Chrissie's Children (32 page)

Gallagher nodded. ‘She’s ruined the pair of us, but I’ll get her for this. Not now, I’ll wait my time, but I’ll finish her one day.’ And McNally knew he
would; he was sworn to vengeance.

Saturday was a lovely early summer’s day. Tom and Sarah walked out into the country behind the town, not for the first time. Sarah was laughing, happy. She was growing
up, a young woman now. There had been several boys, transient
affaires
, but nothing like this. She had grown up with Tom always in the background, someone who always brought a smile to her
face, whom she looked forward to seeing, but her feelings for him now were more intense.

They wandered through the lanes hand in hand, but not aimlessly. When they strolled into the woods they found the clearing they always came to and sat down there. And as the summer minutes
ticked lazily by they ran out of conversation and soon were lying in the grass and kissing in the sunshine.

They became conscious of the laughter first of all. There was a track just beyond the trees and shrubs that hid them. The shrill cackling came from there. Then they heard the girls’
voices, the words initially inaudible because of their distance, but becoming clearer as the unseen walkers came closer: ‘Well, he’s getting what he wants.’

The second voice said, ‘She threw herself at him! It’s one way of going up in the world.’

‘On your back for some rich young feller!’

‘The boss’s son . . .’

The voices faded on their laughter.

For a long minute Sarah was frozen in shock. Then she slowly realised that she did not recognise the voices, had not seen their owners, and they had not recognised her. They had just been two
girls out for a walk and gossiping about a third girl. It was nothing to do with her at all.

Was it?

She pushed Tom away and scrambled to her feet. He asked, bewildered, ‘What’s the matter?’ Then he realised: ‘You’re not upset because of what they said? Sarah,
that’s rubbish! They weren’t talking about us!’

‘I know.’ Sarah could not look at him, felt ashamed.

‘Well, then?’

‘It applies, just the same.’ Sarah pulled on the cardigan she had carried this far, suddenly feeling cold. ‘I just feel dirty. I want to go home.’

She hardly spoke another word until they parted, as usual and at her insistence, when they came in sight of the hotel. Tom said then, ‘I’ll see you next Saturday.’

‘No.’ Sarah faced him now, her mind made up. ‘It won’t work. We can’t go out like anybody else, so it’s all hole and corner, whispering and scheming. If we
did go out like an ordinary couple they would talk behind my back like those two this afternoon.’

‘Who would?’

‘People.’

‘What people?’

‘Anyone who knows me – us. People I work with, went to school with.’ Sarah was almost in tears.

Tom, exasperated, said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

The argument wrangled on for another minute until Sarah ended it: ‘Please don’t speak to me again.’ Tom grabbed at her arm but she pulled away and ran.

Tom found his father waiting for him when he got home. Jack Ballantyne grinned at him and asked, ‘Remember I said I would send you to America for a few months to study working practices
over there? Well, it’s all come together. The yard in Brooklyn will take you, your boss in Newcastle has agreed and I’ve got you a passage out of Southampton on Monday.’

So Tom spent the next twenty-four hours packing and putting his affairs in order, but the one affair he most desperately wanted to see to he had to leave undone. He tried several times to speak
to Sarah but she was always working in a group and contrived not to be parted from it. He was still thinking of her when he sailed from Southampton on the Monday. Sarah wept at the same time but
told herself it was all for the best.

A week later a letter arrived from Matt. Over the next four months there were three more. They bore no address but said he and Helen were safe and well and nowhere near the
fighting. Chrissie and Jack heard this with relief and used it as evidence to console each other, but each privately wondered if Matt was telling the whole truth.

Early in October of 1938 Jack left again, this time for Greece, still seeking a buyer for the
White Elephant
. He was desperate now, because if no one purchased the tanker in the next few
weeks he would have to lay off nearly all the men in the yard. Chrissie lay alone in her bed and worried over Jack – and Matt and Helen Diaz, her son and a girl she had virtually adopted over
the past year. Helen had been a frequent visitor to the Ballantyne house. Chrissie told herself the two young people would come back to her, but she still cried.

She thought she had no reason to worry over Tom. The letters he wrote every week were full of his doings in America and what he was learning. In fact he was miserable. He wrote frequently to
Sarah but she did not reply. Chrissie knew nothing of this, though she had noticed that Sarah was quieter now.

Matt and Helen filled Chrissie’s mind and she wondered, where were they now?

She would soon have news.

And Sarah kept Tom’s letters.

October 1938

Chrissie took note of the advertisement as she walked past the Havelock Cinema, because it was for ‘A Tourville Film’, and the director was shown as Phillip
Massingham. She was glad to see that Phillip was doing so well, and wrily amused that Randolph Tourville, the oil multimillionaire, was also making money from his sideline, the financing of motion
pictures. She remembered Tourville very well: he was a hard man to forget, though she had tried. She thought about him for a long time that afternoon as she sat at her desk in the hotel, and
hesitated still longer.

At one point, restless and undecided, tempted but nervous, she left her office to walk around the hotel. Ostensibly she was carrying out a routine inspection, but in reality her thoughts were
elsewhere. She became aware of a kindred spirit: Sarah Tennant stood by a window, staring out at a darkening sky that threatened rain and lost in thought. It was so unusual for the normally busy
and energetic Sarah, that Chrissie paused and delayed further – with relief – the decision that was troubling her mind. She asked, ‘Penny for them?’

Sarah started, turned to face her, and tried to smile, failing. ‘Sorry. They’re not worth a penny.’

Chrissie saw the girl was unhappy and probed, teasing, ‘Dreaming about the boyfriend?’ And if there wasn’t a boyfriend the question might still bring the answer.

Sarah blushed and admitted in her confusion, ‘Well . . .’ She stopped there and Chrissie thought, So there is a boy. She had not known of one. Sarah went on, ‘Not
exactly.’

Chrissie smiled. ‘What does that mean?’

Sarah said carefully, wanting to be truthful but yet give nothing away, ‘I – was – going out with a chap but then I broke it off because it wasn’t a good idea.’

‘Oh?’ Chrissie wondered, then asked, ‘Was he married?’

‘No!’ Sarah shook her head, shocked. ‘No, but—’ She hesitated again.

A relieved Chrissie prompted, ‘But?’

‘Well, he’s – his family are well off . . . very well off. So I don’t think it would work.’

‘Ah!’ This was a situation Chrissie knew something about. She wondered who the young man might be. Probably a guest in the hotel? But his identity did not matter. Sarah was looking
miserable, and Chrissie put her arm around the girl. ‘I won’t tell you that money and background don’t make any difference because it wouldn’t be true. But if love’s
there and you come to each other as equals in the eyes of both of you, then you can manage all the other problems.’

Sarah was not consoled. ‘Oh, I know that, but it’s what people would say.’ And she quoted bitterly, mimicking, ‘“It’s one way of going up in the world. On
your back for some rich young feller.”’

Chrissie realised that these were words Sarah had overheard, and saw the girl’s embarrassment as she repeated them. Chrissie said, ‘There’s an old saying, “Don’t
believe what you hear, only what you see!” Some people try to make mischief out of envy or just badness. But if he is the man for you, don’t let those others spoil it for you. Just be
sure of him. And let him be sure of you.’

Sarah was still for a moment, then she smiled and nodded. Chrissie gave her a squeeze and a pat. ‘Go on now.’ She watched the girl walk away and recited in her mind again,
‘You’ve got to be sure of him.’ Her mind made up, she walked quickly back to her office and as the first drops of rain tapped against the windows, she telephoned long distance to
Randolph Tourville’s London office.

She had to wait for the call to come through, of course, and changed her mind twice while waiting, but then his secretary told her, ‘Mr Tourville has travelled north to carry out an
engagement this evening.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Not for some days, madam. He is going abroad, sailing from Newcastle.’

Newcastle? Chrissie asked, ‘Can I get in touch with him there?’

‘Well, madam, I’m afraid . . .’

‘Of course, I understand, you have your instructions, but thank you for the help you have given me.’ It was not difficult to find out which ships were to sail from the Tyne in the
next twenty-four hours, and while there were several, only one was a passenger vessel. And there were only two or three hotels at which Tourville might stay. She rang one: ‘I wish to speak to
Mr Tourville, please.’

The clerk at the other end of the line answered, ‘Mr Tourville has not yet booked in, madam, but we expect him on the next train from London. Can I give him a message?’

‘No, I’ll telephone later.’ She had already decided not to wait for that.

She drove home through heavy rain and high winds, bathed and dressed carefully in an evening dress that left her shoulders bare. Jack was expected home from Greece that evening. She left a note
for him, saying that she would not be home until late. She felt an awful sense of desertion but she got into the Ford and drove through the storm to Newcastle.

At the Newcastle hotel the clerk on reception told her Randolph Tourville had booked in and had gone out for the evening. Chrissie dined in the hotel but with little appetite. Afterwards she
settled in the lounge with coffee, choosing a place from which she could see anyone entering the hotel. Then she waited with increasing nervousness.

It was close to ten when he came, pushing through the swing doors and shedding his overcoat, shaking the rain from it – the storm was still at its height. His dinner jacket fitted smoothly
on his wide shoulders and deep chest, and the starched white shirt-front showed off his tan. As he sauntered across the foyer Chrissie rose from her chair and went slowly to meet him. When he
turned from the desk with his key he found her in front of him. He blinked in surprise for a second but then said, ‘Chrissie, isn’t it?’ His eyes raked her in one quick
head-to-foot glance then returned to her face. He said approvingly, ‘I’m very pleased to see you.’

Chrissie said huskily, ‘And I, you.’

‘A fortunate coincidence, meeting you here?’ His raised brows made it a question and expressed his doubt.

‘No, I came to see you,’ Chrissie admitted. ‘Can we talk? In private?’

‘Of course.’ He took her arm and steered her towards the lift. ‘Talk all night if you like. I don’t sail until midday.’ Chrissie knew that but kept silent.
Tourville told the boy in buttoned uniform operating the lift, ‘First floor, please.’ Then to Chrissie, ‘I’ve been dining with a few local businessmen but tomorrow I’m
going to Germany.’ Chrissie knew that, too, as she had known the time of sailing of the only passenger vessel. He went on, ‘I have a number of irons in the fire over there. The people
in Hamburg want to sell me a tanker, but our fleet has enough ships for the time being.’ Chrissie had not known that and her heart lurched.

As they stepped out of the lift he said, ‘This way.’ He put a hand on her waist to turn her towards his room. Chrissie felt its pressure through the thin dress. Then it was gone and
he asked, ‘How is the hotel business?’

‘We’re surviving.’

He agreed, ‘Yes, and very well, in spite of the fire.’

‘You heard about that?’ Chrissie was surprised.

‘And how quickly you opened up again. Incredible. But why haven’t you rebuilt on the original site? The place you have now is fine as a stopgap, but not longterm. You need to
purpose-build on the old site.’ Now Chrissie wondered how much this man knew about her.

‘Scotch?’ They were in his suite and he was holding up the bottle for her to see. The connecting door was open and she could see the big double bed, the sheet turned down. Rain
pattered on the window but the room was warm.

‘Please.’ It would give her courage. Chrissie sat down on the couch where he pointed and slid the stole from her shoulders, laid it aside.

Tourville brought the drinks over and set them on the low table, sat beside her on the couch. He lifted his glass and toasted, ‘To us. Now . . .?’ He waited.

Chrissie told him about the
White Elephant
, how Ballantyne’s was desperate to find a buyer, that without a buyer the yard would close.

Tourville smiled showing strong, white teeth. ‘I hope you aren’t hoping to sell me a tanker. I told you on the way up here that the fleet needs no more ships at present.’

Chrissie pleaded passionately, ‘But you would be giving work to your own countrymen if you bought from Ballantyne’s!’ Then she pointed out, ‘And the last time I asked you
for a favour it proved profitable to you. I’m talking about the films made by Phillip Massingham.’ She knew that she was flushed, saw the admiration in his eyes and felt the heat in her
face.

Tourville said softly, ‘I am not persuaded.’

Chrissie sat still, not avoiding his gaze. As the silence dragged out they could hear the howl of the gale outside, the rattle of the rain on the windows, but they sat in a warm, quiet little
world. Chrissie swallowed the last of the whisky in her glass and drew a breath . . .

Sophie Ballantyne waited on the quay at Sunderland as the gale lashed the town. She was one of a small group of women in raincoats or shawls, all looking out to the mouth of
the river, their eyes blinking against the rain as the wind drove it into their faces. They were all waiting for one ship, the SS
Chatterton
, because their men were aboard her. One old
woman, her grey hair sticking damply to her forehead where it escaped from under the rain-sodden shawl, said, ‘My Joe’s been a bad bugger, drunk his pay more times than I’ve seen
it, but I wouldn’t like to lose him at sea.’