The Captain's Daughter (10 page)

Both women shook their heads. There’d been too many survivors scattered over the
Carpathia
to remember many names.

‘Let’s get out of this sad place. They’ve organized some decent hotels for us and I think little Ella needs a change of diaper,’ Celeste ordered, taking May by the arm.

When the ship emptied, the gangplank came up and a hush fell over the lingering crowds; there were only stragglers left. Angelo was so caught up in shouting that his voice was hoarse. If he held his photo up high or shoved closer to the front, perhaps Maria would see her own face and know he was here waiting and turn back to find him.

Everyone was pacing about, including doctors and nurses pushing empty invalid chairs. Angelo had watched the passengers disembark: women clad in furs, wearing hats, shaken, but still proud. There was a rush of lucky relatives screaming with joy Many were whisked away into the arms of husbands and wives; others leaning on walking sticks, their faces suntanned, slumped with shock.

Hundreds of walking heroes and heroines poured off the ship, shouting names into the ranks of people. It was the numbers Angelo couldn’t fathom. Nearly two-and-a-half thousand had been on board
Titanic
, but only seven hundred had returned on the rescue ship. The numbers changed like whispers in a game. Surely they must be wrong?

His arm was aching from holding up his photograph. There was still a trickle of steerage passengers passing through the B section. No one looked at him. Their eyes were dull with exhaustion and fear. He waited and waited until the last straggler had passed through. No one else was coming. He must find the passenger list and check for sure. Could this be true? Was there no one else left on the ship? His wife and baby were lost and it was all his fault. If he had gone back home to Italy, as planned, he could have brought them himself. How would he tell their family back home this grim news?

His legs were trembling as he scoured the arrival space, searching, searching . . . There must be some mistake. He ran to each arrival gate, begging the stewards to look at his picture. They had to be here somewhere. ‘Please . . . please, my wife, my
bambina
,’ he pleaded until the officials shooed him away.

‘They’ve all gone, sonny. Go home. There’s only crew left.’

‘But are you sure? Look at my wife.’

He ran out into the rain, crying, ‘Maria!’ before collapsing in a heap like a drunken man, his eyes blinded by tears. A lady in a black veil helped him to his feet. He trudged out into the cold night, passing others collapsed in grief, men with beards crying out to the heavens. It was only then he saw something on the floor, a
scarpetta
, a baby shoe in lacework, the sort his mamma and Maria made, a pattern he would recognize anywhere.

He picked it up and examined it closely. Yes, it was finely executed Italian lace over a little cloth shoe, the sort of shoes women in his village made for their babies. He had lived surrounded by lacework all his life. It was how the women earned extra money in the marketplace. It was one of the designs from their region. His heart leaped.

Angelo smiled with sheer relief. He must have missed them in the crowd. They’d arrived and passed him by. That was it. He shoved the baby shoe in his pocket and made for the welfare stand, his feet now dancing with relief. Holy Mother of God, they were not lost after all!

‘Maria, Alessia, where are you? I am here. I’ve been waiting. Look, Baby has lost her shoe. I’ve got her shoe,’ he shouted into the crowd.

‘Come on now, son,’ said a priest he didn’t know, trying to comfort him. ‘It’s just a shoe. Don’t take on so.’

‘No, it is my baby’s shoe. I know it. It is . . . They go to my address.’

Angelo was pushing his way through the crowds fuelled by a surge of hope now. When he got to Baxter Street they would be there. Locked out, cross maybe, but alive. It was wet and cold. He must hurry. He didn’t want to lose them again.

In the days that followed, May and Celeste were overwhelmed with kindness and offers of help. The stalwart matrons of the Women’s Relief Committee arrived with endless boxes of provisions. In fact kindness was a poor choice of word for the sympathy showed to them all.

‘Look at these!’ May shouted across the room. ‘They’re new!’ Clothes were arriving in all shapes and sizes, good-quality garments, some brand new from stores that had donated racks of blouses, cardigans, trousers, a box of corsets and underwear, gloves and stockings. There were garters and suspenders, even hairpins and boots of all sizes, each with laces or button hooks inside them, and a box of discreet sanitary napkins, for which May was grateful. The stress had brought on her monthlies early.

There was a scrabble as women tried on dresses and shoes, shouting for the right size.

For a moment they were just women let loose in a toy store. Suitcases were given to each of them, along with a sympathy card from well-wishers. In fact, hundreds of cards and letters had been sent to the Star Hotel in Clarkson Street, where May was staying with Celeste, along with many other stranded survivors.

‘There’s a memorial service tonight in the cathedral. We should go,’ Celeste suggested.

‘It won’t be for the likes of me. Besides, I’m not leaving Ella with strangers.’

‘Why not for you? And bring her with you. It’ll help the cause if the congregation see the real widows and orphans who need their money.’

‘I’m not a charity case or a freak show,’ May snapped in irritation.

‘Don’t be so touchy. They only want to help and feel needed. Everyone wants to help the survivors. One look at Ella will open their purses wide.’

‘I’d rather not.’

Celeste turned away and bit her lip. ‘Please yourself, I’m only trying to help.’

May could see Celeste was hurt.

‘You’ve been so kind but I think you ought to be heading back to see your little boy. Mr Bryden called in twice while you were out. I hope you don’t mind me saying . . . but he seems to think he’ll be in trouble if you don’t leave soon. He told me Mr Parkes wants you back as soon as possible and doesn’t like being checked.’

‘He can wait a little longer. I’m needed here too. I’ll telephone Grover and explain.’

From where May was standing it was as if Celeste was enjoying every minute of her stay in New York, going to meetings, talking to newspapermen, stirring up comment. She didn’t have to earn a living or worry about the future. They came from different worlds and it was beginning to show.

‘You go to the service. I’m tired. I’ll be no company for anyone tonight. It takes every ounce of strength just to get through the day.’

Downtown Manhattan had been taken over with
Titanic
Disaster events; special services of remembrance had been organized in every district; Episcopal, Presbyterian, Catholic churches opening their doors in hospitality. Celeste frequently disappeared to give interviews on behalf of the Women’s Relief Committee in the city to try to raise more funds while interest was high.

There was camaraderie among the survivors, a dazed exhausted retelling of their stories. Everyone huddled in groups but May had clung only to Celeste for comfort at first. Now she realized she must fend for herself.

Ella was being fractious, sensing all the change and fuss. No longer so docile or sleepy, she watched everyone with those huge eyes. She was dressed like a little princess, fussed over and handed round like a doll, which May knew was giving comfort to the other widows even though she desperately wanted to keep the baby to herself.

The welfare officers arrived to take their details and informed May of a passage home the following week on the
Celtic
, if she chose to return.

‘Is there anyone you wish us to inform?’ the officer asked.

May shook her head. ‘All I love lies at the bottom of the sea,’ she replied, and he bowed his head in sympathy. ‘Liverpool will be fine. I can make my own way after that.’

Celeste was having none of it. ‘No, she will not. Mrs Smith will fill in all the forms and get what she and her child are entitled to from the White Star Line and the relief funds. You must send a forwarding address to keep them informed. May, you must understand that as a dependant you’ll certainly be making a claim for support. She has no husband now and no belongings, nothing. Her sponsor in Idaho has been informed but Mrs Smith has no desire to stay on in America now.’

May hadn’t the energy or confidence to speak up for herself. She just wanted to disappear. ‘I just want to go home but I can’t think what to do now. I can’t go back to Bolton, not without Joe. I don’t want to see the faces of folk who knew us both. I haven’t got an idea in my head.’

‘Well, I have,’ said Celeste. ‘I’ve got an idea. If you really want a fresh start, I think I’ve got the answer but not before I’ve shown you some of the sites of this great city. You must see Central Park.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘It will do you good.’

When Celeste had an idea it was hard not to listen. How could May explain this was no holiday but a living nightmare, filling in time until she could return back to her own country? She didn’t want to stroll in the park. It should be Joe who should be on her arm, not some stranger, kind as she was. She didn’t want Ella being fussed over and photographed – for reasons she must keep to herself.

May still couldn’t believe that no one in this past week, on board ship or on dry land, had laid claim to the baby. Holding Ella took her mind off Ellen, who visited her dreams every night, holding out her hands to be picked up when she fell in her little black leather boots. She woke crying out and it was always Celeste who came to her bedside.

‘It’s only a dream. Ella is safe. You are safe. Go back to sleep.’

Safe, May thought bitterly. If she only knew . . .

Angelo raced through the streets, alive to the thought that his family would be waiting in the rain. He was exhausted, it was the worst day of his life, but now there was hope. What if they got lost, or worse? The last few steps were agony. Breathless, he shouted, ‘Maria, I’m back . . .’ Then he saw Uncle Salvi’s face peering down at him, worried and drawn.

‘Oh, Angelo, we heard the news. We’ve been waiting.’

‘Are they not here yet?’ he said, collapsing on the stairwell. ‘She has the address. She will come.’

They waited for an hour in silence, Angelo pacing the floor in agony. ‘Just another hour and they will come. It’s a big city. Maria wouldn’t leave me.’

‘It’s late now. You must come home with me. It is no time to be alone.’

‘No, I have to be here in case she comes. She’s travelled so far. I can’t let her down now.’

‘She’s not coming, Angelo. She wasn’t there, was she?’

‘But I have Baby’s shoe, look. Tuscan lace . . . I’d know it anywhere. Did we not bring a whole package over to sell to the lace shops? Please, a little longer, Salvi.’

It was dawn when he was led like a child weeping, muttering to himself as Salvi took him back to the shop, to Anna and into the bosom of his family. Dr Fortuna called and, seeing the state of him, administered a sleeping draught. They let him sleep on the sofa, not wanting him to return to the empty rooms.

‘I have to go. There might be news,’ he pleaded. Visitors called with cakes and flowers and condolences. He had a strange fever, hot and cold, breathless. He couldn’t work or think, crying out for his wife.

Father Bernardo came every day to comfort him, offering Mass for their souls.

‘Your heart is breaking but it will heal. Only prayer will ease your pain. They are in a better place,’ he offered.

Angelo did not want to hear this. ‘But I want them with me. I know they are out there somewhere. I have put cards in the shops and the Italian newspaper. Look,’ he said, brightening, ‘there’s a woman coming to see me. She says she saw Maria on the ship with our baby. She is sure it is my Maria but she has to come a long way to talk to me so I sent her dollars for the train.’

‘What’s her name?’ Bernardo asked. ‘Let me see the letter.’

‘Signora Bruno . . . look.’

‘Did she come?’

‘Not yet, but any day soon.’

The priest sighed. ‘I don’t think whoever wrote this will be coming. They’ve got your dollars. There’s always those who prey on suffering. The city is rife with hustlers claiming to be survivors needing cash, asking for favours, giving false hope to desperate people, telling lies for their own ends. I’m so sorry.’

‘I’m not giving up, Father. I have my baby’s shoe. She’s here. I know she is. She has been kidnapped or worse . . .’ He was back up pacing the floor.

‘Stop this, son. It’s grief talking. It’s been over a week now. You must face the truth. They didn’t survive.’

Angelo put his hands over his ears. ‘I’m not listening. They’re alive, my baby lives. Someone has stolen her.’

‘Oh, Angelo, listen to yourself. You are talking like a madman. This will not make your pain any easier. Come to Mass, to the memorial, see others like you who are trying to be brave.’

‘How can I pray to a God who destroys families?’ he said, turning on the priest in anger.

‘He didn’t sink the
Titanic.
From what I hear, it sank itself. He calmed the sea and kept the survivors safe. They say the ocean was like a millpond. Don’t blame God, blame the ship’s design,’ the priest answered, trying to calm him. ‘You must carry on as Maria would want you to.’

‘What is there to live for now, you tell me?’ Angelo beat his chest.

‘Son, you have life and breath while others have none. The why of it all is a mystery too big for me to fathom; how some are saved and some lost. We’ll be finding out soon enough. There’s to be an inquiry into the sinking. The truth will out. Until then, be brave. Salvi and Anna are so worried about you. I told them it’s early days but you are strong and young. Don’t let me down. Accept what must be borne, son.’

Angelo nodded politely. These words made sense in his head but not in his heart. It was still too full of hope.

Celeste and May made an emotional farewell at the quayside before the
Celtic s
ailed. What was left of the
Titanic
’s returning crew would not be on board. They had been immediately separated from the other survivors, impounded to make witness statements, and were not allowed to return straight away. Celeste had offered her own statement to the officials but no one had seemed interested in her story. She had added the story of the captain’s heroism and the rescued baby but couldn’t recall the names of other witnesses on the lifeboat to verify her account.