The Captain's Daughter (40 page)

‘How does that feel?’ he yelled as Grandma leaped in to drag him away.

‘Roddy! Roderick, stop this. You’ll kill him!’ she screamed.

‘Death’s too good for him. I hate him. I hate him for what he’s done to this family. You won’t get the better of me, not now, not ever.’

Grover looked up at him with stunned eyes. He let out one final roar of fury. ‘Get out . . . get out of my sight!’

‘With pleasure, but I’m taking Gran with me. You’ll not touch a hair on her head ever again.’ He turned to his grandma. ‘Pack a bag, we’re getting out of here. You can go to Effie Morgan’s for the night.’

Harriet stayed put. ‘No, I’m going nowhere. This is my home. I don’t want tongues wagging.’

‘I won’t go without you,’ Roddy shouted, but still she wouldn’t move. ‘I promised Mom . . .’

Harriet stood firm, looking down at Grover. ‘He is my son for better or worse. I never thought to see you, two stags rutting, drawing blood, but I guess it’s been coming a long time. You’d better go. There’ll be no more fighting in this house.’ She pulled up her son, who still looked dazed. ‘You’ve had this due for a long time, Grover Parkes. I’m glad Roderick isn’t going to be a copy of you. What a mess you make of things. You’ve lost all that’s good in your life and the pity of it is you don’t even know it yet, but you will. One day you’ll end up one lonely old man if you don’t mend your ways. Burned bridges are awful hard to mend.’

Grover sat up, brushing himself down, not listening, before looking up at his son. ‘Get that ungrateful pup out of here before I whip some sense into him.’

‘Don’t you ever learn? Your whipping days are over. Roderick will walk through this door and never come back if you don’t apologize right now.’

‘For what? Apologize for knowing what’s best for my son?’

‘You don’t own him. You’ve had him on loan, that’s all. That’s all we can ever expect of our children. You’ve had your chance. I don’t like to think I was totally responsible for how you’ve turned out. But I wonder . . . Me and your pa must take the blame for letting you rule the roost too much. Look at you, who would ever want you for an offspring? I take back all I said about your wife. She knew what she was doing when she jumped ship. I reckon the
Titanic
taught her a thing or two. From one disaster to the next, she came. Say you’re sorry before it’s too late, please.’

There was a deafening silence as Roddy closed the door on his life at Oak Court. The moon was high, the bright stars torching his path as he made his way down the driveway clutching his carpetbag of clothes. Where would he go now?

All he knew was that he was free and it felt as if a lump of rock had dropped from his shoulders. Grandma was right: there was no turning back. He’d never go back again, but he was going to have to think up something pretty quick if he wasn’t to starve or freeze to death in the night chill.

Heading down towards the city lights with a spring in his step, Roddy knew just where he was aiming for. He’d broken a cord, snapped those threads, and a new life was beginning. Scary as it was, he knew things would work out just fine.

It was nearly Christmas and Celeste was listing orders for the butcher, baker and grocery stores, determined to make the best of things in these grim times, trying to recall how May went about her preparations. How she was missed in the kitchen. This was going to be a poor season for many families when so many men were unemployed. She’d been serving in a special food distribution centre and clothing store. There was talk of a deep depression in the country.

She felt so privileged to have a loving home with people who cared for her, and Archie and Selwyn’s steady incomes coming into Red House. They were the lucky ones and must share what they had with others. She wanted to make the festive season jolly for Ella, to lift their spirits after such a hard year. The tree was coming from Cannock Chase and they’d ordered a fine turkey from the local farm. She was making little stocking gifts for the children’s comforts charity in the city.

Ella was nearing the end of her diploma year specializing in sculpture and portrait sculpture. She was helping in the junior department of Birmingham School of Art, travelling on the train each day, and she was in love.

She kept the object of her desire so secret that Celeste was afraid he was married and stringing her along. But Keir Walsh was a scruffy angular sort of chap of her own age, a socialist with strong views on the political situation and the rights of all working men. He tutored life drawing and he had no time for the Church, eyeing them all with suspicion at first. His parents were Birmingham Irish. He never talked about them – his conversation was limited to rallies and electioneering, and how the middle classes had no idea of conditions in the city. ‘A rough diamond’, her father would have said, but sincere enough.

She watched Ella’s face light up when he lectured them at the table about the rise of fascism in Italy and Germany. The girl worshipped him, and he looked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe such a beauty could be hanging on his every word.

‘I’m not sure he’s the right man for her . . . she’s so young,’ Celeste whispered to Archie one evening. ‘I was that age when Grover came into my life and what a mess that turned out to be.’

‘But it’s different now, the young ones have more freedom to be themselves. If they love each other, they’ll find a way.’

‘But his views are so extreme,’ she continued, stuffing oranges and nuts into the stockings. ‘He says Europe is warming up for another war. Germany is growing stronger, building roads and railways, making use of their unemployed. There can’t be another war, surely? How can two young artists make a living to support a family in this climate?’

Archie laughed. ‘It’s early days. They’ve hardly known each other for five minutes. Keir looks like the sort of young man that’ll not be settling down from a long time. Give them a chance.’ Archie knew how to calm her fears.

Celeste had still not told Ella the full story of her identity or the real reason they’d made a detour to Bolton. Joe and May’s story was confirmed but no one could say anything other than that there had been a baby girl. The vicar had baptized hundreds, he’d said, apologizing that one baby looked the same as the next to him. One of the mill girls did let slip that Joe was fair-headed and not dark, as May had insisted. How were they ever going to find out the true facts? She didn’t want to speak to Ella until she had some tangible proof to offer her.

The trouble was there was never a right time to broach this subject, never a right time to open such a deep wound. Perhaps it would be better to let the issue slide, but Archie remained unconvinced.

‘Ella ought to know what we suspect. She has a right to find out the truth. You must tell her about the
Titanic.
I can’t believe she doesn’t know even that.’

‘I know, but now’s not the right time. She’s no ears for anything but Keir.’

This year their Christmas celebrations would be simple with the Christmas Eve midnight service at the cathedral being at the heart of them. Celeste had sent Roddy’s parcel to his depot address outside Akron, which he was using as a base. She was not sorry he’d left Oak Court. He’d sent a long letter describing all the drama of his exit. She’d have loved to have seen Grover curled up in a ball, getting a dose of his own medicine. She was no longer in contact with her husband. When Ella knew how things stood and life settled down here again, she would be petitioning him for divorce, but first things first.

With his friend Will, Roddy was building up a fleet of trucks. They were crossing state lines, driving thousands of miles with freight deliveries, a team of drivers contracted out to run their lorries. He’d found a gap in the market and filled it.

Despite all his father’s aggro he was making money, but he still sounded restless and dissatisfied. She could sense his frustration at how life had turned out for him. There was no mention of his returning to England and she no longer asked. Why should he ever come back now? But his continued absence was hard.

Much as Ella was like a daughter to her, it was Roddy who would always be first in her heart, her only son. There was enough of a family in this house now but it wasn’t like the old days with just the five of them. She thought of Christmasses past, when there was May, Ella, Roddy and her father. Life seemed so uncomplicated then, with all those clergy to entertain, choir practices and choral evensongs, presents to buy, secrets to hide from the children, so many happy memories of this season.

Celeste smiled and sighed, knowing that the old life was built on the lies she’d made up about her return, the secrets May had kept too, and of course now they weren’t exactly a regular family setup either.

Archie’s presence was making such a difference. He’d helped Selwyn talk about the gap May had left in his home, helped him cut back his drinking and further pick up his career, helped him let go of some of the traumas of war. He could go where she could not, talk and share things only soldiers knew and she could only guess at. It was a secret society into which civilians had no admittance, just as she and May had shared that terrible experience on that dreadful April night at sea.

One morning while she was out putting the last-minute touches to her Christmas shopping, she made a diversion to Museum Gardens, thinking May would like her to visit Captain Smith’s statue.

The captain was looking neglected, covered in bird droppings, almost hidden by shrubbery. He was a sorry sight. She recalled how proud he’d looked walking round the deck, his beady eye checking on the crewmen and passengers. What a sad end to his career this had been.

She looked up at his strong face and found herself talking to the man as if he could hear. ‘What shall I do about the child, the one you saved? Who is she and where did you find her? How do I say what must be said without unsettling her? If only you could speak and tell me what you saw.’

Just seeing him brought so many memories flooding back of that terrible night and she shivered, feeling foolish to be standing in the chill wind talking to a piece of stone.

‘I’m doing this for my friend May,’ she said. ‘We called ourselves “Sisters of the
Titanic”
, bound for ever by its sinking.’ She noticed for herself the fact that there was no mention of the name of the ship on his plaque; it was a name no one wanted to remember and he was a captain who no one wanted to honour for all his years of faithful service. Perhaps it was her duty to see he was spruced up with a bucket of water and a brush.

She noted the bold letters of K. Scott, the sculptor who had created such a fine likeness.

She recalled how May had once confessed how little Ella convinced herself she was a daughter of one of Captain Scott’s crew. ‘What a pickle she got me into and no mistake. I had to explain to her headmistress.’

Only you didn’t come clean, did you? You told everyone what they expected to hear. No one challenged your word or your right to have this baby. I saw what I saw and assumed just like everyone else. I fought your corner and now I’m left holding the secret. Who is Ella? Is there someone out there who can tell us more?

Italy, 1927

Angelo kissed the ground when he arrived on the Italian shore. He couldn’t believe he was back in the old country. It had been a slow journey from Marseilles but already he felt stronger from the bracing air, out on the deck, listening to the chatter of passengers, wrapped up in the warm new coat and hat Kathleen had insisted he buy before he left New York.

He would be going back not as a broken man but with a case full of presents, photographs and news.

The voyage was the easy bit, then came the train and the journey by horse and cart up the mule tracks to the farm. Everything seemed slower, smaller, in the golden Tuscan light than he remembered. He was a city man now, not a farmer’s boy. He could scarcely understand the dialect he’d grown up with but he was so happy to be back in the scented hills.

His mother fell into his arms, so small, a far more shrivelled version of the strong woman who had waved him off nearly twenty years before, her fine features weathered by suffering. ‘Angelo, my darling boy. Let me look at you . . . so grey and skinny. I thank God I’ve lived to see you returned to us. Come in, come in.’

He felt like the honoured guest when he was given the room in the loft with the best mattress, a
vaso da notte
under his bed for his personal use in the night. The neighbours stood in awe of him as if he was a creature from another world, stroking his suit, his coat, beaming at him with toothless grins.

Onto the dining table came the
zuppa
, the pasta, the fine cheese, the country wine, the olive oil and wonderful
castagnaccio
chestnut bread, all with a fresh sharp flavour that came from the sun and the soil, and not from cans that had been shipped across the seas for months.

He was touched that all his letters and cards were pinned up on the wall above the shrine in the corner, treasured letters clearly read many times, and he wished with a pang that he’d written more often.

There was so much to tell, to explain. They thought he was a wealthy city slicker, not a man who was sick, out of work, only here because he’d been granted charitable funds. That wasn’t what they wanted to hear. They wanted to know letting their young men go so far away was worth the sacrifice. He would not be disappointing them.

He had forgotten just how poor they were and why the farm couldn’t sustain so many sons. By the fug
of the fornella a carbone
, he watched his little brother, Gianni, who he’d last seen in short pants, towering above him, looking anxious in case he was home for good and wanting his share.

‘Come, eat.’ His father pushed him to the table before anyone else.

‘Only if everyone eats with me,’ Angelo replied, knowing they would want him to have the biggest share. ‘The doctor says I eat too much for my health,’ he smiled, patting his stomach. ‘So forgive me if I hold back. You have spoiled me.’

He could see the relief on the faces of some of the children as they pounced on the feast. How could he take the bread from their mouths? Angelo sat back wishing his own family was there to share this with him. They felt so very far away.