The Captain's Daughter (19 page)

‘Oh dear, has Grover been losing his temper again?’

‘Is that what you call this? I’d call it assault and battery,’ Celeste replied. She was ice cold.

Harriet had the decency to blush. ‘I’m sorry but you have to understand the stresses men are placed under at work. There’s a great amalgamation going on in the rubber works. Grover’s company are making big changes. We have to make allowances. He’s like his father. They don’t mean to do these things . . . You have to understand.’

‘Is that what you do?’ Celeste said, seeing the blush spread on her mother-in-law’s face.

‘What do you mean?’ Harriet bristled.

‘You know what I mean. He wasn’t born a bully. Someone showed him it’s acceptable to knock your wife into submitting to—’

‘Look, my dear, you must admit, lately you’ve provoked him with all your suffrage talk. You’re never at home, you neglect the boy . . .’

‘That’s not true. I’ve never neglected Roddy! Just because I take a day out a month to attend meetings in Cleveland . . .’

‘Men must be masters in their own homes. It stands to reason, otherwise they are belittled.’ Harriet walked around her room, nervously fingering trinkets and clothes.

‘I was taught all of us are equal in the eyes of God.’

‘There you go again on your high horse. Man was made in the image of God and we came out of his rib so we are, of course, lesser beings.’

‘That’s nonsense. Humans come from their mothers’ bodies,’ Celeste laughed.

‘You must learn to keep such heresies to yourself if you are to stay married to my son. Be submissive, it is the only way with strong-willed husbands.’

‘I was not brought up to act like that.’

‘You are so English, dear.’

‘Yes, and proud of it. We don’t like to be browbeaten. We fight for what we feel is right, no matter how hopeless the cause.’

‘Then I pity you,’ said Harriet, picking up an antique silver hairbrush that had belonged to Celeste’s mother. ‘Though you do have exquisite taste in furnishings.’

‘Is that all? Will you be repeating what I’ve just said?’

Harriet shook her head. ‘You’ve changed, Celestine, and Grover is confused.’

‘I have the
Titanic
to thank for that. How can I endure this treatment after what I witnessed on the ship? He couldn’t even be bothered to meet me off the rescue ship and I’ve discovered he hides my mail.’

Harriet paused at the door. ‘I see. I’m glad we’ve had this chat, Celestine. Good day. I’ll tell everyone you’re indisposed.’

Celeste sensed they would never talk of this again. Harriet had been shamed, her own secret humiliation discovered. If only they could join forces, there might be hope of reconciliation. What am I thinking of? Celeste sighed. Nothing I can say will change Grover. But my actions just might make him think again.

29 July 1914

It was a struggle for May to find a vantage point. The Lichfield crowds were out to see the Mayoral procession wending its way down Bird Street from the Guildhall to Museum Gardens for the unveiling of the statue.

The town crier was in his top hat, his mace and sword glinting in the July sunlight, and a motley crew of the Court of Array in medieval costumes slowly filed past the curious crowds. Next came the Mayor and Sheriff, sweltering in their scarlet and fur and tricorn hats heading up the dignitaries and guests dressed as befitted such a civic occasion, some in sombre blacks, others in muted silks, their skirts rustling with braided hems to brush away the dust.

A fanfare of scarlet-coated buglers heralded their arrival, striking a grand note as the parade filed into Museum Gardens where naval officers stood guard over the shrouded statue. There was a shuffling into appointed positions before the proceedings began.

May hid herself from view. She couldn’t hear most of what was said, and Ella was squirming in her pushchair, more interested in the ice-cream vendor on the corner, who was doing a roaring trade amongst the crowd who’d gathered to see what was going on.

She noted with pride how white the clergymen’s robes were that she’d helped launder, starch and iron that very morning. They were ranked in order of importance around the bishops, in their gold stoles and mitres. It was a theatrical pageant perfect for a cathedral city.

‘Who’s being done?’ said a man in a cloth cap, dripping ice cream from his cornet down his whiskers.

‘It’s the unveiling of the captain’s statue, Captain Smith,’ May offered.

‘Oh, him, the one who sank the
Titanic!
What do we want a statue of him for?’

‘He was a brave man, a very brave man . . .’ she snapped, unable to contain her vexation.

‘What do you know?’ he argued, eyeing her up and down. There wasn’t much of her to attract attention, she reckoned; just a young woman in a grey loose dress, pinched in the face, hair the colour of wet sand scraped into a bun under a straw boater. With one cutting word about being a
Titanic
survivor she could’ve shut him up but she bit her tongue and edged away. She wanted to hear what the Duchess of Sutherland had to say but she caught only snippets of her speech as a woman pointed out another young lady in a grey flowing dress.

‘That’s Lady Scott . . . widow of Captain Scott, the great explorer . . . she made the statue,’ whispered the lady standing next to her. ‘Now there’s someone who deserves a bronze likeness. A hero among men, he was.’

It was evident Captain Smith was not among friends here. May wondered why they’d even bothered to turn up. It was the talk of the city that no one wanted this statue in Lichfield; a petition with seventy signatures had been sent to the Council in protest at having it erected.

If only she could speak out on his behalf. Then she caught the duchess’s final words.

‘Don’t, my friends, grieve . . . because Captain Smith lies in the sea . . . the sea has swallowed silently and fearfully many of the great and many of those we love . . .’

You can say that again, May sighed under her breath, not wanting to listen any more. There were too many memories rising to the surface with those words.

Now there was talk of war and men taking up arms again. How many of them were also destined for the deep?

May’s eyes were drawn to the slender figure of a girl in a white dress and picture hat, her dark hair falling down to her waist. The captain’s only daughter, Helen Melville Smith, who was going to unveil her father’s likeness. Her mother was seated close by, anxious as the girl tugged on the sheet to reveal the broad-shouldered figure of a naval officer, his arms folded as he looked far, far across the assembled crowd, far beyond the three spires of the cathedral and the museum dome, and out into the distance. The crowd clapped without enthusiasm.

Here he was, stuck on a post as far from the sea as it was possible to be, landlocked in a lukewarm Lichfield, deaf to all the speeches from the great and good of the county. It had been the talk of Cathedral Close for weeks who would be attending this show: Lady Diana Manners and her sister, the Marchioness of Anglesey, Sir Charles Beresford, the MP, and more. Everyone had wanted to make speeches but there were rumblings of dismay especially when the vicar of St Chad’s stirred up the protest in the newspaper. Many worthies had stayed away, making lame excuses not to attend.

May tried to view the seated guests. Among their ranks were the captain’s relatives from the Potteries and officials from the White Star Line, as well as survivors like herself. She’d like to have given them her public support but she knew she had to watch from a safe distance.

It was a great turnout, despite all the fuss, and a comfort to his family, she hoped. Her eyes were fixed on his widow, Eleanor, as she placed a wreath of red and white roses at the foot of the plinth. How she’d borne her cross with dignity over these past two years. What must she be thinking now?

The sun was in May’s eyes. They were hot and crushed, and Ella was fractious. ‘Ducks . . . feed the ducks,’ she demanded. May hoped to get a closer view of the statue when the crowd dispersed. She pushed her back towards the shade of Minster Pool so they could feed the ducks as she’d promised.

The procession receded, the cadets and naval reserves fell out of line, people shuffled past the cordon to take a closer look and read the plaque.

‘Ducks . . . feed the ducks,’ Ella insisted.

What a hoo-ha there’d been about this inscription! She’d heard the canons arguing over their port and the students in the college debating it over their cocoa before compline, and she was curious to see for herself what had been chosen.

Now the show was over, the seats emptied and the crowds strolled into the park, crowding into pubs and tearooms to cool off. Only then did May wheel the pushchair towards the statue for a closer inspection. No one here had a clue about her connection to this famous man, and reading the plaque she could have wept. There was just his name, rank and dates with a nondescript flowery epitaph:

How dare they not mention that he was the captain of the
Titanic.
Canon Forester had been right when he said the aldermen would ‘fudge the issue and damn the man with faint praise’.

May hadn’t wanted this reminder on her doorstep but now she felt she must stick up for its presence. Here in the pram was living proof of his valour. If Helen Smith was his real daughter, then in a strange way Ella was the captain’s daughter too, born of the sea.

If only Celeste were here. She must write again, telling her all about this ceremony and sending the local paper to furnish her with all the details.

May looked up at those stern features, the sadness in those faraway eyes. The sculptor had caught something of the man, she was sure. She sighed as she turned, shaking her head. Captain Smith was not the only one to lose his life or his reputation on that fateful night.

Later, in the sultry heat of her bedroom, she dreamed the same dream again, thrashing in that black endless sea, crying out when the fickle frozen water, swayed by moon, wind and tide, sucked down all she loved into the deep. Sometimes she woke with relief thinking it all a nightmare until she looked at the wooden cot, saw Ella’s curly head and knew it for real. Who was this stolen child?

Was the price of the comfort she was giving to her an eternity of secrets and silence? What else should she have done?
You survived. She survived. That is all that matters now. Did I do right? Oh, please, give me a sign that I did right . . .

Celeste waited until Grover was out before she found the key to his walnut bureau where all their documents were held. All she wanted was her birth certificate, and Roddy’s. She had been priming him for weeks that it was time to take Roddy and Susan for a trip to the coast, to sail his boat and get some fresh sea air. They would spend a few days in a hotel and travel by rail car to see the Great Lakes on the way home. She’d bought a new sailor suit for Roddy, a fresh straw boater for Susan’s uniform and some pretty silk dresses for herself.

For the first time in months, she felt alive with anticipation. Susan would have to come with them or she might raise the alarm. She was trustworthy up to a point but she had her own family to support in Akron. It might not be wise to persuade her to cross the border into Canada. According to the New York papers, things were increasingly serious in Europe after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo. There was talk of war with Germany. She must get out now before borders were closed.

If Margaret Brown and Alice Paul had taught her anything, it was not to sit around being passive, waiting to be rescued but to seize the day and take her future in her own hands. She must go north into British territory, claim her birthright and take Roddy across the sea where Grover could never reach them.

It was time she saw her own family. If there was a war, her brothers would want to fight and Father would be bereft. It was her duty to see them and introduce her son, before he forgot he was ever half English himself.