The White Empress
Lyn Andrews
Copyright © 1989 Lyn Andrews
The right of Lyn Andrews to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 0 7553 9868 3
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Lyn Andrews is one of the UK’s top one hundred best-selling authors, reaching No. 1 on the
Sunday Times
paperback bestseller list. Born and brought up in Liverpool, she is the daughter of a policeman and also married a policeman.
After becoming the mother of triplets, she took some time off from her writing whilst she raised her children. Shortlisted
for the RNA Romantic Novel of the Year Award in 1993, she has now written twenty-eight hugely successful novels. Lyn Andrews
divides her time between Merseyside and Ireland.
I was once told that ‘scouse’ is a spoken, not a written, dialect and on commencing writing this book I found this to be profoundly
true. Therefore, I have used it only in the first chapter to ease the burden not only for myself, but for those readers not
fully acquainted with the dialect of my native city. I have, however, kept the conversations of the O’Dwyer family in ‘scouse’
to help lend ‘flavour’ to the background.
I would like to express my thanks to everyone who has helped me in researching this book. Mr George Musk, Archivist for Candian
Pacific Steamships. Nancy Williatte-Battet, Archivist of Canadian Pacific Railways. My aunt, Mrs Eileen Sabell, a former Chief
Stewardess on the Empresses, for her invaluable memoirs of life at sea and of conditions appertaining to work in the munitions
factories. My father, Mr Frank Moore, for his recollections of the city and port of Liverpool up to and including World War
II and his own experiences in the Royal Navy during that conflict. My mother, Mrs Monica Moore, for her advice on fashion
and its cost and many household details. My many ‘Gorry’ cousins, especially Marie Hazel Winter (nee Gorry). Number eighteen
Yew
Tree Road, the home of my late great-aunt, still stands despite the ravages of war and I spent many happy hours there during
my childhood. The Eldon Street of both the pre-and post-war years has now gone, for what the Luftwaffe started the city planners
have continued to this day, to the detriment of Liverpool and its citizens. But the residents of Eldon Street, forming themselves
into a housing co-operative, have rebuilt their homes on the sites they have lived and worked on – an example of the dogged
determination of the native Liverpudlian to overcome all obstacles. A determination so characteristic throughout the dark
days of World War II.
In memory of the men who fought – and died – to save the SS
Malakand
, No.2 Husskison Dock was renamed the Malakand Dock. Captain Kinley and Mr Lappin both survived the May Blitz, but thousands
of men, women and children – on both sides of the Mersey – did not. All the movements of shipping and losses are as accurate
as I have been able to make them; also the timing of the raids during November and December 1940 and May 1941. HMS
Firefly
is a figment of my imagination. However, I have tried to reconstruct her demise with what I hope is some degree of accuracy.
And finally, I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Robert, whose patience, understanding, tolerance and interest
have sustained me not only over the ten years of my writing career, but through twenty years of marriage.
(L.A.)
No ship ever fitted her name more than the
Empress of Britain
. She was, indeed, an empress, with pride and grace and dignity in every inch of her. She had millions of devoted subjects,
in many countries, for she was primarily a cruise ship, and she had been seen and admired in more out-of-the-way harbors than
any other liner. Her white paint was a coat of ermine that set her apart from the throng. It was always a thrill to see her
come in the blue Mediterranean or in more distant ports of call; it was always an event in our own harbor when the great white
Empress came in.
She now lies blackened and twisted on the ocean bottom, the largest of all ships that have gone down in this war; but she
lived up to the traditions of her flag and to the very end for the Admiralty has praised ‘the resolution and efficient handling’
of her anti-aircraft guns in her death struggle.
The memory of this fine ship will survive until a new Empress of Britain inherits her name.
NEW YORK TIMES
29 October 1940
1931
S
HE HADN’T MEANT TO
climb so far down. In fact she hadn’t meant to climb down at all and fascination now turned to fear. The sea, which from
the deck above had appeared in her young, inexperienced eyes to resemble a green meadow – its surface as calm and viridiscent
as dew on summer grass – had now turned grey and menacing. Its depths as dark and unfathomable as the peat bogs she had left
behind in the Old Country. Its voice, the sonorous lapping of the waves against the hull, now just a few feet below her, was
murmuring a warning.
It had been easy to clamber down. There had been all kinds of niches and projections to assist her descent. But they had apparently
vanished. Panic swept over her and she pressed her back against the cold steel, her fingers scrabbling desperately for something
to cling to, to stop her from falling.
‘I won’t look at it! I won’t look down!’ She forced herself to utter the words aloud, but there was no escape.
The sea surrounded her. Everywhere her petrified gaze rested presented the same vista. She closed her eyes but that only made
her feel dizzy. ‘Oh, Sweet Jesus, help me!’ she gabbled. One lurch of the ship, one wave a little larger than the others and
. . .
‘What the bloody ’ell are yer doin’ down there!’
The voice came from above her and she opened her eyes. Squinting up into
the sunlight she could see no one. She could see nothing but that sheer slope of black steel.
‘Keep still! Don’t try ter move!’
The voice sounded very faint as if coming from far away.
‘’Ang on a bit, just wait til I think! Can yer sit down on that ledge?’
She looked down at the ledge on which her feet rested. It was barely wide enough for standing.
‘Ease yerself down! Slide yer back down against the ’ull an’ then gerrold of the ledge!’
Every muscle was frozen. She couldn’t move an inch. She tried to cry out but it was as though a huge hand gripped her throat.
‘If yer can’t manage it then just keep still! Stay as still as yer can, I’ll be back!’
He was going away! The only person who stood between her and . . . A tremor ran through her as a wave washed over her feet.
She was going to die! Something heavy hit her shoulder and despite the blind panic she twisted her head. It was some sort
of ladder made of rope.
‘Grab it!’ The voice from above yelled.
She needed no second telling. Her fingers locked around the rough hemp and she clung to it. Her cheek, wet with tears and
salt spray, pressed close to the thin wooden rung.
‘That’s it, girl! Now, put yer foot on the first rung! Go on! Yer won’t fall!’
Everything was swaying. The ship. The sea. Her lifeline. ‘I . . . I can’t!’
‘Gerron it! Yer’ve got to! Yer can’t ’ang there forever!’
Slowly she inched one foot upwards and the thin cardboard sole of
her battered shoe felt the wooden slat beneath it. But it was still moving!
‘Now, move yer right ’and up the rope an’ get yer other foot on the rung! Go on!’
In a moment of desperate courage she released her grip and then grabbed frantically for the ladder again.
‘Keep goin’ an’ don’t look down! When yer gerra bit further up I’ll climb over an’ ’elp yer, but yer too far down yet!’
Inch by inch she clawed her way from rung to rung, her eyes tightly closed, fighting down the sobs. Then a hand with a grip
like an iron vice caught her wrist and she was hauled bodily upwards in one swift movement. She felt the broad width of the
deck beneath her feet and slumped down in an exhausted, quaking heap, her back pressed against the superstructure. She could
hear the buzz of voices around her.
‘What the ’ell were yer tryin’ ter do, kill yerself or did yer think yer could walk on water?’
She opened her eyes. Her saviour stood towering over her. A black-haired, dark-eyed young deck hand.
He wiped away the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of a large, tanned hand and then pushed up the sleeves of the
black jersey across the front of which was emblazoned ‘The B & I Steam Packet Co’ in large white letters. Despite his remark
he watched her intently as he effortlessly pulled the rope ladder up on to the deck and began to coil it.
The faces of the crowd were pressing forward.
‘Come on, move back, give ’er some air! She’s alright now! Come on, shift yerselves, it’s not a bloody peep show!’
As they drew back, drifting away now the brief spectacle was over, she rubbed the sleeve of her blouse across her face. At
least she had stopped trembling.
‘Well, yer deaf or somethin’?’
‘No,’ she managed to stammer, trying to remember why she had done such a desperately foolish thing in the first place. Why
had she been such an eejit?
‘What’s yer name?’ He asked, hauling her to her feet. The grip on her arm was strong. His hand felt warm on her clammy skin.
‘Cat. Cat Cleary.’
‘What kind of a name is that?’
A little colour crept back into her cheeks and she tossed back the tangled, unruly chestnut curls. ‘It’s short for Catherine!’
‘Then why aren’t yer called Kate or Cathy? Why Cat? Bloody daft name tharris!’
Her fear was rapidly subsiding, being replaced by smarting resentment. The warmth of the sun adding resolution to put on a
brave face. ‘Sure, didn’t me sister
Shelagh give me the nickname when I was five years old!’ She grimaced. ‘Nasty, sneaking little cat! Isn’t that just the name
for you Catherine Cleary, for that’s what you are! A cat! Cat Cleary!’ she mimicked. ‘So everyone’s called me that ever since!’
The crowd had completely disappeared. He had finished coiling the ladder and they both lapsed into silence, staring at each
other. She wasn’t bad looking, he thought. She was skinny and pale and the faded, cheap cotton blouse and creased linen skirt
looked as though they had been intended for someone of much more ample proportions. He noticed that the skirt was held up
by a large safety pin. Her shoes, sodden with salt water, were worn down at the heel and one was laced up with string. She
was too pale and thin and looked as though a gust of wind would knock her over, but her small oval face, with its pointed
chin, wide mouth and high cheekbones, was one that in a few years’ time men would look at twice. Her eyes were her most attractive
feature. They were wide and almost the same shade – of pale green flecked with grey – as the sea which had so nearly claimed
her. Her finely drawn, dark brows arched upwards and the thick mass of curling red-brown hair gave the piquant features an
elfin look. Aye, with some flesh on her bones and filled out in all the right places, in a few years she’d be what his mates
would term ‘a good lookin’ judy’.
Beneath his pentrating gaze Cat turned her head away. She should be grateful to him. She
was
grateful to him, but the way he stood looking at her – barely disguising the fact that he considered her a brainless eejit
– irritated her. He was tall. Much taller than her Pa,
his stature enhanced by his powerful build. His shoulders were broad and his chest, beneath the regulation jersey, was deep
and expansive. His hair was thick and dark. So dark it looked like the sooty embers of a kitchen fire. It was blown back from
a broad brow by the breeze. His skin radiated raw good health for a life spent in the open had darkened its colour to nut
brown. He had a wide mouth and when he spoke he revealed strong, white teeth. It was a face full of vitality, mobility and,
she suspected, a sharp wit. There was nothing in his manner of the weary, downtrodden, despair that grinding poverty and hard
drink had stamped on her Pa and most of the other men she had known in her life. He seemed not to have a care in the world
and obviously feared nothing. He was about eighteen or nineteen she judged shrewdly, and she caught the hint of a smile in
the depths of his dark eyes and she felt annoyed and stupid.
‘What’s your name? I suppose I’ve to thank you for . . . for saving me?’
‘Joe. Joe Calligan an’ yer could sound a bit more appreciative, like!’
‘I’m sorry, that I am!’ She did try to sound more grateful but failed.
He leaned on the rail beside her. ‘Yer sorry I dragged yer back on board?’
‘No! No, it’s sorry I am that I snapped at you!’
He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. ‘I still don’t known why yer did such a daft thing as to climb down on to that
ridge? Yer must ’ave fingernails like magnets, there’s nothin’ to gerrold of!’
Cat turned her head away. Golden sunlight sparkled on the calm green water below and her panic had completely evaporated.
‘I’ve never been on a boat before, not ever. I’d never even seen the sea until we set out from Dublin Bay. It just looked
so . . . big and . . . it sparkled . . .’ She faltered, unable to find the words to tell him how that vast expanse of shining
water had fascinated her so. How lulled into a sense of security she had become as she had been borne across it so effortlessly
by the sturdy, little steam packet, the
Leinster
. He remained silent and preoccupied and she sensed that somehow he understood. Perhaps he, too, felt the fascination that
for her had become almost fatal. She had only wanted to get closer to it, to smell its strange odour, to let it trickle through
her fingers and wash over her hot feet. Well, it had done that alright! And now she felt acutely idiotic.
She turned her back on it and gazed upwards at the black and green funnel with its narrow band of white, from which belched
a cloud of dirty grey smoke that rose in a column, sullying the clear blue sky. Her eyes moved across the deck to where a
white flag with its green and red cross fluttered from the stern rigging, alongside the red ensign.
‘It’s a ship, norra boat. If yer goin’ ter live in Liverpool yer’d berra get that right ter start with! Are yer stayin’ in
Liverpool or are yer goin’ on?’
‘We’re staying. Pa’s heard that there’s work to be had.’
There was such hope in the green eyes that looked up to him that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that one
man in four was out of work. That men tramped the city streets from morning to night, looking for work – any kind of work.
He was lucky. He had been a deck hand for the British and Irish Steam Packet Company for a year now. ‘What kind of work did
’e do in Dublin?’
She shrugged. ‘Anything he could get. Labouring mostly, but he hasn’t had anything for nearly two years now.’
‘So yer’ve packed up an’ come to try yer luck?’
‘There wasn’t much to pack!’ she answered bitterly, her gaze flitting over his strong, muscular frame. He’d never gone to
bed hungry night after night. He’d never had to go begging along O’Connell Street, dressed in rags and with not a shoe to
his foot in the freezing depths of winter. Getting precious little in the way of money but plenty of cuffs and curses. No,
he’d never had to go back to the one stinking room they all shared in a crumbling, damp old house in a dark court off the
mean, dirty streets that bordered the quays beside the River Liffey. No, nothing could be worse than the life they’d left
in Dublin. ‘One of Pa’s friends told him there was work here, that they are digging a great tunnel right underneath the river
so that trains and trams and cars can go right from one side to the other. Is that the truth of it?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, laconically.
‘It is the truth, isn’t it? Sure, haven’t I wondered myself if it wasn’t some joke they’d made up! Won’t it burst open and
flood the whole place?’
‘Geroff, do yer think they’d dig it if they thought that would ’appen?’
It was obvious that he considered her an ignorant Irish slummy. Two bright spots of colour appeared on her cheeks and her
dark brows rushed together. ‘Well, if that’s the case, he’ll soon find work, won’t he?’
‘Don’t bet on it, ’alf the men of Liverpool are lookin’ fer work, too. An’ they’ve been diggin’ fer ages now.’
‘Well, aren’t the Irish famous for navvying? Didn’t they build all the railways over here!’ she flung back at him.
‘An’ where are yer goin’ ter live when yer get there? ’As yer Pa’s friend found yer all an ’ouse as well?’
By his tone she knew he was goading her again. ‘Well now, just for your information he has that! Almost.’
‘Believe tharran’ yer’ll believe anything. ’As he or ’asn’t he?’
‘We’ve got the address of a relation of Pa’s friend and he’s got a house. A proper house, not just a room like we had in Dublin!’
Joe looked down at her animated face. God help her! God help them all! Every trip he made he saw them, hundreds of them, just
like her. Their heads filled with tales of work, decent houses, money in their pockets. And he’d also seen what happened to
most of them. They usually finished up living in the same squalor and poverty they had left behind. They lived in the cramped,
narrow streets along the Dock Road or those between Vauxhall Road and Scotland Road that comprised the Catholic-Irish ghetto
and were often worse off than when they had sailed from Ireland.
‘How many of yer are there?’ He tried to sound interested.
‘Me, Ma and Pa, our Shelagh – she’s older than me – and me brother Eamon.’