Women and Children First (31 page)

Annie hadn’t realised how hot it would be in New York in the summer. As she climbed those infernal steps to the apartment every day, carrying the baby, leading Roisin, and with umpteen bags of groceries in her hands, the sweat was pouring off her. She bought a straw sunhat, but it didn’t help much. She only had to step out into the sun’s glare and she was instantly slicked with a film of moisture. Inside the house was like a furnace, even with all the windows open, and she had to keep drying her hands and face on towels to avoid getting perspiration on the expensive fabrics she embroidered. She’d never thought she would miss the rain that swept in off the Atlantic most days back in Cork, but now she yearned for the freshness of it.

The only place where it was cool was in the church. The cold stone walls and floors and the high vaulted ceiling kept the air at a bearable temperature, and she looked forward to cooling down there during her daily visit. As well as looking after the flowers, she volunteered to sweep the floors on alternate days, and Father Kelly often came over for a chat.

‘How are you managing, Annie?’ he asked one day.

‘This heat is something else!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know how you all cope with it.’

‘Personally, I stay indoors. But I meant to ask how you are in yourself?’

‘There’s good days and bad days.’ She felt the tears coming and attacked a cobweb in the corner of a pew to drive them away.

‘On the good days, what is it that makes them good? Is there something you can pinpoint that might help on the bad ones? Some thought, or action?’

‘Well …’ she hesitated. ‘I don’t know if the Church would think this wrong or not, Father, but I talk to Finbarr in my head. Sometimes it really feels as if he is there, answering me.’ She stopped to control herself, determined not to cry, then continued. ‘I suppose the good days are the ones when I feel he is here with me, and the bad days are the ones when I can’t feel him.’

‘I wouldn’t call that wrong, if it brings you comfort.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘Do you believe that Finbarr’s spirit is genuinely with you on those good days?’

‘I wonder about it, Father. It feels as though he is, not just from his words in my head, but also a sense of his presence around me. Sometimes I think I can even smell the scent of his hair. But I know that the brain can play tricks when you are grieving, and maybe mine is letting me believe his spirit is here so as to get me through this period. I know it’s against the teachings of the Church, but I
want
to believe it.’

‘Of course you do. And you are right that the Church has pronounced against spiritualism, but I think that’s because they were concerned about the charlatans and showmen it attracted. Tell me, when you talk to Finbarr in your head, does he answer you directly?’

‘Not always, but a lot of the time it appears he does.’

‘And do you talk to any other spirits in your head?’

‘Goodness no, Father. I wouldn’t do that.’ Annie was shocked.

He sat down on the end of a pew. ‘I am going to speak to you in confidence now, because this is not official Church doctrine, but I have personally attended a séance at which my mother’s spirit came through.’ Annie stopped sweeping and stared at him in astonishment. ‘There was no doubt it was her. She called me Figgy, which was her pet name for me when I was a boy. My Christian name is Fergus but when I was little I used to call myself Figgy and it stuck. That’s something no one in this country could possibly have known. She also talked about a little black and white dog we used to have. It was a profound experience for me, as you can imagine, and it forced me to re-examine my beliefs and the teachings of the Church. But I found that nowhere in the Bible does it say it is a sin to contact those who are in heaven. I expect there are only a few people who have what they call the ‘second sight’ but if such a gift is given to them by God, and so long as they use it responsibly, I can’t see any harm in it.’

‘Can it be true? Do you really think it could be Finbarr speaking in my head?’

‘I believe it could be,’ Father Kelly replied.

‘What did you call it, the thing when you spoke to your mother – a séance? What happened at that?’

‘I was invited to the house of a Spanish woman who lives about a mile from here. We sat across a table with linked hands, and she concentrated hard, asking the spirits if there was anyone on the other side who would like to speak to me. And then my mother’s spirit came through. She spoke to the medium, who repeated the words to me because I couldn’t hear her directly, although I was sure, just as you describe with Finbarr, that I could feel her presence in the room.’

Hope swelled in Annie’s heart. ‘I want to try it. I want to have a séance with this woman. Will you tell me how to contact her, Father?’ She was quite definite.

‘Perhaps you should discuss it with Seamus first.’

‘No. He wouldn’t feel the same way I do. He’s a no-nonsense, practical man. If I try and it works, I might tell him, but not otherwise. He would just say, “Oh Annie, stop with all yer imagining.”’

Father Kelly nodded. ‘All right. I will contact this woman – her name is Pepita – and I’ll ask when she might consent to see you. But I will come with you for the appointment because I know you are going to find it a very emotional experience.’

Annie was glad of that. She would have been scared to go on her own. As it was, she felt nervous enough when she got on the streetcar with Father Kelly to head to the woman’s home.

Pepita was shorter than Annie, with dark hair that she wore loose down her back, and heavy eyebrows above bright hazel eyes. She kept glancing at Annie with a curious expression as she led them down a corridor and into a parlour, which had a round table in the centre. The shutters were closed but she lit a candle and they sat in chairs next to each other. She closed her eyes and remained still, without speaking, for several minutes. Annie glanced at Father Kelly, and he nodded to show this was the normal procedure, and smiled encouragement.

‘Now we can link hands,’ Pepita said, in a heavy, lisping accent, ‘and you can tell me why you are here today.’

Annie cleared her throat. ‘I’m hoping to contact my son, Finbarr, who died …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence for a catch in her throat. It was always difficult to say those words.

Pepita sounded surprised. ‘But Finbarr is here with you. I could see him by your side as you came in the door. He tells me that he talks to you all the time.’

Annie started to cry, but they were tears of joy. ‘I thought so but I didn’t know for sure.’ Father Kelly squeezed her hand.

‘You have the second sight yourself,’ Pepita continued. ‘I knew it as soon as I saw you. But now that you are here, I am happy to act as a medium if you have any questions you want to ask Finbarr.’

‘Is he OK? Is he happy?’ Annie asked immediately, through her tears.

Pepita was quiet for a moment, as if listening for the answer. ‘He says you know he is. He is in a beautiful place where there is no sadness but he wants to help you to find a way through your grief and that is why he is coming back to visit you.’

Annie cried even harder at that. ‘He told me he is with my da. Is that right?’

‘Of course it is. Spirits only speak the truth. I can see an older man in the background.’

‘How does he look?’

‘Finbarr? I can see black hair and a cheeky smile.’

‘That’s him,’ Annie agreed.

‘Are his front teeth a bit squint?’

‘Yes, that’s right. He fell off a rock at Youghal beach and knocked his baby teeth out and we didn’t think he’d get any big teeth, but then he did, only they were a bit sideyways.’

Pepita started murmuring something, and Annie strained to hear. She moaned as if in pain, but Father Kelly pressed with his thumb on Annie’s hand to reassure her.

‘He wants you to know he’s sorry … On the ship, he heard some people talking about the water gushing in and he wanted to see it … He tried to follow you but then he got lost …’

‘Ask him what happened at the end,’ Annie requested, barely breathing.

Pepita paused. ‘He says he jumped out into the blackness and he remembers being under the water but then he saw a white light and when he looked closely, your pa was there so he pushed his way through the water towards him. He says it didn’t hurt. He wasn’t scared, not even for one moment.’

Annie’s tears were dripping down her face and she had to let go of Father Kelly’s hand to find a handkerchief.

‘You don’t need me,’ Pepita told her. ‘Any time you want to ask Finbarr something, just go to a quiet corner and ask him yourself. He might not answer straight away but he will get back to you before long.’

‘Thank you so much. You don’t know how much this means to me.’

On the way home, she felt lighter than she had since the sinking. Mostly they walked in silence, but at one stage she turned to ask Father Kelly a question.

‘Did Pepita know beforehand that I’d lost a child on the
Titanic
?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘She might have been in church that time when I told the congregation what happened to Finbarr and asked them to pray for him.’

‘But how could she have known that he had black hair and squint teeth? She couldn’t have known that.’

For her, that was the proof. Pepita could have learned the other facts elsewhere, but there were no photographs of Finbarr in existence. Only his family knew what he looked like.

When she told Seamus about it later, he said, ‘But Annie, nine out of ten children have squint teeth. Whose are perfectly straight? And
you’ve
got black hair, so that was a pretty safe bet.’

‘She’s not a charlatan, Seamus. She knew Father Kelly’s pet name from childhood, and she knew he had a dog as well. She was very good, and she didn’t ask for any money.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he nodded. ‘Oh well, then.’

But she could tell from his eyes that he didn’t believe her.

Reg let everyone think the cut on his hand was his own fault, a clumsy accident when chopping vegetables. Mr Frank was concerned, and insisted on rebandaging it himself after dabbing it with a solution of lye. Reg nearly jumped through the roof it stung so much. Molly was offhand about it, merely calling him a ‘crazy guy’.

She had become obsessed with finding out more about Miss Hamilton, and proposed they should go down to Miss Spence’s school and make enquiries.

‘They wouldn’t tell us anything,’ Reg insisted.

‘They might. And if she’s going to be my next mistress – and that’s looking pretty likely – then I want to know everything about her. If she and Mr Grayling were up to no good on the
Titanic
, I want to know. Especially if they are murderers. We might not be safe in our beds.’

Somehow Mr Frank caught wind of the discussions going on below stairs, and he gathered the entire staff in the kitchen for a stern talk.

‘Some of you will have observed that Mr Grayling has formed a close friendship with Miss Hamilton and that she frequently visits the house. I think it likely that an engagement will be announced after a suitable period of mourning for the late Mrs Grayling, but in the meantime if I hear that any word of their attachment has reached the outside world, the person responsible will be fired immediately.’ He thumped his fist on the kitchen table. ‘And I don’t want to hear of any more speculation about it in the house. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Mr Frank,’ they murmured in unison.

‘That includes you, Molly.’ He glared at her.

Molly was not deterred, though. Every time Reg went out to the back step for a cigarette, she would appear with some new theory. It got so he didn’t have a minute’s peace during the day.

‘Maybe she committed some crime in England and she’s on the run. Can you remember anything from the newspapers about a rich lady poisoning somebody, or stealing stuff?’

‘Look, just leave it alone,’ Reg said, eyeing the back door nervously. ‘I like a detective story as much as the next man, but you’ll put our jobs on the line if you carry on like this.’

‘You must be kidding. They’ll never fire us. We know too much already.’

She leaned over to kiss him but at just that moment he turned to draw on his cigarette and the kiss landed on his ear. There was a crashing sound behind them as Alphonse pushed the door open so hard it clattered against the wall. He glared at them and Reg wondered if he had seen the kiss or just overheard part of the conversation.

‘Luncheon is served in one minute.’ He stomped back into the kitchen.

‘Molly, you must be more careful. People could see us,’ Reg hissed.

‘So wha-at?’ she drawled.

Lunch was fillets of sole served in a cream sauce and it looked delectable, but when Reg picked up his fork and took the first bite, it tasted very salty. It wasn’t like Alphonse to oversalt the food. Usually the seasoning was perfect. He glanced round the table but everyone else appeared to be eating with relish. Maybe he was imagining it? Reg took another bite, but it was virtually inedible. He didn’t like to say anything to Alphonse for fear of hurting his feelings, so he poured himself a glass of water from the jug and managed to eat his meal, taking a swallow of water after each mouthful.

As he watched the others eating quite happily, the suspicion entered his head that it was only his food that had been oversalted. He glanced at Alphonse, but the big Frenchman’s face was inscrutable.
He’s a loyal employee and doesn’t like Molly and me scheming behind Mr Grayling’s back
, Reg decided.
That’s why he’s cross with us.

Later that afternoon, when they were on their own, Reg decided to try and clear the air with Alphonse. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he began. ‘I know you don’t like it when Molly and I discuss Mr Grayling and Miss Hamilton, and you’re quite right. We shouldn’t be doing it. You have my word that it won’t happen again.’

Alphonse grunted.

‘I’ve told her I want nothing more to do with her secret scheming. Please can we forget about it and start again?’ Reg held out his hand. ‘Like gentlemen?’

‘
D’accord
.’ Alphonse shook his hand with a firm grip, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

‘About the fish at lunch,’ Reg commented. ‘That was an unusual recipe. Maybe not such a big portion for me next time though?’

Alphonse laughed and turned back to his cooking, but he seemed more relaxed. He even sang a catchy song, ‘Sur le pont d’Avignon’, as he prepared dinner, explaining to Reg that it was about dancing on a bridge and that each verse introduced new characters: shoemakers, laundresses, musicians and soldiers. ‘My mother used to sing it to me,’ he explained.

Afterwards Reg couldn’t get the tune of the chorus out of his head, and found himself humming it as he went to bed that night.

He told Molly about his promise to Alphonse, and insisted that he didn’t want to indulge in idle gossip any more, but when she came back from meeting her sister the following Sunday, she drew him to one side in the hallway.

‘Mrs Grayling wasn’t on Lifeboat 6,’ she hissed urgently. ‘Mrs Rothschild was one of the first ones to get on board and she didn’t see her all night. What do you think about that?’

Reg got goose bumps all up his arms. If she hadn’t been on that boat, which one could she have been on? The others on the starboard side all left
after
Lifeboat 5, with Mr Grayling on board. ‘She must have been sitting in another one that was delayed for some reason,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe there was a problem with the davits.’

‘You can believe that if you want to. I know what I think,’ Molly said darkly. She grabbed his jacket and tried to drag him into the cloakroom for a kiss, but Reg moved away.

‘I’ve been sent to the cellar for some wine,’ he told her. ‘Better not tarry.’

He might not want to discuss it with Molly any longer, but that didn’t stop Reg mulling things over in his own head. The next afternoon when he had a few hours off, he went for a walk and his feet led him down to Times Square and along West 44th Street, where Molly had mentioned Miss Spence’s school was situated. He wasn’t planning to go in and make enquiries. He just wanted to have a look, out of idle curiosity.

It was a smart grey stone building with arched windows and balconies on the first floor. As Reg watched, a teacher led out some young girls wearing white smocks over their clothing, and they walked in crocodile formation to another building down the block. There was a little walled garden adjoining the school and Reg sneaked a look through the railings. Several girls in their late teens sat chatting under the shade of the trees. They were impeccably dressed young ladies, obviously the products of upper-class families. One of them had an open, friendly face that reminded him of Florence, and it gave him a start. He hadn’t thought about her for a while. It was easier not to.

He walked to the end of the street, where there were industrial docks on the Hudson River, before looping back towards the house again.

As he approached, Mrs Oliver, one of the cleaners, was polishing the brass fittings on the front door.

‘You’ve got visitors,’ she called to Reg. ‘They’re waiting in the kitchen.’

Panic gripped him.
Who could it be? Who knew he was there?
His mind raced frantically, before he decided it must be Tony from Sherry’s. Tony was the only person who knew where he was. He must have dropped in with one of his friends. Perhaps they had come to tell him the waiters’ strike was over and he could return to work at the restaurant. Either that or it might be Danny O’Brien from the ship. He hoped it wasn’t Danny because he’d tell them he wasn’t John Hitchens, and that would put the cat among the pigeons.

He opened the back door and walked through to the kitchen. Sitting at the table were a woman and a girl he had never seen in his life before. Alphonse had given them coffee and cake. Everyone turned to look at him expectantly.

‘Is our John with you?’ the woman asked, in a broad Geordie accent.

Reg’s knees gave way and he clutched at the kitchen sink to stop himself collapsing.