by Irene Carr
Chrissie stared aghast at the pool now forming on her carpet. ‘I can see that. You’re soaking!’ She hurried over to her bathroom, lit the boiler and started the taps running. ‘Come in here and have a hot bath. I’ll dry your clothes in front of the fire.’
When his hand came modestly round the door with his dripping clothes she spread them on the backs of chairs close to the fire, where they steamed. Then she opened the door a crack, threw in her dressing-gown and called, ‘Put that on when you get out. I’ve got to go out for a few minutes. Don’t answer the door if anyone knocks.’
She knew the girls would have gone home by now and the kitchen would be empty. She found and heated some broth, put that on a tray with a hunk of bread and carried it upstairs. But not before she booked Frank into the only empty room and took the key. He was standing in front of the fire, her dressing-gown tight around him, his hair combed damply. Chrissie handed him the tray. ‘Sit down and get that into you.’
‘Thanks.’ He sat in the only armchair and she curled her long legs under her to sit on the rug in front of the fire. She had still not asked him why he wanted to see her, because she thought she knew and wanted to put it off as long as possible. She was wrong.
He finished the broth and drank the coffee she made afterwards. Then he sat silent for a time, staring into the fire. Finally he looked down at her and said seriously, ‘I wanted to see you because I’ve got a nasty feeling about this draft. I’ve never felt like this before when I’ve gone to sea.’
Chrissie stared back at him, suddenly cold. ‘Oh, Frank.’
He said, ‘So I just wanted to see you and tell you . . . that I can understand how you feel, that I’m not the right one for you. I know, because I couldn’t take anybody else, now I can’t have you. You’re the only one that would do for me.’ He was silent again for a time, then he finished, ‘That’s all.’
Chrissie stared at him dumbly. She had expected and dreaded a proposal she would have to reject. But he had laid himself open to the fearsome punishment of the Navy, and walked from the Tyne on this stormy night, just to tell her what was in his heart.
As if he could read her thoughts he explained simply, ‘I had to come. I couldn’t write something like that.’
She remembered his letters, stiff, awkward and formal, and knew he could not put those sentiments on a written page. Chrissie said softly, ‘Thank you.’
He smiled at her, but she could see the hunger in his eyes. The silence stretched out until the fire settled in the grate and spurted. He stood up and said, ‘Well, if these duds of mine are dry I’ll be getting back to the ship.’
Chrissie stood up close to him and said, ‘No.’ She switched off the gas lamp and he stripped her with shaking hands by the light of the fire.
She woke him at first light, rumpled the bedclothes in the room she had booked for him, then gave him breakfast in the hotel dining-room. They ran down on to the station platform with only a minute to spare. The early train was already filled with servicemen returning from leave but Frank found a seat in a carriage packed with sleepy sailors, who groused, ‘Bloody hell, another one!’ but squeezed up to let him in.
As Frank got in, Chrissie looked around her and realised that Millie Taylor stood only a yard away, her arms around a young soldier. Their eyes met, Millie blushed and said, ‘Hello, Chrissie – Miss Carter.’ She disentangled herself from the young man and introduced him: ‘Jim, this is Miss Carter – I’ve told you about her.’ And to Chrissie: ‘This is Jim Williamson. We’ve been walking out these last weeks. He’s in the Durhams and he’s off to France today.’ Now Chrissie could see tears in the girl’s eyes.
She teased gently, ‘You’ve kept this quiet.’ Chrissie still found time to help Lance Morgan at the Bells when it was busy, but she had not seen Millie with the young soldier before.
Millie explained, blushing, ‘I’ve got two rooms now so I let one to Jim while he was on leave. He’s my cousin, sort of.’
Chrissie spared her and said, ‘Hello, Jim. Nice to meet you.’
He said shyly, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Millie. You’ve been good to her.’
Chrissie smiled. ‘She’s been good to me, too,’ but then she became aware that Frank was leaning out of the window and carriage doors were slamming.
Frank said, serious again, but with a wry grin, ‘I know this doesn’t make any difference.’ And when Chrissie bit her lip and shook her head he said, ‘Like I thought: I’m not the one.’ Then a whistle blew, and again. The train jerked back with a rattling of couplings then eased forward with a hiss of steam and all Chrissie could do was stand dumbly and watch him slide away. He called, ‘Goodbye, my love!’ He was hidden by the heads of the other women on the platform, the other men hanging out of the windows. Then the train was gone, the line was empty and she could not see at all.
She wondered, was she a harlot? Was this her mother’s blood showing in her? But she answered herself: no. She had lied to Ted and now had made some restitution to his brother. She had not lied to Frank. She had no regrets.
A week later HMS Hampshire struck a mine when leaving Scapa Flow in foul weather. She was bound for Russia with Kitchener, the Secretary of State for War, aboard. He died along with most of her crew, Frank Ward among them.
Chrissie did not weep but felt an awful sadness. She had lost both friends of her youth. She would mourn Frank as she had Ted, but this time without guilt and not openly; she would wear no black.
She looked up from the desk in her office to see Jack Ballantyne pass her door with Lilian Enderby on his arm and the girl smiled at her. Chrissie watched them go. She told herself again that it wouldn’t work with Jack Ballantyne and she had to remember that.
She was given a sharp reminder.
Chapter 21
June 1916
‘She only stayed afloat for about ten minutes after the torpedo hit her.’ Jack Ballantyne grimaced. ‘Then we spent a few hours in the sea until a destroyer picked us up. She put us ashore in Liverpool and they sent us on leave for a couple of weeks.’
Chrissie sat at the reception desk and he stood over her. She had called to him as he entered the hotel just before noon, blinking in the sudden dimness after the summer sunlight outside, looking about him as if expecting to meet someone.
‘Hello, Mr Ballantyne! It’s good to see you back again!’ Then he had told her of the sinking of his ship. It was the first time since his return two days ago that she had seen him without Lilian Enderby holding his arm.
But the tall, blonde girl came now, swaying across the foyer to stand close enough to his side to touch him. She smiled up at him with wide, china-blue eyes and asked huskily, ‘So what do you want to do today?’ She reached up to lay a gloved hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re so tall!’ And she promised, ‘I’ll do anything you want.’
Jack grinned down at her. ‘First of all we’ll have a couple of drinks and then eat.’
‘Ooh! Lovely!’ She clung to him as he took her off to the hotel bar.
Chrissie saw the pair of them in the hotel almost every day. This was understandable because the Railway now had a reputation for good food. Despite the shortages – there was no rationing yet but bread was now tenpence a loaf, twice its pre-war price, and there was talk of a ‘meatless day’ – Chrissie managed to feed her guests well.
Jack and Lilian were seen at other places besides the dining-room of the Railway Hotel.
After the first week Jack walked down to the yard and into his grandfather’s office. Old George Ballantyne was managing the yard while his son, Richard, was in London at a conference. He sat back in his chair and took off the steel-rimmed spectacles he had to wear for reading now. ‘Hello, Jack. What brings you here?’
Jack laughed. ‘I just thought I’d look in and see you. You’re down here every morning before I wake up and when I get home at night you’ve gone to bed.’
George said grimly, ‘Because you come home in the early hours of the morning.’
&nbs
p; Jack shrugged. ‘Guilty.’
‘I hear you’re at a party every night – and every day, for that matter.’
‘I suppose I am,’ Jack admitted. ‘But there hasn’t been much opportunity for that these last two years.’
‘I understand.’ George nodded his grey head but turned a cold stare on his grandson and asked, ‘This girl – Lilian?’
‘What about her?’
‘Don’t glower at me, Jack.’
‘You’re glowering at me! But Lilian? Well, I – like her.’ He avoided his grandfather’s gaze. ‘We have a lot of fun.’
George said, ‘You see a lot of her.’
Jack thought, That’s true. All there is to see. He said, ‘Yes.’
‘So are we to think that you are serious at last?’
Jack answered without hesitation, ‘No.’ Then he went on quickly, ‘I won’t be serious while this war lasts.’
George did not answer that. ‘It’s a pity all your old friends – Luke Arkenstall and the others – are away in the Army or the Navy.’ Or lost at sea or buried in Flanders, he thought.
Jack corrected him: ‘Luke’s in the Royal Flying Corps.’
‘So he is. His father isn’t well. He’s an old man, of course, and trying to keep his firm going. He’s very tired.’ George thought, And he’s not the only one.
Jack said, ‘I miss the old crowd. But I’m having a good time. Truly.’ He glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘Time for lunch.’ But he paused at the door to say, ‘Don’t worry about me.’
George smiled at him because he was afraid of what the boy was going back to in a week or so. ‘I won’t. Enjoy yourself.’ But when the tall young man had gone he thought, Our hope for the future. Dear God! Watch over him. For Jack was the last of the Ballantynes. George rubbed his eyes and hooked his glasses over his ears then bent to his work again.
Chrissie had instituted the idea of catering for functions outside of the hotel, supplying the food, drink and staff to house parties and the like. Dinsdale Arkley contracted to handle the Enderby party, but on the big day he was ill and Chrissie had to run it.
She swore under her breath but took on the job. The occasion was the birthday of Lilian Enderby and the guests were the wealthy youth of the town. Chrissie was in blouse and skirt, not wearing an apron but supervising the girls who were. Lilian and the girls who were her guests wore silks and satins. Nearly all the young men, Jack Ballantyne among them, were in uniform. Chrissie recognised some familiar faces from the back room of the Bells but most were strangers.
She worked hard, paying attention to details to ensure all went smoothly; no one waited for a drink, the hot food was hot and the cold collation was cold and all of it appetising. She still managed to glance around her from time to time and almost always saw Lilian at Jack’s side, her hands on him, laughing up at him and talking. They disappeared at one point and it was a half-hour or more before they returned, Lilian flushed, smiling still but contentedly silent now. Chrissie was sure that Lilian Enderby was not just one more girl in Jack Ballantyne’s life.
There was a jazz band and the party went on until one in the morning. Some time after midnight Chrissie looked up from the long buffet table and saw Jack Ballantyne’s dark head above the crowd on the dance floor. His eyes were on her, his face serious. For a moment they gazed at each other from opposite sides of the table then Chrissie turned away.
At one the cars rolled up to the front door of the Enderby house to take the singing, laughing guests home. And at the back Chrissie and her girls loaded up their van at the kitchen door with the crockery and utensils they had brought. Chrissie sat by the driver as the van swayed and bumped back to the hotel.
Jack went back to sea a few days later, and just a week after that Chrissie called at the Palace Hotel for a word with her friendly rival, Walter Ferguson. As she waited for him in his office with the door open, a couple paused outside. Chrissie was hidden behind the open door but a glass-fronted cabinet opposite gave her a view of the hall. She sat frozen as Lilian Enderby talked to a young army officer.
‘So you’re here for just a week? Then tell me what you want to do. I’ll do anything you want.’ As they moved on Lilian put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re so tall!’
As the summer passed Chrissie saw Lilian with a succession of other men. The young officers came and went.
That was the summer of the battle of the Somme when the dead were counted in their tens of thousands. One day towards the end of it, with a gale howling in off the sea, Chrissie’s mother sailed into the Railway Hotel as if borne on the wind and said, ‘Hello, lass! How are you getting on?’
Chrissie, standing behind the reception desk at the time, stared at her, for a moment dumbfounded. Martha Tate wore a fur coat that she opened now to shake off the rain, showing a silk dress. Both dress and coat ended just below her knees. Her legs were clad in sheer silk stockings with high-heeled court shoes on her feet. She was heavily made up. With the foyer between them she could have been taken for twenty-five but now, just a yard away, Martha Tate looked all of her forty-four years.
‘Blimey! Well, say something, if it’s only bugger off!’ said Martha.
Chrissie said, ‘Hello.’ What to say next? ‘Are you here with a show?’
‘A review. We’re doing a week at the Empire.’ Martha glanced around her. ‘We’re staying at the Palace, o’ course. It’s a bit posher but this place doesn’t look half bad.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well, are you going to offer me a cup o’ tea?’
Chrissie was aware of the receptionist, apparently engrossed in her work but doubtless intrigued by this conversation. Chrissie had done her time behind such a desk. And Arkley was limping through the foyer, staring. She said, ‘Of course.’ And told the girl, ‘Ask the kitchen to send tea for two to my office, please.’
‘Yes, Miss Carter.’
Chrissie led the way there, seated Martha in one of the two armchairs before the fire and took the other herself. Martha said, ‘I asked them at the Palace: “Where’s that girl Chrissie that used to work here?” They said, “She’s manageress at the Railway Hotel.” You could ha’ knocked me down with a feather.’ She looked around the office, sniffed and said, ‘You’ve done well for yourself, I’ll say that.’ Her eyes came to rest on the corner table, laden with glasses and bottles that Chrissie kept there for the entertainment of such as Walter Ferguson, Lance Morgan and the rare guest come to lodge a complaint. Martha cleared her throat and said, ‘To tell you the truth, when I asked for a cup o’ tea, that was just a manner o’ speaking. I’d rather have something a bit stronger, if you see what I mean.’
Chrissie asked, ‘Gin?’
‘That’ll do.’ And as Chrissie poured: ‘A drop more . . . and now a dash o’ ginger.’ There was just room for it. Martha clasped the glass in a beringed hand, toasted, ‘Cheerio!’ then drank and licked her lips. Chrissie watched her, and waited.
Martha eyed her, then looked away. ‘Tell you the truth, I came over because I can put you in the way of making a few quid.’
‘Oh?’
Martha nodded. ‘This show, the stage manager, he’s a feller called Phil – short for Phillip – Massingham. He was in the Army but got invalided out – got blown up or something.’ She dismissed that with a wave of her hand. ‘Anyway, he’s set up a company of his own to make pictures but he’s having trouble getting capital together. If you were to offer him some – get one or two of your business connections to chip in – you could grab a big share of his profits. He’s in no position to argue the toss because if he doesn’t get some money soon he’ll lose all he’s got. And he has a wife and bairn depending on him. He’ll have to take whatever deal you like to offer him.’
Chrissie paused before she spoke and then said only, ‘What if he doesn’t make any money with his pictures? My – connections – would lose theirs.’
Martha shook her head definitely. ‘Never! Those picture people are coining it. This is
a sure thing, I tell you.’
Chrissie asked, ‘And what about your commission?’
Martha threw back her head and emptied her glass then ventured, ‘I’ll settle for fifty quid.’
A girl came from the kitchen then, carrying a tray with the tea. Chrissie poured two cups but Martha crossed to the table in the corner and refilled her glass. Chrissie sipped her tea and tried to keep the lid on her mounting anger – and anguish.
But her mother swallowed a mouthful of gin and pressed, ‘So what about it? I’ve got to have a bite to eat and then I have to do a matinée this afternoon. Tell you what: I’ll take twenty-five quid now and you can let me have the rest at the end of the week.’
Not one word of caring or loving, pleasure at meeting again. Chrissie put down the cup and saucer and said, ‘No.’
‘What d’you mean – no?’ Martha Tate stared at her.
‘I mean I won’t give you a penny. Not a brass farthing.’
Martha misunderstood and pressed her, ‘You must have something saved up. With a job like this and living in you should have a few quid behind you. Are you telling me you haven’t?’
‘No.’ Because it was true. Chrissie had saved nearly all of her pay from the Bells and the Palace Hotel since she handed her savings to Ronnie Milburn four years ago. Then there had been her salary as manager of the Railway Hotel from August 1914 and her twenty per cent share of its profits for the past eighteen months. She said, ‘I’m telling you I won’t give it to you.’
Martha wheedled, ‘Ah, now, Chrissie! To tell you the truth, I need the money. This job I’ve got, we’ll be another six months going from one theatre to another between here and bloody Plymouth before we get back to London. There’s a feller there, I was seeing a lot of him and a week back he wrote to me, said he would set me up in a little nightclub of me own. But he needs me to put up fifty quid for my share. Them clubs are making a mint now! All you need is a cellar, a pianist and a few girls! You give me the money and I can chuck this job in and get down to London on the next train.’
