The Captain's Daughter (48 page)

It was slow, agonizing, but in the end gravity did its work and the baby slid out purple, yelling and plump as a capon.

‘It’s a girl!’ said the midwife, holding her up by her feet.

‘Oh,’ Ella gasped, a little shocked. ‘I was sure it would be another Anthony. I never expected a little girl,’ she smiled, examining her baby with care.

‘Just you be thankful that she’s a perfect specimen. You could always call her Antonia,’ came the no-nonsense reply as the nurse bustled around her bed.

Ella sighed at the sight of this tiny mite with her mop of black hair and the darkest of blue eyes blinking up at her. A flood of love washed over her as she held her new daughter.

Celeste was allowed in to admire their new addition and Mrs Allen brought a knitted layette made from unravelled lambswool the colour of weak tea.

‘I know it’s a funny colour, but that’s rationing for you. At least it’ll be very warm. You must be so proud, Mrs Harcourt. Your mother would have loved to see her.’

Ella looked down at the infant nuzzling her breast, feeling confused by the flood of emotions rushing through her. Was this how my own mother felt, whoever she was; this overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude, pride and fear?

Later, Selwyn came in. ‘Well done, old girl.’ He seemed pleased to see that the baby had finally arrived but gave her only a cursory glance, distracted by the latest wireless bulletin. ‘I’ve just heard more news,’ he muttered to Celeste, who was warming nappies by the fire rail in the bedroom. ‘The American fleet has been attacked in Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. They’re in the war now.’

Ella was too tired and sleepy for this terrible news. She sighed, shutting her eyes. ‘No one will ever forget the date of your birthday, little one, but I’m not calling you Pearl. That’s just too sad. We must send a telegram to your daddy and let him choose your name.’

And so Clare Antonia Mary was baptized on Christmas Eve in the cathedral wrapped in the lacy nightdress and bonnet from her mother’s suitcase and a huge shawl; the very lace bonnet that had seen Ella onto the
Titanic.
Anthony was given short leave from his station in Lincolnshire. Celeste and Hazel acted as godmothers, with Selwyn as godfather. It was a chill biting winter, but nothing could dampen their spirits, even the letter from Roddy saying he’d enlisted and was in some military fort miles from anywhere.

They’d wired him news of Clare’s arrival and he’d sent a pretty dress in a parcel marked as ‘tinned goods’, which somehow managed to get across the Atlantic and dodge the U-boats. The dress was much too big for her but at a time of rations and coupons it was precious.

Ella wept when Anthony’s leave was over and he was due back to his station in Bomber Command. It was dangerous work and he was looking fatigued. He’d been waking each night, sweating and shouting orders in his sleep. They’d clung to each other for comfort but she’d discovered him early one morning staring down at his daughter in her crib as if she was too precious to hold.

‘If anything should happen to me, at least I know there’s a part of me in her somewhere, even though she looks exactly like you.’ He paused, seeing the anxious look on her face.

‘Don’t talk like that,’ Ella replied, anxious to stop his train of thought.

‘No, listen, things have to be said. You know what I do, the risks. The odds are getting worse with each op. There’s always a price for both sides and I may be one of the ones who pays it.’

‘No, please . . .’ She tried to steer him away from these gloomy thoughts. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

He continued regardless. ‘When I’m with you, I can live for a few hours as if there’s no war. When I’m high over the North Sea I think of you safe, going about your life, doing everyday things. It gives me such strength and now, with Clare, we are a family no matter how far away I am. When I hold you both, I can forget what tomorrow may bring, the fear I may not return in one piece or that there may be no happy ever after for us.’

Ella wept at his words. How could he say such things?

‘Don’t cry, you’re the best thing in my life, everything I ever wanted. You light up a room with your smile, your hands create beautiful things and you care for people. How can I not love you? When I think how easy it would have been never to have conked out in that field, never to have met you. I feel so lucky so blessed. Many chaps never got the chance to be loved by a woman. We’ll pull through, we will, so don’t worry.’

‘You’ve done your tours. It’ll be a training post soon, surely?’ she asked.

‘I hope so, but only for a while, darling. I can’t sit at a desk, knowing what I know.’

‘Promise me you’ll come back to us,’ she pleaded, clinging to him.

‘If I don’t, I want you to get on with your life, your art, find another chap. Don’t become a nun. My parents will see to Clare’s education. You are not to worry about money,’ he insisted.

‘Stop it. Just keep yourself safe for us.’ She hated him talking like this. It was bad luck to talk about dying. She felt as if someone had walked over her own grave.

‘You have to face facts, Ella. The odds are stacked against us. Sometimes I get a feeling in my bones . . .’ Ella flung her arms round him and halted his words with her kiss.

‘Come on, let’s go for a walk. You’re just tense about leaving. Fresh air will do us all good. We can walk down the towpath and take the baby to feed the ducks.’

As they walked slowly, they heard planes droning overhead on their way back to the Operational Training Unit at Lichfield, returning from doing ‘circuits and bumps’, the routine training flights around the district, getting the hang of how to work as a crew, testing their skills. She could never escape from the roar of their engines. They even haunted her dreams.

So much had happened so quickly for them. Clare was a honeymoon baby. Love in a war was indeed love in a rush but she wouldn’t change a day of it. Anthony must survive for Clare’s sake. She must have a father. Clare must have what Ella had never known, a proper family with two parents to love and provide for her. Nothing else would do.

August 1942

The summer picnic for the evacuee children had been exhausting. The WVS had organized an outing to Hopwas Wood for sports, games and fresh air, with extra hands provided by mothers, grandparents and able-bodied volunteers in the city. Celeste was helping to organize the picnic tables, ready for the bun fight when the hordes of city children made a dash for the sandwiches and cakes they would wash down with bottles of fizzy pop, which had been carted up the hill in wooden crates. The pent-up enthusiasm of these boisterous children was exhausting just to witness.

Ella and little Clare were entertaining the few young mothers who had stayed with their children, most of whom were finding Lichfield too quiet, sleepy and remote to their liking.

At the back of Celeste’s mind she was still chewing the cud over Roddy’s last letter. He’d revealed his training was over and he’d got a commission into the army and was looking forward to seeing action in the Far East. Now she had no idea on earth where he was in the world.

They’d had an influx of American troops into the local barracks at Whittington. What with the boys in blue at the air base at Fradley, Lichfield was now a busy garrison town. She only wished Roddy were here.

At night they crowded into the public houses; raucous, noisy boys, accompanied by some Waafs in uniform, spilling out onto the streets, drunk, making the most of their leave. The whole city was geared up for war with convoys once again trundling down the main streets. The traffic passing Red House was so loud at night, it made the windows rattle, and overhead was the ever-present drone of planes on night-time bombing missions.

Celeste couldn’t believe they’d had nearly three years of war, three years of rationing and coupons, travel restrictions and blackouts, with no sign of an end. Sometimes she felt every one of her fifty years, her legs constantly aching from standing, and the drabness of make-do-and-mend shabbiness had taken its toll on her spirits.

It worried her that Clare wouldn’t know anything but blackout curtains and gas masks, home-made toys and cut-down clothes. She was the one bright spark in their day with a ready smile to light up their darkness. Ella had proved to be a natural mother. She also found time to work on her sculpting and she’d made pen and ink drawings of Clare to send to Anthony. One of Anthony’s friends had introduced her to some of the leading artists in the Midlands, and a gallery in London had bought two pieces, which was such a boost to her confidence. The war wasn’t dampening her talent, even if her materials were harder to come by.

The picnic was going so well. It was as if there was no war in the woods, just the screams of children enjoying themselves. The sun was shining and it was a perfect summer day until they heard the roar of engines overhead as if a dogfight was breaking out above them. They whipped up the children, dragging them under the cover of the woods just in case there was strafing. To her relief Celeste saw it was no more than a Wellington limping slowly back to Fradley with smoke coming out of its backside.

But then she watched in horror as it stuttered and spluttered lower and lower. There was nothing they could do for the stricken plane but pray. It was still too far off the runway to make a safe landing. It was too low, and the barracks at Whittington had some sort of landing strip. Celeste willed the pilot might make it down safely but then it dropped out of sight, and they heard a sickening explosion as it burst into the ground, a great pall of smoke rising up. Those poor men in that bomber were doomed.

Death had marred a beautiful holiday. Celeste wanted to scream out loud, and then she saw Ella’s face, white with fear in the agony of wondering if this was how Anthony and his crew might end their lives one night.

‘Come on, everyone,’ shouted the committee chairman, rallying her troops. ‘Home, James; let’s pack up. Time to head back. There’ll be lots to do at HQ.’

Keep busy was their motto when things were dire. Keep busy, keep calm and keep going, no matter what. Everyone scurried about packing baskets, folding tables and chairs, finding blankets and making the silent children pick up litter, distracting them from the stench of smoke and what they had all witnessed.

There was nothing they could do for those men in the wreckage. The fire service would see to their bodies. Tonight some poor mother would receive a telegram telling her the worst had happened. All over the world such telegrams were winging their way to families. What if her Roddy ended up like that?

They drove back into Lichfield in silence. The outing that had begun with such jollity had now ended in sadness.

‘Are you all right?’ Celeste whispered to Ella. ‘It can’t be Anthony. He’s transferred to Coastal Command now.’ Not that this was any comfort to Ella. He was being stationed further north and she couldn’t stay with him often.

‘I know, but to be so close to such a horrible thing. It brings it all home. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live a normal life.’ Ella was close to tears.

‘It’ll end one day and we’ll soon forget the bad times, you’ll see,’ Celeste lied, knowing she’d never forgotten those terrible images of the
Titanic
splitting in two and the screams of the dying in the water. They still haunted her dreams.

When they reached Red House, the door was wide open and Selwyn was hovering in the doorway with a strange look on his face.

‘What’s happened?’ Celeste asked. ‘Is it Archie?’ She felt weak at the knees, fearing the worst.

Selwyn broke into a grin. ‘Nothing like that. We’ve got a visitor.’

‘But I’ve got nothing in the house but leftovers,’ she began. She was so tired she couldn’t be bothered with entertaining, not after what they had just witnessed.

But there, standing in the hall, she glimpsed a tall officer in American uniform, his cap cocked over his eyes at a rakish angle.

‘Hi, Mom.’

‘Roddy, oh, Roddy.’ She fell into his arms, all weariness instantly forgotten. My son has come home at last. Oh, thank you, thank you, she prayed.

‘The last time I saw you, you were in short pants,’ Ella laughed. ‘Look at you now, the all-American Boy. I can’t believe it’s over twenty years ago.’

‘And you were a pain in pigtails,’ he quipped, eyeing her up and down. ‘And who is this little beauty?’

‘This is Clare. Say hello to your uncle Roddy.’ But Clare clung onto her, burying her face in her shoulder. ‘She’s just shy; she’ll get used to you. I can’t believe it’s you! How did you pitch up here?’

‘By courtesy of Uncle Sam, First Class all the way across the Atlantic, zigzagging to avoid the U-boats. What a trip! Half the guys spent it retching over the side. Not quite the Cunard liner-style in luxury but we got to Liverpool in one piece. My God, what a sight for sore eyes that was, battered but still standing, like most of Britain, from what I’ve seen. I pulled a string or two, and got some leave to see my folks. I just had to see Mom.’

‘I could’ve walked past you in the street. You’re so American. Nothing wrong with that, of course,’ she added hurriedly, ‘but some of the guys stationed here are a bit rich. Candy for the kids, and nylons for the girls . . . with conditions,’ she winked, ‘if you catch my drift?’

‘Don’t worry, I bought candy for the baby but nothing for you.’ He held out some chocolate in his hand. Clare didn’t need any persuading to grab it from him, her shyness miraculously gone.

Later, they walked down Market Street, pushing Clare in her folding pushchair.

‘I’ve never seen Celeste so happy as when she walked through the door and saw you,’ said Ella. ‘You are the best gift of all for her. She worries about you.’

‘I know, but I’m here now. Don’t know where next.’ Roddy looked round in amazement. ‘Nothing seems to change much but it’s all so much smaller than I recall.’

‘How could it change? There’s a war on. We’re all routine bound. Funny how life just goes on, war or not.’

‘And your new husband?’ Roddy smiled. ‘You were pretty quick off the mark,’ pointing to the pushchair.

‘Why not? Babies are our future, our hope for a better future. Are any of yours on the streets of Akron?’