The Captain's Daughter (16 page)

‘Is there nothing for me in the post, Minnie?’ Celeste was puzzled. There had not been a word from May in weeks, which was unusual, especially as the fateful anniversary was looming. For the umpteenth time, she checked the silver salver in the hall where letters were laid.

‘Sorry, madam, nothing I’ve seen,’ Minnie bobbed in reply, avoiding her eye, which was not like her.

Celeste sighed. ‘I was hoping for a letter from England.’

‘From your
Titanic
friend?’ Minnie said. The servants all knew about her correspondence with May and steamed off the stamps for Roddy’s little collection. ‘There’s a big memorial in town for all the drowned souls and a Mass in the Catholic church.’

Celeste was hoping to join the big memorials in New York but it was getting harder to get Grover’s permission. But she did have an idea that might work if she put it to him carefully. They must take Roddy. He was getting quite clingy and Susan said he was wetting the bed again.

‘We won’t trouble Mr Parkes with this. He’s got so much on his mind,’ Celeste had said. Why did she always feel she must make excuses for him? She knew he might punish Roddy and make things worse. A trip to New York would be good for all of them; time together as a family might make Roddy a little more secure. Why did she feel so torn between home and her other work? Perhaps if she wrote to May it would clear her mind. At least on paper she could be more honest with herself.

She wrote on, lost in all her news, trying not to sound too important.

She looked for a stamp but there was nothing in her letter case. Grover wouldn’t mind her taking one of his. She needn’t tell him it was for a letter to May. She made for his study, hesitating briefly outside, recalling the last time she’d ventured in there and the blows that followed.

She checked his silver rack on the desk. Nothing there either. She never dared look in his drawers, but anyway, they were usually locked.

As she bent down to check she noticed an envelope with a British stamp and familiar handwriting in the trash basket. An opened letter from May, read and then discarded. The room spun for a second as she took in the fact that it was one she’d never seen and which, according to the postmark, must have arrived only a few days ago. Of course May had not forgotten her friend on the first anniversary of the sinking.

Celeste sat down in Grover’s mahogany chair and read the letter through carefully. It was all she could do to breathe, such was the rage burning inside her. She wanted to scream with frustration at this treachery.

Am I not even to have privacy or friends of my own? How dare he? This was too much to bear. She sobbed as she read it again and placed the letter back exactly as she had found it. Her anger bubbled up again. Two could play this game, she thought, unsealing her own letter to add a postscript.

It was the best she could do on the spur of the moment. If Grover thought their friendship was on the wane, he’d relax his guard. Little did he know what he’d just achieved. Weak as she might be, he’d touched a nerve, stiffened her resolve. No one was going to stop her writing home, or to anyone she chose. If this was war then she’d won the first skirmish. But she sensed there would be worse battles ahead before victory was hers.

May read Celeste’s strange letter three times, trying to get the gist of it. The middle bit was all about Votes for Women and a woman called Alice Paul, who’d been in England on hunger strike and now was fighting for the suffragette cause in the States.

She read on, confused, especially about the change of address.

She’d seen suffrage campaigners handing out leaflets in the marketplace in Lichfield and pictures of them in the newspapers picketing outside Parliament.

‘Grover thinks I am doing
Titanic
Survivors’ Committee work, which is sort of true. I have to do something . . .’ Her handwriting was scrawled over the page as though Celeste had been in a hurry. What
was
going on?

It wasn’t that May didn’t believe in votes for women herself. They’d been very hot on that in Bolton in the cotton mills, and she’d signed up with the Union years ago for Universal Suffrage. There’d been a riot when Mr Winston Churchill passed through the town and she knew many of her fellow mill workers were still active in the north. Joe believed in the socialist cause but it had all gone a bit haywire, what with Mrs Pankhurst and her scuffles with the police. The burning of Lord Leverhulme’s bungalow in Rivington recently had shocked her but she’d let it all pass over her head since her arrival in Lichfield. It all seemed so far away from her life now.

What would Canon Forester think about his daughter gallivanting over the country with banners? Her husband must be very understanding to let her make such an exhibition of herself. But women like Celeste didn’t need to work, May sighed. They could pursue their hobbies and not worry about the cost. But something was up, she could sense it, and she was worried. Celeste didn’t sound herself.

May reread the pages about Celeste’s busy life and felt ashamed of her own quiet existence. She did her chores at home, her domestic work. There was Ella to mind and she collected her pension with gratitude. She sat quietly in the back pew of the old parish church in Netherstowe every Sunday trying to settle her restless mind, which continued to torment her with dreams. It was hard living a lie in her letters, covering her true feelings about Ella and what she had done, but Ella was so much a part of her now she’d never let her go.

Funny, how they were both hinting about their worries but never spelling them out. Hers were too terrible ever to be committed to paper.

To make matters worse she’d had a set-to with Florrie Jessup, who’d caught her coming out of the Provincial Bank one afternoon.

‘It’s not often we see one of us with a savings book,’ Florrie smiled, eyeing the bank book in May’s basket with interest.

May felt obliged to say something. ‘My husband died at sea and this is a pension,’ she offered, wanting to scuttle off in the opposite direction from this large nosy woman.

‘Is it now? We wondered how you manage to keep you and the kiddie so well turned out on the pittance we get from up there,’ she sneered, pointing in the direction of Cathedral Close and then looking back at May’s smart black coat.

May didn’t like the sound of the ‘we’. She hoped she and Ella weren’t the subject of local gossip. ‘Ella gets parcels from America,’ she tried to explain.

‘So you’ve got relatives there? Is that how you got this job? You do extra for the canon now, and I heard Letty Fagan wasn’t right pleased when he let her go in favour of you. Word of advice, love, this is not how you go about getting jobs round here. People think Letty didn’t do a good job for him.’

May flushed. ‘Well, his house was in a bit of a state when I called the first time. I thought he didn’t have help.’

‘What were the likes of you doing calling on the likes of him in the first place?’ Florrie was dug into the pavement now, barring her path.

‘I met his daughter once . . .’ Big mistake.

‘But she’s in America, wed to some bigwig. She was on the
Titanic.
How come you know her?’

‘Oh, friends from the church, it’s a long story.’ She made to push the pram away but Florrie stood firm.

‘I’m surprised you bother to turn up to work at all, what with such posh connections and a private pension.’

The gloves were off now. How could May defend her corner? ‘It’s not like that at all. I like my work. There’s just the two of us, I have to work.’ May turned to go again but Florrie grabbed her arm.

‘Not so fast. That’s not what I heard. You turned down an invitation to join the Cooperative Guild.’

‘Who told you that?’ May was impatient to run from all these accusations. ‘I need the baby minding every time I leave the house. It costs money or favours,’ she snapped back.

‘Listen, Mrs Smith, if that’s what your name
really
is, let me give you a bit of advice for free. There’s town and gown in this city: Cathedral Close or Market Square, and it doesn’t do to mix or try keeping one foot in each camp. You are one of us or one of them, see?’

‘I’m not from here. I’m from Lancashire and I don’t take sides.’ May’s hackles were rising now.

Quick as a flash Florrie dived in. ‘So? What brings a northerner all this way then?’

‘I was widowed,’ May said under her breath. ‘Can’t a woman have a change of scene?’

Florrie prickled at the reply, showing not an ounce of sympathy as she stood aside. ‘Pardon me for breathing but we wondered if you weren’t exactly a
regular
widow, you know.’

‘What do you mean?’ May looked Florrie full in the eye, catching her off guard for a second.

‘Well, we wondered if someone’s set you up, like . . . out of the way with you and the kiddie not exactly short of a bob or two and no visitors.’ There was a blush on her cheek as she spoke.

‘How dare you suggest such a thing? Joseph was my husband, my childhood sweetheart. It’s only a year since his death.’ Tears filled her eyes.

‘Hold yer hair on! I didn’t mean any offence but you do keep yourself to yourself. People are bound to ask questions, now, aren’t they?’

‘What is it to you who I am?’ May snapped back. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve still got some shopping to do.’

‘There’s something about you I don’t understand; a bit of a mystery, by my reckoning. But not to worry, I’ll ferret around until I know the truth of it. Pension indeed . . .’

Florrie stormed off laughing and May felt sick. So much for peace and quiet. Tittle-tattle by the college staff was the last thing she needed.
Damn you, Florrie, for stirring things up just as I was settling.
Thank goodness Ella had slept through the whole episode. Let them think what they liked, they’d get nothing else from her. Perhaps it was time to find another job. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? She didn’t have to answer to an interfering busybody like Florrie, but she must be more on her guard from now on.

It was true she didn’t mix much, but with all her jobs and the little one there was no time and she was so tired; she still slept badly at night.

Her only friend was across the ocean and even she was acting queer. Was it a proper friendship where you never met but just the once in such extraordinary circumstances? Yet somehow that bond was a comfort and strength, her letters were a chance to pour out her feelings and speak her mind. A woman like Celeste wouldn’t keep writing if she didn’t want to.

If only she could dare tell the real truth about Ella. Maybe she’d sleep then. But that was too much for any friend to take on board. I am a liar and a thief and a dissembler, she sighed, but what I did seemed so right at the time.

All that mattered was Ella’s welfare. She was saving every penny so the little one could have the best she could afford: good shoes, dancing lessons, a proper schooling. When the time came Ella would take her place one day not at the bottom or the top but in the middle, with chances and opportunities in life. If others thought them both standoffish, then tough. Ella was worth all of them put together.

In her own mind, Captain Smith had put his trust in her to do her utmost to give the baby a proper life. Not in some orphanage like herself and Joe had been but with the freedom to choose her own path. May had jumped at school learning, even as a half-day scholar at the mill. She loved a good book to read. She was interested in the cathedral and its history and liked listening to organ music and the choirboys singing. In fact, she was beginning to like this ancient city, even though it was flat with no hills around, so unlike the moors at Edgeworth.

If she’d been born higher up the ladder, maybe she’d be like Celeste, all fired up about women’s votes. Perhaps she should join the Guild and show willing. She might learn a few tips and make friends outside her work. But friends asked questions and poked around in your life. There was safety in distance. Better simply to stick to things as they were and not go rootling for trouble.