieutenants – the other’s in fifteen – I think they’re joining that destroyer being fitted out in the river. They’re coming in on a train at eight. Give them my apologies as they’ll have to share fifteen but I will make a cash adjustment. Get another bed put in fifteen, please.’ She knew they would be happy with that, having asked other young officers to double up before. They were used to sharing cramped cabins and gladly accepted the refund to buy a few drinks.

  ‘Yes, Miss Carter.’

  Then she found Arkley where he was helping out in the public bar and told him, ‘I’m going out for the evening so you’re in charge.’

  He grinned at her as he pulled on a pump handle ‘Righto, Miss Carter. You enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I will.’

  She was in the foyer ten minutes before the hour was up, changed out of the dark skirt and crisp white blouse she wore for business, into an evening dress with a skirt that showed her ankles in silk stockings. Her coat and hat were laid on a nearby chair. Then a tall, black-haired officer walked in through the swing doors, cap under his arm.

  Her heart thumped. Then he looked around, saw her standing there and headed towards her. His face was thin, and it was browner than those of the other men she saw every day. His mouth was a firm, straight line and his eyes looked into her.

  He stood over her and said, ‘Hello.’

  Chrissie smiled at him and answered, ‘I didn’t know you were back.’

  ‘Just now. I’ve left my bags at the station. I’ll get ’em later.’

  ‘I saw in the paper that all our men had been brought out of Gallipoli.’ She had read every word she could find about the fighting there.

  Jack said, ‘They pulled us out a few weeks back. Should have done it months ago. It was a good idea mishandled and it cost the lives of thousands of good men. I put a lot of them ashore and brought off some of those left at the end – wonderful men.’ His voice was harsh, bitter.

  Chrissie asked, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Hungry.’ He looked away from her in case she saw what was in his eyes and glanced across at the double doors of the dining-room. ‘Will you join me?’

  She had seen that look and read it, avoided his gaze now, knew that the blood was rising to her face anyway. And then she saw Frank Ward sauntering down the stairs, saw him pause a second as he noticed her talking with the officer, then come on more slowly.

  Chrissie said, ‘I’m sorry. I already have an engagement.’ It sounded formal, stilted. Her voice was unsteady. ‘If you will excuse me . . .’ She started to move away but finished breathlessly, ‘I’m glad you’ve come home safely, Mr Ballantyne.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Now his voice was deep and hard. She felt it. But she did not want the two men to meet with her between them, like dogs snarling over a bone.

  She snatched up her coat and hat, met Frank in the middle of the foyer and slipped her arm through his. He said, ‘Wasn’t that the Ballantyne chap you were talking to?’

  Chrissie nodded. ‘He’s an old customer, just got back from Gallipoli and come in for dinner.’

  ‘Ah! I thought I remembered him,’ Frank said. ‘He did me a good turn when I belted me father and his mates in the blacksmith’s shop a few years back. He’s a good lad.’

  Chrissie changed the subject, paused at the door and held out her coat. ‘Hold this for me.’ He took it and she put on her hat with its wide brim, glancing in one of the huge mirrors on the wall, then shoved her arms into the sleeves of the coat and smiled at him, ‘Right! We’re off!’

  They went out into the night together, arm in arm. Jack Ballantyne watched them go. Then he swore, spun on his heel and crossed to the receptionist. ‘I want to make a telephone call.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lilian Enderby joined him within the half-hour, wearing a long, close-fitting silken evening dress that slid tightly, smoothly on her haunches. Over dinner she said casually, ‘Mummy and Daddy are away. He had to go to London on business – we have shops down there, too, you know – and Mummy wanted to do some shopping. I couldn’t go because I have this little job now. Everyone has to do something, don’t you think? So I help out at a canteen for a few hours most days, serving tea. But it’s a terrible nuisance Mummy being away. You simply can’t get servants these days. They’re all working in munitions factories. We have a woman who comes in and cleans for a couple of hours in the afternoon but that’s all.’ She dropped her gaze and murmured, ‘So I have the house to myself.’

  Jack lifted the wine bottle and squinted at it, saw it empty and called to the waitress, ‘Another of these, please.’

  He collected his luggage from the station later and tossed the cases into the taxi that waited with its engine running. He and Lilian were both laughing at some joke as they climbed into the cab and he called out her address to the driver. Chrissie saw them as she walked back to the hotel with her arm through that of Frank. She heard the laughter and saw the girl clinging to Jack’s arm. Chrissie stared straight ahead and walked on, stiff faced. Frank Ward returned to his ship at the end of a week. Jack Ballantyne spent two weeks at home before he was recalled to duty. Chrissie saw him often during that time. He came to the hotel for lunch or dinner nearly every day and Lilian Enderby was always with him. But the day after Jack went back to sea, Chrissie saw Lilian dining with a young Army officer.

  The winter drew to a close, and with the spring came rumours of preparations for a ‘big push’ in Flanders. That would mean more casualties, more lists of the dead and wounded. Those lists were a daily reminder of the war being fought.

  And then one night it came to Chrissie.

  Chapter 20

  April 1916

  The gunfire woke Chrissie. There was first a distant rumbling such as might herald an approaching storm. That only brought her half awake, stirring in the big bed in the spacious room with its own bathroom attached that she had kept for herself in the hotel. The rumbling grew louder, closer and she was suddenly fully conscious, alert and sitting up in the bed. Now she heard the whistle of a policeman in the street below her window. For a moment she wondered what it meant. Was he in pursuit of a burglar? Had someone broken into the hotel to steal?

  The curtains were drawn but the sash window was lowered some inches, letting in a breeze that stirred the hangings. Now it also let in a chink of pale light that passed the window, returned and was gone. She stared at that for a second as the whistle faded away along the street and the rumbling steadily increased in volume. And finally she realised what was happening.


  Chrissie jumped out of bed, ran to the window and snatched back the curtains. She looked out on a night sky strung with clouds stretched on the wind and the moon peeked through the gaps in them. But now she could see the source of that pale, shifting glow. It came from a searchlight sited outside the town and its beam waved a probing finger across the sky. Beyond it, to the north and up the coast in the direction of Newcastle, the darkness was pocked with spurting flashes, like fireflies that glowed briefly and died. That was where the thunder came from. She knew now that it was gunfire, that the policeman’s whistle had been warning of an air raid and the searchlight’s beam was seeking a raider. Then she saw it.

  The beam caught a blink of silver as it roved, moved on then swiftly returned. Now the blink of silver was lit for all its length. To Chrissie it looked like a long, fat, silver pencil, the point towards her. She had not seen one before but recognised it for what it was from pictures. This was a zeppelin.

  Chrissie turned back into the room and dressed hurriedly in what first came to hand – her boilersuit, set out for the next morning when she intended to start the day with cleaning in the kitchen. As she shoved her arms into a cardigan she heard a whistling again, but this time it grew rapidly to a shriek and ended in an explosion that shook the windows of the hotel so they rattled in their frames.

  Chrissie thought, Oh, God! That was a bomb! though she had never heard one before. She ran out of the room and down the stairs. Guests were appearing at the doors of their rooms and she shouted to them, ‘Go down to the cellar! It’s an air raid! You’ll be safer in the cellar!’ But she tried to keep her voice even and firm, not slipping into hysteria.

  In the hall she found Len, the night porter, at fifty-eight too old to go to the war. He was unlocking the front door and turned to call to her, ‘Just in case we need to get out in a hurry!’