Mary's Child (29 page)

The retreating army shoved in through the doors three hours later. Twenty minutes after the final whistle the house was full of men – excited, hungry, thirsty, celebrating, mourning, remembering, arguing happily. The home supporters cheered when they saw Chrissie was now sporting a rosette in the colours of the home team, while their opponents booed goodnaturedly and bawled at her, ‘You turncoat!’ And she laughed at them.

They filled the bar and the sitting-room, spilled over into the passage and sat on the stairs leading up to the Morgans’ living quarters. The singing started around eight o’clock and went on until Lance shut the door on the last of them at eleven.

It was midnight before the house was cleaned ready for opening the next morning. Chrissie and Millie did most of that work; Lance was busy counting the takings and working out the profit on the pies and sandwiches, while Florence would only have got in their way so they sent her to bed.

Finally Millie went off to the room she rented in a street near by and Lance called, ‘Come and sit down here, Chrissie.’ She sank on to a chair beside him at the kitchen table and he pointed with his pencil at a neat stack of coins then pushed a sheet of paper towards her. ‘That’s what I make your share of what we took for the grub.’

Chrissie merely glanced at the paper; she had already done her sums and knew what her share should be. ‘Thank you, Mr  Morgan.’

‘When you count it you’ll find there’s a bit extra.’ And when Chrissie stared at him, Lance admitted stiffly, ‘Because what we took today was mostly down to you. It was your idea.’

Chrissie looked down, embarrassed, and at a loss for words she could only say again, ‘Thank you.’

Lance eased back in his chair and studied her. He said thoughtfully, ‘You must be making a pretty penny for a young lass.’ Besides her salary from the Palace Hotel she also had her wage from Lance, while part of the work she did for him in the evenings and at weekends paid for her bed and board. She had saved every penny she could since she left the Forthrop house and now with her earning over two pounds a week she had built up those savings to nearly two hundred pounds.

Lance summarised it: ‘Two pay packets and nothing to pay out.’ He grinned. ‘But I suppose that’s for your bottom drawer.’

Chrissie managed a smile. ‘That’s right.’ Lance was referring to her marriage to Ted Ward, to whom she was promised. She could not bear to think of the hurt she would cause Ted if she threw him over. But she knew she could never marry him.

Lance asked, concerned, ‘Is owt wrong, lass?’

Chrissie smiled again and lied, ‘No.’

‘You looked right down in the mouth then.’

‘Just tired, I think.’

‘You’ve every right to be,’ Lance agreed. ‘It’s a good job tomorrow’s Sunday. We couldn’t do this every day of the week.’ He thought a moment, savouring the prospect of making a lot of money. ‘But it will be great if we can fill the place like that once a week. Very nice.’

Tired though she was, it was a long time before Chrissie slept, pictures of Ted Ward circling in her brain as she stared into the darkness. But when she finally dozed she woke with a jerk and her thoughts were of Jack Ballantyne. She knew why, though she had not seen him for weeks.

Richard Ballantyne walked out of the elegant offices of
Baptiste et Cie
in the port of Marseilles and paused to breathe in the cool night air. He savoured it after the long day spent in the smoke-filled boardroom of the shipowners. He turned as Jack followed him out with the rolls of plans and the briefcase packed with specifications.

They smiled at each other and Richard said, ‘Well done.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

Richard went on, ‘You held your end up and the way you talked them all through the payload details cut the ground from under the German bid.’ He sighed happily and started down the steps towards the big Renault waiting at the foot of them. He was content with his day. He and Jack had won an order, to build a ship for
Baptiste et Cie
, that would keep Ballantyne’s yard in work for another six months.

As the chauffeur eased the car away from the kerb, Richard said, ‘Tomorrow we go on to Italy – Venice, Genoa and Taranto. That will take us about a month. Then home.’

Home. Jack grinned. He would see his friends, Luke Arkenstall and the rest; meet them in the back room of the Bells. He wondered if Chrissie Carter would be there? Not that it mattered to him. The girl was engaged to be married. But should he make up their quarrel? He had not been the guilty party, so let her make the first move.

The Bells continued to do a roaring trade – and it sounded like that, with a packed bar – every other Saturday when there was a first-team match. And they still made good money when only the reserves were playing.

Letters from Ted in India arrived at irregular intervals all through the winter, sometimes two or three at a time, then none for a month. Chrissie wrote to him and to Frank, though Frank did not reply.

Then Jack Ballantyne reappeared early in 1912, walking into the Palace one noon with a pretty girl on his arm. When he passed Chrissie’s desk she smiled at him, ready to forgive and forget, but he merely nodded and passed on. She sighed and bent to her work again.

As he sat down to lunch, Prudence, the ill-named girl he was escorting, said tartly, ‘The clerk outside is quite pretty, isn’t she?’

Jack, his thoughts elsewhere, answered, ‘I suppose so.’ He decided he should have stopped and exchanged a few words with Chrissie Carter. Her smile was apology enough. He reminded himself that she was engaged now. But he could still talk to her – couldn’t he?

Prudence saw he was not really listening to her and complained, ‘She seemed taken with you. The look she gave you!’

He came out of his reverie. ‘That’s just her way.’

‘I didn’t see her smirk at anyone else like that.’

Jack snapped, ‘She wasn’t smirking!’ And as Prudence flinched he muttered, ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to say it like that. As I told you, it’s just her way, she tries to make everyone welcome.’

The girl opened her mouth to say, ‘I’m sure she does,’ but then caught his eye and thought better of it. Too late; the damage was done. She was to weep later, because he ceased to call on her.

As Jack left the Palace with the girl he looked for Chrissie to speak to her but she was not at her desk. He did not see her for another week and then it was too late.

It was on a day of bright sunshine, one of the first after the gloom of winter, that Lance Morgan hurried into the foyer and dropped an envelope on Chrissie’s desk. He panted, ‘Came second post this morning. I had to come over into the town so I brought it.’ He grinned. ‘It’s from India – from your young man, eh? I’ve got to catch a tram and get back now. Millie’s on her own and I’m expecting a delivery from the brewery.’ He went out puffing.

The foyer was empty and Chrissie’s work was up to date. Oddly, the envelope was typewritten. She opened it curiously and took out the letter inside. A photograph fell out and she glanced at it, saw that it showed a grave strewn with flowers. She shuddered with fear but forced herself to read the letter though it shook in her hands. It was signed by the company commander of Private Edward Ward and said that Ted had been killed by cholera at Lucknow.

And he had died thinking she loved him.

Jack Ballantyne came out of the dining-room to find her in tears. He halted and asked, ‘What is it?’ Blinded and racked by sobs, she told him. He said, ‘Just sit still,’ and went away.

Minutes later he returned with Walter Ferguson. She saw Walter’s concerned face as Jack helped her into her coat and led her outside, his hand under her arm. She was aware of riding in one of the new motor taxicabs, of him helping her in at the door of the Bells. Then Millie’s arms went around her.

Jack called in to see her the next day. They sat in the kitchen behind the bar, just the two of them, but Millie and Lance passed the door every few seconds and the rumble of talk out there in the bar was a background to their own.

Jack asked, ‘How are you now?’

Chrissie replied huskily, ‘I’m fine.’ She was pale with dark circles around her eyes.

He looked handsome, teeth very white in a bronzed face. He said, making conversation, ‘I’ve been away on the Continent with my father: Germany, France, Italy. We were visiting the shipyards there, making sure they aren’t building quicker and better than we are – and looking to pinch any good ideas we saw.’ He grinned at her and she tried to smile, knowing that he was trying to cheer her.

He went on, ‘I could stay at home now and work in the yard for a bit if I wanted to – my father says he will make the next trips abroad on his own. Somebody has to go to the States and look into things over there. Then there are customers to be drummed up in South America. I still have to make up my mind.’ And he was speaking it. His decision would depend on her but he could not put the question to her now when she was in mourning.

Chrissie looked at him across the empty width of the kitchen table and from another, different world. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. And for helping me yesterday. It was kind of you.’

Jack shrugged. ‘I’m glad I was able to help.’ He took a breath then said what was long overdue, what he had tried to say to her before. ‘That row we had a while back . . . I think there were faults on both sides. You made a mistake and I lost my temper, got a bit pompous. So shall we forget it? Start again? Please?’

Chrissie nodded but did not speak. Now it did not matter what she felt for him.

Jack fiddled with his hat as the silence lengthened and finally said, ‘Well, if there is anything else I can do . . .?’ He left the question hanging, hopefully.

Chrissie replied, ‘There’s nothing. But thank you, Mr  Ballantyne.’

Jack went away, his mind half made up now.

Chrissie went into mourning, took off Ted’s ring and put it away, dressed in black like any widow. She wept not because she had loved him but because she had not and guilt lay heavy on her.

She would not be the only one to mourn.

Chapter 17

April 1912

The bow of the boat smashed into the sea and hurled it back in salt spray. ‘Are you sure it isn’t too rough, dear?’ Sylvia Forthrop clung to the side of the boat as it pitched and rolled.

Max Forthrop, sitting in the sternsheets beside his wife, laughed at her fears and reassured her, ‘This is just a bit of a blow! Always looks worse than it is. It will do you good. The wind is already bringing the roses to your cheeks. You look very pretty.’ He smiled at her and thought, Two birds with one stone.

In fact she was even paler than usual, the cold wind cutting through her. She never went out of doors except on a day of warm sunshine or riding in the Vauxhall motor car. She swallowed now and tried to smile bravely. She did not want to frustrate him. It had been his idea to hire the boat for this, his birthday. He had been like a boy in his excited anticipation. But she had to ask, ‘Not too far, dear. I’m afraid I don’t feel very well.’ She knew she would be violently ill before long.

Forthrop was intent on his steering, one hand on the tiller, the other on the sheet that controlled the big mainsail. He answered abstractedly, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be turning back in a minute.’ They were close to the broken water that marked the bar at the mouth of the river between the piers. He was nervous because he had not done this before. When he had hired the boat he had told the boatman impatiently, ‘Of course I’ve handled a boat before. I don’t need anyone with me.’ He was competent to handle the boat, but he was new to this business he was engaged on now.

He needed the people on the piers and was glad to see the strollers. There were men and women walking arm in arm, hands to their hats to hold them on in the wind. Others leant on the rails fishing or watching others fish – and watching him.

They saw the little boat start to turn and then hang broadside on to wind and sea. A moment later she had blown over on to her side, mast and rigging lay on the water and she was filling up. The two people who had been aboard her had disappeared under the waves. The watchers shouted, screamed and pointed as Forthrop’s head broke the surface. He stared wildly about him and one man on the pier with a telescope saw his face clearly, panic stricken, hair plastered to his skull. Then he dived under again and was lost to sight.

The watchers on the pier shouted, ‘There he is again!’ as his head broke water. But he only took another breath and dived once more. They became quieter as time went on, just let out a low groan each time he appeared empty handed. When the lifeboat reached him he was clinging to the upturned boat in the last stages of exhaustion.

Sylvia Forthrop’s body was washed up some days later. At the inquest the man who had watched from the pier through his telescope said, ‘I saw him come up and look round for her – oh, I don’t know how many times. He’d look and then he’d dive under again to try to find her.’ The coroner gave a verdict of accidental death and extended his condolences to Forthrop, haggard in black.

He sold the house in Ashbrooke and the Vauxhall motor car, paid off the chauffeur and Emily Prewett, Mrs  Garrity and Della Roberts, but found a small furnished house for Della in Villiers Street, close to the river. He stayed at the Palace Hotel for two weeks while he looked for lodgings for himself and told a sympathetic Walter Ferguson, ‘I can’t stay in the house; it is so empty without Sylvia.’