Mary's Child (34 page)

Then Tommy changed the subject: ‘That Jack Ballantyne is a good sort.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t know if I’d trust him wi’ my daughter but you could say that of a few about here. I’ve always got on all right with him. What did he have to say?’

Chrissie told him about the white feather and he scowled, muttering, ‘Some of these women are like bloody vultures – begging your pardon, miss – but I’ve been given a couple o’ those feathers myself.’

Chrissie was angered again and laid a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Tommy. Just ignore them. They’re stupid.’

He grumbled, ‘You’re right, Miss Carter, but it isn’t easy. I did my bit in South Africa fifteen years ago. I could wear my Boer War medals but I don’t see why I should.’ He strode off, still scowling.

When Lilian Enderby and Jack emerged, laughing, and made for the street door, Chrissie intercepted them. ‘My best wishes, Mr  Ballantyne. Come back to us safe and soon.’ She was aware of Lilian’s puzzled and amused stare, and that she herself was pink cheeked again. But she held her ground.

Jack gave her a little bow. ‘Thank you. I trust I will.’ She held out her hand and he wrapped his hand around it. She felt its pressure for a moment, the roughness of his skin on hers. Then he released her – reluctantly? He went on. Chrissie returned to her desk, blinked and wiped her eyes then tried to pick up the threads of her work and her life again.

In the street Lilian Enderby held on to Jack’s arm, her face turned up to his, her eyes shining and lips parted. She asked, ‘Now, what do you want to do? Just say!’ She had picked out Jack Ballantyne soon after she arrived in the town, had looked at the tall strength of him, at the Ballantyne yard and the Ballantyne money, and determined to have him. So she would be at his side, at his beck and call, every possible moment. She was ready and eager to give him anything he wanted.

At the same time Lilian was aware that there were other fish in the sea and Jack was often away. She had told herself, looking into the mirror, ‘You only live once, my dear. Take all you can, while you can.’ So she had an eye for other men.

Frank Ward came home in the bad weather of the new year, 1915. Chrissie was lending a hand in the public bar of the Railway Hotel. There were staff shortages – Tommy Johnson and one elderly porter were the only males left at the hotel, the others had gone to the war – and flu had laid low some of the women. Through a gap in the crowd she saw the sailor shoulder in through the swing door, his round cap jammed down on his head, strap under his chin to hold it on in the wind, the collar of his navy blue overcoat turned up to protect his face. Once inside, he paused to take off the cap and turn down the collar, and Chrissie cried, ‘Frank!’

He shoved his way through the drinkers to fetch up at the bar and greeted her with a broad grin. ‘Hello, Chrissie.’

‘I thought you were in the Mediterranean.’

‘I was – until three weeks back. Then I got a draft. Now I’m in the
Terrier
. She’s a destroyer sailing out o’ the Tyne.’

Chrissie clapped her hands in delight. ‘So we’ll be seeing a lot of you.’

He laughed. ‘Not likely! We put in a lot o’ sea-time. If it isn’t escorting convoys, it’s patrols. I’m only here today because o’ the bad weather. We took such a battering this last voyage that we’ll be in the dockyard for a few days. But I will be through now and again.’

They talked about old times as Chrissie bustled about, and Frank was still there at closing time when the doors were locked behind the last customer. Then she took him through to her office. He stared around. It was big enough to hold, comfortably, the two desks with their swivel chairs, Chrissie’s and Tommy Johnson’s. A leather armchair stood at either side of a glowing coal fire and a Persian rug lay on the polished floor. The glass-panelled door looked out on the foyer of the hotel, the reception desk and the front doors.

Frank said in admiration, ‘By, lass, you’ve come up in the world.’

Chrissie tried to dismiss it, embarrassed. ‘Get away! It’s just where I work.’ But her office was one of her few extravagances. Her room upstairs was another. She said, ‘Here! Sit down!’ She pushed him into one of the armchairs then brought him a meal from the hotel kitchen and ordered him, ‘Get that inside you. It’ll keep out the cold.’

He thanked her and ate. Then before he left to catch the train to take him back to his ship, he said, ‘Can I come and see you again?’

Chrissie laughed. ‘Of course you can. Why?’

‘I mean—’ He fiddled with his cap, then said in a rush, ‘I never said before because it was always Ted wi’ you. And when he died, I couldn’t say then, could I? And while I was out in the Med – well, it’s not something I could write down, so I didn’t write at all.’ He stopped, then as she stared at him, just beginning to comprehend, he went on, ‘I mean, can I take you out some time?’

Chrissie almost said ‘yes’, but remembered Ted and the pain her decision had cost her then. She was over that now, had accepted that she had made a mistake when she was young and in a moment of weakness, had put it behind her. But she would not repeat the error. She said, ‘Not like that, Frank.’

He let out a sighing breath. ‘You’re still not over Ted and I can understand that. I know you thought the world of him and he was a better sort than me, that’s always getting drunk and fighting.’

‘It’s not Ted. It’s – I just don’t feel that way about you. I’m fond of you, but  . . .’ Chrissie did not know how to finish and her voice trailed away.

Frank nodded understanding. ‘You just want to be friends.’ He managed to grin at her. ‘That’s what I expected, really, but I had to try.’

Chrissie put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Why, of course we can be friends!’ She had said the same to Jack Ballantyne – but that had been different. She thrust the thought aside, snatched Frank’s overcoat from the back of a chair and held it out. ‘Come on! Get into this and away for your train or you’ll be in trouble.’

She bundled him up, pulled on her own coat and went with him to the station. As his train moved away she waved and called, ‘Come and see me!’

One corner of his mouth went up and he answered, ‘I will.’

He did, through the rest of that winter and into the spring.

One night that spring saw Sub-Lieutenant Jack Ballantyne, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, at the tiller of a boat off the coast of Gallipoli. The Turks and Germans held the Gallipoli peninsula that commanded the Dardanelles, the entrance to the Black Sea and the way to Britain’s ally, Imperial Russia. The British Fleet was trying to capture the peninsula and force that passage.

The moon was down and the sky filled with stars. Jack could see the pale blurs that were the faces of his men who pulled at the oars on either side of the boat. And between them, those of the Australian soldiers who were packed into the boat, ranked on the thwarts, rifles held between their knees.

The shore loomed black against the darkness of the night and beyond the line of silver that was the surf breaking on the beach. Jack judged it to be no more than a quarter-mile away now. He could see the lift of cliff and hill. Steam pinnaces had towed the boats in from the transports out at sea, each pinnace pulling a snaking line of twelve boats crammed with soldiers. The surface of the sea was covered with them. The tows had been slipped only seconds ago, the men had just started to tug at the oars.

The Australian officer, an infantry captain, sat beside Jack. He looked to be in his forties and Jack thought him an old man for his job, though that was an observation he had made earlier in the light of day. Now the captain’s face was hidden in the shadow cast by the wide brim of his slouch hat. One of his men spoke to him: ‘How much longer are we goin’ to be in this flamin’ boat, Andy?’

Jack blinked, still not accustomed to the Australians’ familiarity between officers and men. But the captain took it in his stride and answered in a drawl, ‘Not long, but don’t rush it. You might wish you were back aboard before long.’

There followed a low rumble of laughter and another growl from the captain: ‘All right, you jokers! Shut it!’ And that brought silence. There was only the creak of the oars and the breathing of the men who pulled at them, the wash of the sea alongside the boat. Then darkness and silence were ripped apart.

Jack saw the ripple of muzzle flashes that marked rifle-fire, a long line of sputtering flame stretching along the high ground above the beach. The reports came to him across the sea like fire crackers. Bullets kicked up water and foam and forward in the boat a man yelled and slumped to one side as he was hit. The line of flickering flame was neverending now, stretching all along the coast as far as Jack could see.

He shouted, ‘Get down as far as you can!’ though that would not be easy in the crowded boat. He saw the soldiers obey, bending down so their heads rested on their knees. A steady tirade of curses came back to him. He shouted again, this time to his bluejackets at the oars: ‘Pull like hell!’ The soldiers were literally sitting targets now and the sooner they were ashore, the better.

They were close now and rapidly drawing closer as the sailors rowed furiously. Jack stood up, the tiller gripped between his knees, the better to see ahead. There was the line of surf and the rising and dipping bow of the boat was fast approaching it. Beyond was the beach and then the black cliff. He heard, through the crackle of rifle-fire, the tearing thud as bullets slammed into the boat. More men cried out as they were hit. Something snapped past the side of his head like a hand clapped on his ear, a flame seared his side and he yelped and swore. But there was the shore, right under the bow and he shouted, ‘Way enough!’ The oars came in, the boat ran on with the way on her, then grounded.

Jack told the captain, ‘This is as far as we go.’ And thought, I sound like a bloody tram driver!

The captain laughed and said, ‘You sound like a bloody tram driver!’

Jack thought, Snap! He remembered one of the young Australian lieutenants saying of the captain, ‘Don’t let those grey hairs fool you. Andy is a feller who never gives in, just gets up and starts again. The men will follow him anywhere.’

Now the captain was first over the side into the sea that was churned into foam, plunging in up to his waist and wading towards the shore. But his men were only a second behind him, crowding at his back then shaking out, deploying into a straggling line in obedience to his yelled orders and the barking of the sergeant. So they came to the beach and started up it without hesitation. Only the captain turned and waved back at Jack Ballantyne. Then Andrew Wayman led his men up the beach into the fire of the Turks.

Jack took his boat back to his ship waiting offshore. He spent the next thirty-six hours ferrying troops and supplies ashore, always in the face of harassing fire from the enemy. He was not hit again, but when he was finally relieved and plodded below to his bunk, he found his shirt stuck to his side with dried blood. The bullet had torn a shallow furrow six inches long. He thought slowly, numb with fatigue, And six inches to the left would have been a bull’s eye, old lad.

He soaked off the shirt, got one of the sick-berth attendants to put on a dressing and then fell into his bunk. His last thought before sleep stunned him was that the Australians had been brave, particularly that captain. He did not know he had just met Chrissie’s father.

‘Do you think you can manage on your own, Chrissie?’ Lance Morgan asked worriedly.

Chrissie answered, ‘I’ll have to, it’s as simple as that.’

They talked in her office, behind the glass-panelled door looking out into the foyer of the hotel. A huge Christmas tree stood out there now and paper chains hung from the ceiling. Yuletide cards were crammed on every flat surface in the office but two held a special place on her desk. One was from Frank while the other bore the signature ‘Jack’. It had come from the Dardanelles. He had been there for nine months now.

Chrissie sat in her own swivel armchair and Lance slumped in that of Tommy Johnson. She went on ruefully, ‘There’s nobody else to run this place now.’ Because Tommy, at the age of forty-three, had been asked once too often by some old man or shrill woman, ‘Why aren’t you in uniform?’ He had volunteered for the Army and was now on Salisbury Plain, serving as a waiter in an officers’ mess ‘and likely to stay here,’ he had written to Chrissie. That last was some consolation to her, knowing he was not going to be in the firing line.

Lance coughed, shook his head and said breathlessly, ‘That’s right enough. I can’t do any more. It takes me all my time to run the Bells these days.’

Chrissie silently acknowledged that was almost true, although Lance did not run the Bells entirely on his own: Millie Taylor was a hard worker and Chrissie had always continued to keep his books for him. She still helped out for an hour or two when Lance was ill and had taken to his bed and Millie was hard pressed to cope alone. His health had deteriorated still further since the outbreak of war. No one asked him why he was not in the Army because he was plainly too old and unwell, grey faced and breathing stertorously. He did not dare to venture out of doors when the bitterly cold wind howled in off the sea.

Now he wheezed, ‘But I think we’ll have to come to a new arrangement. You’re doing Tommy’s job as well as your own so it would only be fair if you drew his salary as well.’

Chrissie shook her head. ‘We told Tommy we’d make his Army money up to what he was getting here. While he’s away his wife still has to feed and clothe herself and their bairns. That eldest boy is growing out of everything he gets in a few months and kicks the toes out of a pair of boots in no time. And him and the three little lasses, each one of them eats as much as their mother. No, I’ll not take Tommy’s money. Set that aside in the accounts. I’ll settle for twenty per cent of profit – if you think that’s fair, Mr  Morgan.’