Mary's Child (33 page)

The night was dark but he knew his way. And in the last two years he had come to know the routine of the patrolling policemen and so avoided them now. They walked down the empty High Street to the river and then along the quay to a point where they were distant from houses and shipyards with nightwatchmen. At their backs was a line of warehouses with locked doors and blank windows. The river rolled black and oily, the tide just on the turn so its surface swirled some twenty feet below the level of the quay.

Forthrop pointed, ‘There she is.’ There were always ships in the river. Half a dozen could be seen from where he and Della stood now, black silhouettes of vessels picked out with riding lights or the glow from lit portholes.

Della peered into the darkness and asked, the words slurred, ‘Which one?’

Forthrop stepped to the edge of the quay and pointed again with his free arm outstretched, taking her with him in the crook of the other. ‘That one – with the smoke coming from her funnel. She’s getting up steam. I told you she was sailing in the morning.’ He looked left and right but saw no one, just the bare expanse of the quay.

Della said, ‘I can see it now.’

And he pushed her over the edge.

He did it with a hand in the small of her back and one foot thrust in front of hers so that she tripped and fell head first. Because of the whisky she was slow to react, had almost reached the water before she began to scream and then that was cut short. She surfaced only once and then some way from the quay, the current taking her. She let out a cry then but it was feeble and ended bubbling as she sank again.

Forthrop waited and watched for some minutes but saw nothing more of her. Then he went home to his bed.

A week later the coroner delivered his verdict. Neighbours said a man had been seen sometimes entering Della’s house late at night – but not near the time of her death. She had boasted of having a wealthy man friend, but no one had seen a face or knew a name. And Mrs Garrity, Forthrop’s former cook, who knew of his affair with Della, was dead. Chrissie never saw the report of Della’s death. There was no evidence of foul play. The coroner privately thought that there was more than a suspicion of suicide as the woman was single and pregnant, but he settled for ‘accidental death’ to free the poor soul from stigma.

Lance Morgan stood in the gloomy foyer of the Railway Hotel and shook his head in despair. ‘My God! What a state it’s in! And I’ve put myself up to my neck in debt for this.’

Chrissie forbore to remind him that he had viewed the hotel before he bought it and knew its condition. She said, ‘We’ll soon knock it into shape, Mr  Morgan.’ But the task was daunting. Only half of the twenty rooms were fit to let and they were spartan. The others were shut.

Tommy Johnson apologised miserably, ‘I was never allowed the money to pay enough staff or to get the place decorated.’

‘We’re going to change all that. Aren’t we, Mr  Morgan?’ Chrissie glanced at Lance, who nodded glumly. Florence, his wife, had countered all his doubts and objections with happy confidence: ‘Chrissie Carter’s never let you down yet. Didn’t she get you out of that mess with the Halfway House? Well, then, you take her advice. She’s got her head screwed on the right way, that one.’

Now Lance picked up his newspaper and said, ‘Well, I’ll get back and see how Millie is coping.’ He had borrowed to buy the Railway Hotel and still owned the Bells. Although this was not the football season he had kept enough of the trade it stimulated to continue making a fat profit.

He glanced at the headlines and said, ‘Did you see this bit about an Archduke Francis Ferdinand being shot? In some place called Sarajevo.’

Tommy said absently, ‘Never heard of it.’

He and Chrissie were already planning: ‘We’ll need to clean and decorate some of the closed rooms and open them up before we can start on the ones open now.’

Chrissie put in, ‘And we’ve got to start getting some of the passing trade from the station, commercial travellers and so forth. And do’s – wedding receptions and dances  . . .’

Lance Morgan left them to it.

Chrissie contracted with and instructed decorators, renewed furnishings, interviewed additional new staff, cooked, cleaned, served behind the bar and planned, planned, planned until she fell asleep each night. The Railway Hotel was ready for its celebratory re-opening on Saturday 1st August, 1914. Smart new paint, sparkling windows and clean, bright curtains had transformed its face. Inside lay thick carpets on floors polished until they reflected the light from the chandeliers hung from snow white ceilings. Chrissie had said, ‘I think it should look warm and comfortable, make you feel glad just to come in.’

Lance Morgan told her, ‘I want you to be assistant manager. Will you do it?’

The offer took her by surprise. In the whirl of work she had never considered what her position would be. But now? She thought for a moment then said, ‘No, I won’t. But I’ll be manager.’

Lance shook his head. ‘You can’t have a woman manager. Tommy Johnson and the other men won’t stand for it.’

‘Most of the people working here are women. And Tommy won’t mind if he keeps the same money – and if he is the one who is wearing the manager’s jacket and seems to be giving the orders. The other men will follow suit.’ And when he still looked doubtful, Chrissie offered, ‘Do what you did when you first took me on and give me a trial for a month. Please, Mr  Morgan.’

‘I’ve never had cause to regret that.’ Lance hesitated a moment then agreed, ‘Right you are, lass. We’ll see how it goes.’

On that first night Walter Ferguson came to cast a jealous eye over this new rival and was shaken. Talking to Lance Morgan’s face he smiled, offered his congratulations and good wishes but told him, ‘It’s nice but you’ll never make anything out of a place like this. It’s been dead too long.’ But later he told a meeting of his directors, ‘We’re going to have to try a bit harder, gentlemen. We’ve got some competition there that’ll take a lot of our business if we don’t watch it.’

One of them said disbelievingly, ‘Did you say the place has a woman for a manager?’

‘That’s right, sir. The chap who was manager, Tommy Johnson, has stayed on as her assistant at the same salary he had before.’

‘That’s ridiculous! A woman can’t cope with a business like that!’

‘I think she can,’ Walter said wrily. ‘She learnt the trade with us and she’s made a start by taking Mrs  Wilberforce from us.’

The chairman of the board said, ‘The cook? We can replace her.’

Walter shook his head. ‘Not easily. She was a treasure.’

‘But André is the chef—’

‘He’s all show.’ Walter had been against hiring the chef in the first place. ‘Mrs  Wilberforce made the kitchen work while André got the kudos. She knew it. So when Chrissie Carter offered her the job at the Railway – at the same money, mind, so we can’t say she was lured away by that – she grabbed it. Because there she’ll be running the show and getting the credit for it.’

The chairman looked at the others then turned back to Walter and asked, ‘So what do we do?’

The manager told him, ‘We’ll have to try a lot harder, gentlemen, and settle for a smaller share of the market.’

So Chrissie Carter, come from nothing, now knew she was
someone
. One part of her ambition was achieved. Next she wanted a place of her own. She would have to work and wait but she was ready to do both. She was happy.

Then on the Tuesday the powder train of events ignited by the killing of the Archduke Francis Ferdinand exploded into war.

Chapter 19

October 1914

‘Hello, Miss Carter.’

Chrissie was writing behind the reception desk of the Railway Hotel, giving the girl who did the job a few minutes’ break. She looked up to see Jack Ballantyne, tanned and black hair tousled, smiling down at her. Her heart thumped and she felt the blood rising from her throat to touch her face. She found she was smiling in welcome. ‘Why, hello, Mr  Ballantyne. We haven’t seen you in here before, have we?’

‘No. But only because I’ve been in America for the last three months.’ Jack’s eyes left her face and she was glad of that. He looked around the foyer and nodded approvingly.

Chrissie had been shocked and fearful at the outbreak of war. She heard that the Territorial officers had sharpened their swords on the grindstones of the shipyards. She saw them march away with their battalions, to the brassy blare of the bands and the rattle and thump of the drums. She saw the tearful wives, sweethearts and children the soldiers left behind.

But she had her work and the results showed. The hotel had been decorated throughout in light pastel colours and fresh new curtains hung at the windows. Huge mirrors were now set on to the oak-panelled walls, reflecting light and giving a feeling of space. In place of the potted ferns and aspidistras there were vases of flowers. A thick pile carpet covered most of the polished floor and deadened sound.

Jack said, ‘People who wrote to me said how this place had changed.’ And he thought, So has she. He saw that she was no longer in mourning and wore no ring. She was twenty now, poised and darkly attractive. In repose there was a hint of sadness in the turn-down of the corners of the wide mouth. But it was usually curved upwards in a smile, as now.

Chrissie said, ‘And you’ve come to see.’

That was not true; he had not come to inspect the hotel, but he nodded agreement. ‘People also told me this is the best place in town for a meal.’ That was true, due to Chrissie and Mrs  Wilberforce. They worked together on buying stocks and drawing up menus.

Jack finished, ‘I thought I’d have a bite of lunch before I caught the train.’

‘You’re going away again?’ Chrissie’s smile slipped away.

Jack’s grin was sardonic. ‘It was suggested to me in London. My ship docked at Tilbury yesterday morning and I was accosted by a lady on King’s Cross station.’ He fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced a small white feather. ‘She asked why I wasn’t in the Army and when I said I hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to join, she gave me this.’

Chrissie thought,
Oh, the bitch!
The country had been at war for just two months. But already, besides the long casualty lists of the dead and wounded in Flanders, there were shortages of some foods, rumours of atrocities perpetrated by the Germans in Belgium and persecution of anyone with a German-sounding name. And there was this practice. She said, ‘I’ve heard of this going on, women haunting the railway stations and handing white feathers to any young men not in uniform. Take no notice of her or people like her.’ She snatched the feather from him and threw it into the basket under her desk.

Jack laughed. ‘Thank you. You’re quite right and I should have done that and not let it annoy me. In fact, I’m joining the Navy. To be exact, the RNVR, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. That seems more in my line.’

Her first thought was that he might be hurt. She tried to hide her dismay and said lightly, ‘Well, you certainly know about ships.’

Jack grinned. ‘A bit about building them, yes, but they’ll want me to sail the things. I’ll probably wind up with it in the High Street.’

Chrissie laughed and then asked, ‘Do you want a table for two?’ Her eyes searched beyond him, looking for the inevitable girl but not seeing one.

He said, ‘That depends. Will you have lunch with me?’

That silenced her. She stared at him, lost for words for long seconds, then she jerked out, ‘No. Thank you.’

He said, ‘You’re on duty? But I hear you’re the manager. Can’t you find someone to take over?’

‘It’s not because I’m on duty.’ And as he waited, still with a trace of a smile, she said, ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea.’

‘Why not?’ That came out crisply.

‘Please, Mr Ballantyne—’ Chrissie did not want another row.

He corrected her: ‘Jack!’

But she persisted quietly, ‘Mr  Ballantyne, you have your life and I have mine. I think we should stay like that, but we can be friends. Please?’

‘Why, Jack! I didn’t know you were in town!’ The girl appeared at his shoulder. She was tall and slender with wide, china-blue eyes under a mass of blonde hair. She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘You should have called.’

Jack still looked at Chrissie, and eventually answered her: ‘As you wish.’ Then turning to the girl he said, ‘Yes, I should have called. But you’re just in time, Lilian. I’m off to join the Navy this afternoon and about to have lunch first. Will you join me?’

Lilian slid her arm through his and purred, ‘Love to.’ She clung to him, gazing into his eyes as they walked into the dining-room.

Chrissie told herself that she might have expected that reaction from Jack Ballantyne. One girl would do as well as another. She had made the right decision.

Tommy Johnson stopped by Chrissie, on his way to the office they shared. His eyes followed Jack and Lilian and he sniffed disapprovingly. ‘From what I hear that Enderby girl is no better than she should be; a fast piece o’ goods.’

Chrissie questioned: ‘Lilian Enderby?’

Tommy nodded, ‘Aye. Her that’s just gone through wi’ the Ballantyne lad. She’s an only child. Her father has a couple o’ shops in London, but his brother, Bernard Enderby, died not long ago leaving a dozen shops up this part o’ the world. So Lilian’s father left his managers to look after the shops in London and he moved up here to keep an eye on all the rest. That must have been about eight or nine months back, just after Christmas.’