The Captain's Daughter (52 page)

Frank had then chipped in with his own story. ‘I’m here too because of the
Titanic.
My father’s first wife, Maria, was lost on that ship.’ Frank added, ‘And his baby. They were never found, but my papa was convinced the baby lived because he found this.’ He pulled out the lace boot, grubby and crushed. ‘He still believes this was hers.’ He passed it round the men. ‘It was given to me for safekeeping. My papa says if it could survive the Atlantic it might stop me being seasick.’ He paused and then laughed. ‘It didn’t. I threw up all the way. I should throw it away but I won’t. It was some little kid’s shoe.’

‘Shoes are lucky. They put them in the roof of a house for protection. Don’t ask me why they just do,’ said one of the men in the audience.

Everyone began to talk about the myths and legends of that ship. How there was supposed to be a mysterious cursed Egyptian mummy on board, a safe full of stolen diamonds, and the ghosts of the riveters of Belfast hammering in the hold, accidentally trapped after their shift. It was after the lecture that Frank found himself in step with Roddy again.

‘Funny how we both have the
Titanic
in our lives,’ he remarked. ‘My mother is Irish and she lost her sister, my auntie Lou, on that ship. My parents met in church on one of the anniversaries.’

‘My mom left her husband and took me to England for a while to get away. She said it was seeing that ship go down that made her face facts and walk away. I know your Church doesn’t hold with divorce, but my father was cruel.’

‘It’s the Church that teaches against divorce, in theory, but I’m not sure I’d want to see my mum living with a wife beater. It was bad enough living with the portrait of my father’s first family on the wall like a precious icon. For years I thought we kids were second best. How can you ever compete with a dead baby?’

‘Is that why you became a priest?’ asked Roddy. He raised his eyebrows. This question was a bit of a cheek but he was curious.

‘Who knows? Could be. I never wanted to be anything else. My sister escaped into the theatre on Broadway; she’s just in the chorus but Patti’s got talent. Jack, on the other hand . . . well, that’s another story. We’re chalk and cheese. I suppose one of us brothers had to be the good guy. He’s out somewhere in the Pacific last time I heard.’

It was strange how camp living had made him share the sort of private stuff he’d not shared with his parishioners. Roddy was a fellow officer, someone he could identify with, an outsider with a glint of life still left in his eye, determined to survive.

‘I need to get out of here soon before they ship us north. I want to get back to my men. There’s still some fight left in me. I reckon if I walk south, I might make it,’ said the captain one night after rehearsal.

‘Not looking like that,’ replied Frank. ‘Locals can be slow coming over to our side. You look too American to get past the square, though it would be good for morale for someone to make a run for it.’

There was just a chance someone might help them find a safe place for Roddy and give Frank a chance to see his folks, if only for an hour or two. He couldn’t leave the camp. He wouldn’t leave his post, but to be so near and yet so far . . . Surely they could cover for him for an hour or two, if they were in the fields. It would take some plausible bribery and prayer to find Roddy a way out but it wasn’t impossible, given outside help. It was worth a try but he’d say nothing to raise hopes until he was sure.

Ella’s students were being clumsy this November morning, none of them grasping what she was demonstrating. All they could talk about was the huge explosion that had rocked the Midlands two days before, shattering windows everywhere, causing people to fear a rocket attack. Someone said an arsenal had been bombed. Others said a whole city had been blasted away. Lichfield shuddered with its impact as if an earthquake had struck, but there was nothing reported on the news.

Ella looked up at the skylight of the studio. A pool of light was streaming down onto the floor. It was funny how she no longer felt comfortable in this space, or in her own studio, both of which had been her boltholes, her creative space. Her studio at Red House was a mess now, an empty workshop, just a chilly broken barn. Her own half-finished work stood accusingly but she shut her eyes to it. It was no longer a place to linger, and now that much of her work had fallen on the floor, smashed by the quake, it summed up her feelings.

Here was her proper work, instructing young students in the rudiments of stonemasonry and carving at the art school. It paid the bills and she didn’t have to deviate from the syllabus: basic tool work, stone recognition, and carving and copying basic motifs. Her time was spent supervising and correcting the errors of the novices whilst watching the clock to see when it was time to return home. She would count down the days until the college holidays, looking forward to spending more time with Clare.

It was many months since that first news of Anthony and the return of his personal belongings that had been packed so neatly in a box.

Every item still smelled of his Players cigarettes: photos in silver frames with smudged fingerprints where he’d touched them, his books, socks, shaving kit. What a pitiable collection of objects to sum up a life. She still couldn’t bear to open the two letters he’d left: one for Clare and one for herself.

Condolence letters were still arriving from his friends’ parents and old schoolmasters; letters she painstakingly answered.

The hardest one to answer was from Captain Smith’s daughter, Mel Russell-Cooke, whose own son, Simon, had perished in the sea on a similar exercise to Anthony’s in March. How brave, stoic and resolved his mother was, accepting that there was little hope of rescue after ditching in the sea in winter.

I am not dealing with it, Ella sighed. I’m just putting it out of mind, pretending it never happened, pretending that my husband will walk through the door any minute and that all this is just a nightmare. She paced up and down trying not to get exasperated by the feeble efforts in front of her. Work, work, work, yes, that was the answer. At least Roddy was safe, even if he was in a POW camp somewhere in Italy. They’d received only two postcards but had sent Red Cross comforts parcels as often as they could.

When would this bloody war end? Hadn’t they all suffered enough? The Allies had landed in Normandy, in Italy, in the South of France, but still the wretched battles kept raging. Would Clare ever know any other life? Ella felt so bitter inside, so angry and frustrated that the colour had gone out of her world. The joy of being loved and cherished was over. It was so unfair. How would she ever thaw out into a semblance of the woman she had once been?

Archie was returned from Portsmouth to Celeste. Selwyn went on his own merry way, drinking far more than was good for him. Hazel was counting the days until her husband returned from the Far East. Ella felt resentful and jealous of them all.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the glass of the cupboard was a shock
. I don’t like you very much.
She sighed realizing sadness had aged her. There were dark circles under her eyes, lines across her brow. The first grey hairs were streaking through her unruly mane, habitually tortured into a severe bun. What was the point? There was no one to dress up for and Clare didn’t mind how she looked. She’d stopped visiting Museum Gardens and Captain Smith. He was only a lump of bronze, after all. How stupid to make a statue the recipient of all your hopes and dreams as her mother had done.

Oh, Mum, I know now how you must have felt in losing Joe and Ellen. You lost them both. I still have my child but it is so hard. I think I understand now why you did what you did.

Death was death. There was no coming back. She didn’t attend the cathedral with Celeste. She was still too angry to pray. No, she really didn’t like the person staring back at her. She felt as if she was the only one to be feeling as she did, like a frightened little girl stamping her feet against her losses, not knowing what to do next.

‘Miss, miss?’ a voice broke her reverie. ‘Is this all right?’

It was Jimmy Brogan, one of the Birmingham Irish scholarship boys, short and slight, pinched in the face. She’d forgotten to look at his efforts. He’d carved a Celtic cross into the stone, and for a beginner was showing a firm hand and a neat execution. In fact it was an excellent piece of work.

‘This is good. I like the way you’ve finished it off,’ Ella said, smiling. At least someone had taken her advice.

‘Do you think they’ll let me take it home?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she cautioned. ‘Isn’t it part of your assessment for a place at the art college?’

‘I ain’t doing that, miss. This is for Peg, a grave marker,’ he replied, not looking at her.

‘Peg is your dog?’ she said, surprised.

‘Oh, no, miss, Peg’s my sister. She got run over by a bus in the blackout. She was going to get a jug from the milk cart.’ He bent his head to hide his tears. ‘I’d like to give it to me mam.’

‘You take it then. I’ll make sure the cost’s covered. How is your mother?’ she continued as if she needed to ask after such a tragedy.

‘Bad, since we were bombed out, miss. We’re living with her sister and they don’t get on, and me dad’s with the Eighth Army in Italy. It’s all a bit of a crush.’

Ella looked at his work with admiration. ‘You know there are more scholarships for boys like you to go on further,’ she said, realizing she could be losing a talented pupil.

‘Not for the likes of me. I’ve got a job in a foundry with my uncle Pat. I can always carry on at night school,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m glad you like it, miss.’

‘It comes from the heart, Jimmy. Good work always begins inside here.’ She tapped her chest, feeling the sadness well up. ‘Remember, not from your head, from your heart. Stick to that and you’ll not go wrong. Good luck.’

Why on earth was she complaining when this boy had no home, no father and had lost a sister? Now his talent would go untrained. She had a roof over her head, a darling daughter and caring friends. She had a job, a modicum of talent. She must help Jimmy realize his potential somehow. What about an apprenticeship with Bridgeman & Sons, the masons in Lichfield? It might just be possible.

She spun round, sensing a presence just over her shoulder and heard a familiar voice. ‘Good show, I knew you’d see sense, darling. Just get on with it, don’t waste your gift.’ She could hear Anthony’s voice so clearly, piercing her frozen defences. ‘I’ll never leave you.’

The pain of recognition was almost too much for her to bear, standing there in the studio classroom, watching the bent heads of these young people with so much hope before them. Then, mercifully, the bell rang and she told them to down tools and ushered them through the door with as much haste as was decent. Only then did she sit at her desk and break down, sobbing, her head buried in her hands. Anthony was never coming back to her, yet there was a bit of him inside if she could only listen.

She thought of Jimmy’s Celtic cross and the pride and love that he had put into it as she sat on the bus going home, staring out of the window, feeling strangely light-headed. She’d heard his voice again: ‘You can do something for that boy.’ Anthony knew her grief and had come to comfort her. As long as she lived she could touch that bit of him within her.

After supper that night, Ella rushed upstairs to pull out the box of his things with the precious letter inside. She hugged it to herself before she opened it. Through her tears she managed to read:

During the following weeks Roddy and Father Frank took to patrolling the perimeter fence every morning and evening, a ritual often carried out in silence, a chance to walk off their frustrations. From their first tentative steps together a friendship grew.

‘If you are going to escape, you need to be fit. Walk and work, build up your legs,’ Frank whispered one day. ‘You must discuss it with other officers in case someone wants out with you.’

‘I’d prefer to try on my own.’

‘Forget it then. You wouldn’t last two minutes.’

‘You come then,’ Roddy challenged him.

‘This is where I stay, tempted as I am to sneak off for a couple of hours and find the Bartolini clan.’

Roddy liked Frank’s honesty, the way he could grumble and curse with the best of them. He wasn’t like any other vicar he had met. He fought for better food rations, the sharing out of Red Cross parcels, more medical supplies. He’d found the commandant was a good Catholic and allowed a local priest in to bring consecrated wafers and hear his confession.

Their mail was hit and miss, but one morning Roddy found Frank pacing round the fence, unable to speak, holding out a letter from his mother telling him his brother had been killed in the Pacific, his ship torpedoed.