The Captain's Daughter (15 page)

‘Oh, look, Roddy, aren’t those lovely? We’ll put some string on them so they won’t get lost,’ said Celeste, unwrapping May’s parcel and sniffing the lavender. It was the only present still left under the huge fir tree in the hall.

Roddy was wide-eyed with wonder at all his gifts, dashing from one to the other while the servants looked on. Susan had the day off so Celeste had her son all to herself after they went to church.

Grover’s parents were due any minute for the Christmas lunch. How she longed for mince pies, the pastry melting round the spiced fruit, such an English tradition. But she would have to make do with a version of plum pudding that never quite tasted of home.

‘Look, Grover, May’s sent such thoughtful gifts and she’s applied for the
Titanic
Relief Fund. I’m so pleased . . . Now she can go about building a life for herself. Look how Ella’s grown,’ said Celeste, trying to interest her husband in the Christmas card.

Once dinner was over, she knew they’d all sit together with nothing much to say and she didn’t want him emptying the whiskey decanter.

Grover glanced at the formal shot of May sitting posed in her black dress with a pretty lace collar, and on her knee a beautiful child in starched white cotton.

‘How did that skinny thing produce that doll?’ he sneered.

‘Oh, don’t be mean. Her husband had gypsy blood, she told me,’ Celeste replied.

‘He must have been deaf, dumb
and
blind to marry that thing,’ came his reply as he returned to his cigar. May’s letters were never of any interest to Grover yet he seemed to resent them when they came. ‘What’s she on the scrounge for this time, this protégée of yours?’

Celeste ignored him.

Selwyn’s Christmas card was illegible and Bertie managed a few lines about rowing on the Cam and trying for a Blue. It was May who was becoming quite the little writer now, keeping tabs on Father’s health. Celeste kept May’s letters in a special drawer in her bureau so she could reread them, hugging them to her chest. They were a life line, a last link with her family home.

Ever since joining the Women’s Relief Committee, Celeste had felt a new purpose in her life, a new energy and sense of being useful. She was no longer sitting around like a dressed-up doll waiting to be picked up and played with by a petulant child. She had dates in her diary that weren’t just shopping trips or dinner parties or church fêtes.

She looked across at her husband, now slumped in the chair.

Grover was a spoiled bully, and the more they lived together the more she hated her life with him. It was getting harder to hide their arguments from Roddy. He was at the kindergarten during the day but at night she had to make sure he was asleep before she dared answer back.

Christmas had been spoiled by Grover’s worries at work. Her husband was now a bigwig with the Diamond Rubber Company. The chairman, Frederick Barber, had retired to his mansion after some boardroom squabble. There’d been lots of games played to find his natural successor and Grover hadn’t got that top post and was in a sulk.

‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ she offered. ‘It’ll give us all an appetite and Roddy some exercise. He can wear his new mittens. He can take his new bat and ball too.’

‘You go, I’ve work to do.’

‘But it’s Christmas Day,’ she protested. ‘A family day. Your parents will be here soon. Oh, do make the effort.’ As soon as the words left her mouth she realized her mistake.

‘An effort! What do you think I do all day? Those letters from England are turning your head. That woman is currying favour with you, that’s all. All you think about is that blessed
Titanic
business. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped all this scribbling?’

‘Nonsense, May’s lonely. I’m lonely; she reminds me of home.’

‘This is your home. How can you be lonely, you’re never at home? How many trips have you made this year? It’s costing me a fortune in hotel bills. You’d better cut them back.’

‘I take your mother with me. She enjoys a change of air.’

‘A change of shops, more like. Pa is complaining too.’

‘Let’s not quarrel, it upsets Roddy. We mustn’t spoil his day.’

‘You spoil him all the time. He follows you round like a lapdog.’

‘He’s only little and they grow so fast, Grover. You’re always welcome to come.’

‘Someone has to pay for your extravagances,’ he said, eyeing the sapphire and pearl antique bracelet he had bought her, now circling her wrist.

Christmas Day was turning out to be just as joyless as every other day. If it wasn’t for the tree festooned with baubles, the greenery over the mantelpiece and the cards placed around the room for all to see, it could be any other day.

How did I fall for Grover’s apparent charm and his handsome face on that visit to London? No one warned me to look behind the façade to what lay beneath?
She had been too young and inexperienced not to be swept off her feet by his promises. Her parents had been equally charmed by Grover’s American confidence and good looks. Now his eyes were glassy and cold, his drinking had thickened his waist and his skin was florid but he held all the power. He paid the bills and kept the purse.

In his world women were just decorative objects. It was the men of industry who ruled, backed up by armies of servants to wait on them. If she ever left she’d have nothing: no child, no money, nothing but her pride. Recently she felt that might be the better option. Then she looked at little Roddy and knew it would be impossible to abandon him to the Parkes regime. She thought of the Committee members who were raising funds. How many of them woke in the morning battered and bruised and humiliated? Sometimes she wondered if it might have been better to have drowned on that terrible night, but her thoughts always came back to Roddy. He was her reason to live, to stay strong. Somehow there had to be a way forward. There had to be more to life than this existence.

‘Come on, Roddy, we’ll wrap up and go to meet Grandma and Grandpa down the drive and leave your daddy to his work in peace.’

The March streets were crowded with spectators waiting for the grand procession. It was the big St Patrick’s Day Parade in New York City – one of the biggest of the New York festivals. The parade was being held early on the 15th because St Patrick’s Day itself was in Holy Week. Families were out on the sidewalks in their green costumes. There were bands and dancers swirling in the dusty streets. Angelo stood watching for a few moments, sniffing the aromas of roasting chestnuts and popcorn.

Salvi and Anna had wrapped their bambino in a green scarf. They were happy with the extra trade the celebrations brought to them but he was feeling miserable.

Another letter had arrived from Maria’s family on paper edged with black. They begged Angelo to return home to the
paese.
But how could he – a man who’d unwittingly led his wife and baby to their deaths – face them?

There wasn’t a note of reproach in the letter. Whoever had written in such careful script had measured their words with compassion.

He hadn’t told them about the shoe with the Tuscan lace. It seemed cruel to raise their hopes or his own any further. After months of enquiry no one had come forward, just a woman who thought she had seen the pair of them on the
Titanic
in the saloon, dancing to an Irish jig, but she couldn’t be entirely sure. The scene haunted him. Maria always loved to dance, her feet hardly touching the floor as she twirled around laughing.

They should be here enjoying the spectacle together, the baby on his shoulders, Maria standing by his side in her white dress with the lace edging she was so proud of. Her skills would have been in demand. She had been bringing all her equipment: her cushion and tombola, her fusilli and some of her master’s designs. She’d planned to teach lace making, to sell her work. He thought again of the shoe that sat on the shrine he’d created with their portrait and the statue of the Madonna del Carmina. What if she’d sold those shoes on board and some baby here was wearing his daughter’s clothes? He couldn’t bear the thought.

He watched the spectators crossing themselves in fervour as the Madonna’s statue bobbed past on the shoulders of burly Irish navvies. Across the street a group of Irish shop workers giggled and waved at the procession. One girl hung back, wrapping herself in a shawl, a straw boater perched on her head, her eyes cast down until she glanced at him staring at her and smiled. He glanced away, shaken by his response.

Oh no you don’t, making eyes at a colleen and your wife not gone a year. But the instinct to find comfort was strong. He turned away ashamed as the procession of bands in their green uniforms blew out their tunes into the fetid air. It was stifling in the crowd and he badly needed a drink. He always needed a drink these days. A bottle was his solace and faithful companion. It helped him sleep. ‘Work hard, work always and you’ll never know hunger,’ his papa had always said.

He’d worked hard, and for what? What was the point? Salvi was always nagging him to wash and comb his black curls. ‘You’re a handsome
boia
. . . go find a
ragazza
to give you comfort.’

He’d wanted to hit him but couldn’t be disrespectful to his elders. How could he look at another woman? How could he forget his Maria just like that, like turning off a faucet?

There were graves far away in Canada where the recovered bodies had been buried. He should have sought her there but they said there was no record of Maria or Alessia being found. Anna and Salvi had written to the Welfare Relief on his behalf and had heard there was compensation on offer but it only covered Maria’s property. Angelo could claim for a bundle of lost lacework. But how do you compensate for the loss of your wife and child?

The priest at Old St Patrick’s was on his side but had told him to be patient in his grief. It would ease, given time, but Angelo didn’t want it to pass. The pain was his punishment, but to work he must sleep and to sleep, he must drink. He was in danger of losing his grip. Would it matter if one morning up in the gantry he slipped? Would it matter if he ended it all?

Only the thought of his mother’s shame and pain stopped him. That and the little shoe. What if Alessia was somewhere out there? The torment of such a yearning must be blotted out.

Angelo turned his back on the parade. He’d seen enough happy families for one day. He needed a stiff drink, a cheap bar and a few hours of oblivion in the back alleys of Mulberry Bend.

Later he woke on the stinking floor of some dosshouse. His pockets had been picked clean. He smelled of booze and worse. Where was he? As he stood up the room began to spin. Stepping over drunken bodies snoring off their hangovers, he heard the bells calling the faithful to Palm Sunday Mass.

He couldn’t recall how he’d landed in this den but his head was swimming with a thumping headache. Had he been at the poteen with some Paddy mates celebrating? Did it matter? Nothing mattered now he’d lost his pay, or rather what was left of it. He needed a change of clothes before he faced Salvi and Anna, who’d tear a strip off him, shamed by the sight of this tramp, the man he’d become.

But what the eye doesn’t see and all that . . . ‘Don’t miss the Holy Saint’s Day, he will always help you out,’ His mother’s voice was in his ear, but would St Patrick hear his pleas? What would he care about one more drunken Italian?

Angelo was confused, hung over and desperate. He must find somewhere to clean up and honour this day.

He smiled, thinking of his mamma wagging her finger. ‘Show me your friends, Angelo, and I’ll tell you who you are.’

He stared down at the prostrate drunks, ruffians, pickpockets and assorted low life.
I’m not one of them, am I? Holy Mary, have I come to this? . . . Help me! Why, oh why, Maria, did you have to leave me? What’ll become of me without you? Why did you get on that doomed ship? The
tears wouldn’t stop as he staggered out into the spring sunshine, the light stabbing at his eyes. He held onto the doorframe to get his bearings and, putting an unsteady boot on the sidewalk, he aimed towards the sound of the bells.

April 1913

Their letters had clearly crossed in the post. May sat in the park to read hers through over and over again before she posted it.