by Irene Carr
Jack explained, ‘My ship put into Hartlepool last night – just for a few hours, she’s sailing in the morning – and I wanted to come and see you.’ He glanced at Chrissie and said simply, ‘I don’t know when I’ll get another chance, you see.’ He sipped at his tea and went on, ‘I caught a train and at the Railway Hotel they said you’d gone to the Bells . . .’ He told how he had seen her kidnapped, pursued the Humber and finally found it on the wharf. ‘Then I heard you scream, saw the boat out in the river and some commotion. I pulled off my shoes and uniform and dived in.’
Chrissie gazed ahead of her primly. She remembered him climbing out of the river, dressed only in his cotton underwear that left little to the imagination. She murmured, ‘Well, you’ve seen me.’ She blushed, well aware that the same could be said of the dress she wore that had clung wetly to her body.
Jack grinned at her and said only, ‘Yes,’ but that sent the blood mounting to her face again. Then he became serious. ‘What were these people up to?’ So Chrissie told him all about Forthrop and Parnaby, how she had outmanoeuvred the former to buy the hotel, and his threats. She told him that Andrew Wayman was dead, of his bequest to her. She wept and Jack held her. He did not connect the captain he had known at Gallipoli as just ‘Andy’ with Wayman.
Later all three made statements to the police. A doctor ordered Chrissie to bed and, exhausted by her ordeal, she obeyed. Jack found a room at the Railway Hotel and Parnaby was locked in a cell.
Next morning a maid brought a breakfast tray into Chrissie’s room. On it was a note from Jack and the maid informed her, ‘Mr Ballantyne left at the crack o’ dawn, miss. The old gentleman went with him.’
Chrissie asked, ‘Which old gentleman?’
‘His grandfather, miss, the old Mr Ballantyne.’
Chrissie opened the note and read: ‘Last night’s cabbie found my clothes! No goodbyes. Wait for me. Jack.’
The police had brought word of his grandson’s adventure to George Ballantyne. Dawn was not far off so he had dressed and got his elderly chauffeur to drive him down to the Railway Hotel. He had found Jack, bleary eyed but elated, eating a hurried breakfast.
Jack said, ‘Hello!’ They shook hands and he invited, ‘Have some coffee.’
George poured himself a cup and listened as Jack told his tale in a few short sentences and finished, ‘I’ll buy another cab for that chap. It’s the least I can do; I wrecked that one last night.’
George said, ‘I’ll see to that.’ Then he asked, ‘You say the girl’s name is Chrissie Carter. Have you known her long?’
Jack looked him in the eye. ‘Long enough . . . years, in fact. Since I was a boy – off and on.’ He recounted what he knew of Chrissie’s life and background and concluded, ‘But now she owns this place.’
‘And her mother is a ‘theatrical’ and her father a seaman.’
‘He was in the Australian Army but he was killed in Flanders.’ Jack’s eye was still on his grandfather and he was remembering the rows between them on account of his girls over the years. He asked bluntly, ‘What about it?’
But George Ballantyne trusted this young man totally now and the rows were in the past. Just as importantly, he knew something of the girl – told to him in confidence by Arkenstall – though he had never met her. He recalled the mistake he had made with Richard and Sally Youill. So he would wait and see. He only smiled at Jack, ‘Just making sure I’ve got the right of it. You must introduce me to her.’
Jack stood up. ‘Next time I come home. Now I have to go.’
They left the hotel together, the old man walking straighter now, as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders.
A week later Fred Burlinson, the policeman, called in at the Railway Hotel and told Chrissie, ‘I think you’ll remember that Parnaby feller from years ago.’ Chrissie nodded and he went on: ‘When we charged him with being an accessory to attempted abduction he broke down and told us everything. His boss, Forthrop, had been smuggling in food off Danish ships. He had a shed down on the North Dock that was full of eggs, butter, cheese and sides o’ bacon – piles of it. Parnaby will go down for a stretch, o’ course. His boss would ha’ done an’ all, if he’d lived. We’ve found his body, by the way. It was fished out of the river last night.’
Chrissie managed to say, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’ But after he had gone she shuddered at the memory of that night. And while she would not rejoice at anyone’s death, she could not help feeling a surge of relief now the threat was lifted from her. She reflected that the sea and the river gave life to this town but they also brought death. Harry and Mary Carter, Sylvia Forthrop – she had read the newspaper account of her drowning at the time – Frank Ward, Richard Ballantyne, and now Max Forthrop.
The next day another name was added to the list. Chrissie was making her evening rounds of the hotel and looked into the public bar. Arkley was in there, talking with the barman, their heads together over a newspaper.
Chrissie asked, ‘Something interesting?’
Arkley started, seemed about to shake his head, then pushed the paper along the bar to her. ‘Did you see this? The Ballantyne lad’s been lost at sea. His ship was torpedoed off Spain.’ Chrissie stared at the report under his pointing finger but she could not read it. Her eyes would not focus and she clutched at the bar for support. Arkley said anxiously, his voice distant, ‘Here! Are you all right, Miss Carter?’ He remembered Chrissie lunching with Jack Ballantyne and the gossip that had caused. He wondered, were they . . .?
But Chrissie managed to answer, ‘I’m fine. I think I’ve been dashing about too much. I’ll put my feet up for a bit.’
She made her way back to her room on wavering legs. Once there she shut the door behind her and collapsed into a chair. No tears came then; she was numb with shock. But later she wept. She did her grieving in the privacy of her room. When she went out again at closing time to face staff and customers she was smiling, seeming her usual self. But she did not sleep until the small hours and then only out of exhaustion and her pillow was wet.
Chapter 25
November 1918
Chrissie moved through the next days like an automaton. She worked as hard or harder, made the right decisions, smiled brightly at staff and customers alike. She felt as if she watched herself acting a part.
On a quiet Sunday morning she was crossing the empty foyer when old George Ballantyne pushed in through the swing doors. Chrissie paused and he took off his hat. She saw his mop of hair was now white as snow. He asked, ‘Miss Carter?’
‘Yes.’
He held out his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. My grandson spoke a lot of you when I saw him last on leave.’ He hesitated, then said awkwardly, ‘Jack Ballantyne. Did you know that he—’
Chrissie put in quickly, ‘Yes, I know. I’m very sorry.’
That brought a slow nod of his head. ‘Yes. I gather you were – friends.’ He thought they might have been more than that. He also remembered the child that had been Chrissie Carter so long ago. And Ezra Arkenstall telling him recently that she was not his grandchild but the daughter of Andrew Wayman. George looked at her and thought that she was a lovely young woman. And she owned this hotel. Looked the part, too. So much for all this rubbish about breeding. He would have been proud to welcome this girl into his house if she and Jack . . .
He stopped there and swallowed, then said, ‘I’m on my way to London – I have to transact some business there for the yard – and I decided to come in and make your acquaintance. I’m very glad I did.’
He left then, as quietly as he had come. Chrissie watched him cross to the station where a porter waited with his suitcase. He walked with the wide shoulders slumped and his pace was slow.
Arkley came to stand at her shoulder and said, ‘That’s old Ballantyne, isn’t it? By, he’s aged a lot. He took it hard when his son was killed but now the young lad has gone as well . . .’ He shook his head and Chrissie turned away, hid in her office.
Old Geo
rge sat in the corner of his first-class carriage, thinking of the girl he had just left. She gave him hope for the future. They would have made a fine pair, her and Jack. He snapped his newspaper open and spread it in front of him, hiding from the other two men who shared the carriage.
Early the next morning Chrissie told Arkley, ‘I’ll leave you to look after the place today. I expect I’ll be back around six this evening.’ She intended to fit new curtains throughout the hotel and there was a shop at Durham she thought might have what she wanted. She caught a train crammed with men and women on their way to work and spent the morning looking at materials, all of them excellent but none suitable for the Railway Hotel. She was restless and, for once, could not concentrate. She gave up and set out for home early and her train arrived back in the town station just before noon.
She found the world had gone mad.
Church bells rang, the hooters of factories and the yards blared, the sirens of the ships in the river whoop! whooped! She stepped down on to the platform and into a crowd of men and women, singing and dancing. One man tried to pull her into the dance. She resisted, suspecting he was drunk, and demanded, ‘What’s going on?’
He shouted at her, laughing, ‘The war’s over! They’ve signed an armistice!’ The dancers whirled on past her. For a moment she could not believe it. Reports had filtered out of Germany of revolution and mutiny, and there were other reports that the Kaiser was seeking an armistice. But it was hard to accept that after four long and bloody years the war was over and the men would be coming home.
No, not all of them.
She forced her way through the crowds, out of the station and into the street. That, too, was crowded with noisy revellers. A tram had stopped, unable to make headway through them, and its woman driver had joined in. She stood on the platform, singing her heart out and beating time with her felt hat while the tears rolled down her cheeks. A motor car rolled slowly by with a dozen celebrators perched on or clinging to it. One of them was a soldier, cap on the back of his head and playing a trumpet.
It was followed by a jazz band, a score of men, women, boys and girls, sporting half a dozen different styles of dress, uniforms, blazers and dinner-jackets. They played ‘A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight’. There was a procession of women and children, all waving flags. Gangs of boys scurried in and out between the walkers and dancers, hurling fireworks, and nobody cared.
Chrissie edged across the road towards the Railway Hotel, barged and jostled but not begrudging them their rejoicing, smiling herself now. As she stepped on to the pavement she fell up against a little group all dancing together and making an island in the crowd. She saw that one of them was, incredibly, Parsons, George Ballantyne’s ancient butler. Chrissie remembered him from her time at the Forthrops’; they had borrowed his services for occasional dinner parties. Now he jigged on stiff old legs, his arms around Mrs Gubbins, the cook. Four maids whirled around in the arms of soldiers.
Parsons stopped when he collided with Chrissie, or because he had to. He gasped, ‘Miss— ’ Then he crowed for breath.
Mrs Gubbins was younger and fitter. She shrieked, ‘Aye, aye, miss! Have a drink, bonny lass!’ The bottle of port she held out was half-empty.
Chrissie laughed but shook her head. ‘No, thanks. But you keep on celebrating.’
‘Aye, well, we’ve got good reason. What wi’ the war finishing and the boss coming home and giving us the day off. Chin-chin!’ And she upended the bottle to take a long swig.
Chrissie said, surprised, ‘He’s home early. He only went down to London yesterday morning.’
Parsons answered her before Mrs Gubbins could lower the bottle. He puffed, ‘Not the auld man – young Jack. He walked in this morning just before we heard about the armistice. I said, “We thought you were deid.” And he said, “The bad penny always turns up.”’
Mrs Gubbins put in, ‘Aye, there he was, large as life. I’d niver seen him afore but I knew him from the photo the auld man keeps on the mantelpiece. Looks thinner about the face now, though. He sent us off and I said, “Aren’t you coming down,” and he said, “I’ll celebrate later.”’ She giggled. ‘He could celebrate wi’ me any time, that one!’ Then the crowd surged, she and her little band were carried away on the swell of it and Chrissie was left alone.
She walked on and into the hotel, oblivious to the uproar now. The foyer was empty and she found the receptionist and all the other staff working in the bars, trying to serve the customers who packed them to the doors. Arkley was in the public bar and shouted above the din, ‘That young Jack Ballantyne – he’s alive!’
Chrissie nodded. ‘I know.’ She was still trying to take it in.
Arkley shouted, ‘He came in earlier, looking for you! I told him you wouldn’t be back till tonight and he went off.’
Chrissie said, ‘That’s right.’
He blinked at her. ‘What?’
‘I will be back tonight.’
She left him staring and walked out of the hotel. She paused for a moment then, as always, her head turning to sweep the building with a practised eye, checking that the windows were clean, the curtains drawn back neatly, the brasswork on the front door glittered. But this time she saw it as hers. After nearly twenty-five years she had a place of her own as Mary Carter had urged on her. And a good job? Chrissie’s lips twitched. She thought that Mary Carter would have approved of the job, too – better than gutting herring on the quay.
She could not find a taxi and the tram service had ground to a halt, so she walked. It was more than a mile but she did not care. She remembered other times, ten years ago, when she had come this way with the horse and cart to sell fruit and vegetables to the big houses. She did not hurry but it seemed only minutes before she turned in at the gates and walked up the drive.
The tower rose monolithic above the roof of the house against the grey November sky. She remembered her first sight of it on a March evening nearly twenty years ago. Then all the tall windows had blazed with light. There were no lights in the tower nor the house below it this early, but the glow from a fire lit the long dining-room inside. She could see the great chandelier, its glass glinting redly from that glow amid the flickering shadows cast on the ceiling.
The front door was closed but Chrissie ignored that and walked on along the drive running down the side of the house to its rear, because this was the way she had always come. She did not knock at the kitchen door because she knew the cook and the others were not there to answer, but it opened at her touch. As she closed it behind her again she heard the music.
It came distantly but increased in volume as she moved slowly forward through the house. She recognised the music, ‘The Blue Danube’. It was the waltz she had listened to all those years ago, though she had been too young then to give it a name, as she and young Jack watched the dancers circling gracefully in the long room. Now it was not played by a string ensemble but came from a gramophone and the record was squeakily old. She did not care about that.
The door to the long room was open and she stepped inside and paused there. Jack Ballantyne stood tall and straight by the windows at the far end, his broad back turned to her. His jacket hung on the back of a chair and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows showing forearms thick with muscle. The gramophone with its horn atop stood in the middle of the gleaming table, along with a tray holding a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and several glasses. The record came to an end and Jack turned and saw her there.
He said, voice deep, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Jack.’ Her reply sounded as no more than a whisper in that big, high-ceilinged room.
He walked with long, slow strides to the gramophone and wound at its handle. ‘I was coming down to look for you later.’
‘Yes, I know. They told me.’ She started towards him, slowly and sure; there was no need to hurry now. ‘We were told you had been lost at sea.’
He looked down at her with the old, familiar grin. ‘Your Mr Arkley told me abo
ut that rumour. In a way it was true, I was lost. The old ship was on her own, bound for Gibraltar, when she was torpedoed. That was the second time for me. It’s becoming a nasty habit but I’ll be able to give it up now. Anyway, she went down at night and two or three of us who were last to leave got separated from the others.’
Chrissie stopped with a yard between them. ‘And then?’
‘We saw a ship stop – just the lights of her – and presumably she picked up the rest of the crew. We hadn’t any flares or a light so we shouted like mad but nobody heard us. She didn’t hang around and I don’t blame her because that U-boat might still have been there. We saw her searching for a few minutes, but she came nowhere near us and then she steamed away. I suppose she put in at Gibraltar and I was reported lost then.’
He took a pace towards her, reached out to the bottle and poured into two glasses.
‘Anyway, we rowed about all night and come morning the only ship in sight was Spanish. She picked us up and I found she was bound for the Tyne! She berthed there this morning. She hadn’t any wireless and didn’t put in at any other port, so we couldn’t let anyone know we were alive.’
They stood only inches apart now. He lifted the glasses of the cold, dry champagne, gave her one and lifted his. ‘To us.’ And they drank it down. He released the catch on the old gramophone, lowered the arm on to the record and it began to play. He took her in his arms and they danced, circling around the room. They played and replayed the record again and again, drank and danced in the firelight until the bottle was empty and the music stopped.
Then he kissed her and carried her up the wide stairs to his bed.
Chapter 26
January 1919
The New Year came in bitterly cold. The yards were still working full blast but Jack Ballantyne had warned, ‘There’ll be a glut of shipping now and damned little work.’
