The Captain's Daughter (29 page)

New York, 1920

No one on the block was happy about the new prohibition laws, least of all Salvi and Angelo Bartolini, who’d been stowing away wine for months before the ban came into place. ‘Wine is part of our way of life like whiskey is to the Irish. I just don’t understand,’ Salvi moaned, and Angelo agreed.

‘How do we celebrate baptisms, marriages and wakes without something to liven things up? Who wants tea or fruit juice?’

They knew there were gangs already importing whiskey from Canada, shipping booze across the Great Lakes in secret, hiding rum at the ports disguised in anything that would hold liquor. Now everyone was finding hidy-holes, from hot-water bottles to petrol cans and hip flasks in which to store their booze. The law didn’t forbid the drinking of the stuff, only the selling of it in public, and there would be ways round this.

‘We’ll make it ourselves,’ Orlando suggested. Salvi’s son was never short of bright ideas. He’d bought in blocks of pressed wine pulp that looked like bricks. All they needed was to add sugar and water and let it ferment and they should have themselves some decent wine.

‘Better yet, let’s make ourselves a still, like in the old days, fine grappa on tap,’ added Angelo.

‘Over my dead body!’ Kathleen shouted. ‘I’m not having hooch in my house. The last time my uncle made it, it blew out the windows of the farmhouse and killed a cow.’

But Salvi and Angelo were not to be deterred and they set up all the tubes and glass jars and heat necessary for the job so that it was easy to dismantle if the law came to call, each piece with its own special hiding place.

Orlando suggested they made sure the local cop got his full share, with a few dollars to turn a blind eye. That was happening all over town. The cellar of their fruit store was the perfect place. There were old barrels to be cleaned out, buckets, plenty of space for home brewing.

‘We’ll start simple: fruit skins, pulp, extract the juice and put it through the tubes,’ Angelo ordered. He’d seen his family do it so many times when he was a boy.

Salvi decided he was the front man, knowing nothing about this business. Angelo also added the syrup to the wine blocks and shoved them into the barrels to ferment, hoping the miracle of turning water into wine would work like it did in the Bible.

The results of the grappa experiment were encouraging and Orlando had the big idea of scooping out the insides of water melons and filling them with their brew to sell out, sealing the top with wax so customers could carry out their fruit with a clear conscience. Word went round that the Bartolini watermelons were worth a sample so far and wide that one day a guy in a black fedora marched in and pulled out a gun, threatening Salvi. ‘You pay up or we drop a hint to the cops just what you’re doing. No one sets up without our permission,
capisce?

‘So the mob know about the hooch but not the wine. No one knows about that,’ Angelo murmured, proud of his venture.

‘You don’t go behind the backs of these guys. They have all the protection rackets sewn up round here. How do you think we stay in business? We pay, we stay. We refuse and we are cinders.’

It wasn’t fair but that was the score on the Lower Eastside. No one breathed without the Rizzi gang knowing. They were the ‘family’ connected to even bigger ‘families’.

The Bartolinis were small beer, easily disposed of if they stepped out of line. But it worked two ways. They would be a source of decent liquor supply the real McCoy not watered-down rubbish. Better to pay up and get what was going before some store round the block got their share. Didn’t those folk who were running the country realize that by setting up these stupid laws, they made bootlegged booze into liquid gold for the gangs of New York?

The raid came one evening when they were shutting the store, about to set out on some deliveries. The shop was crawling with blue uniforms searching for bottles while Salvi carefully crated up his melon balls in straw. ‘Please feel free to look around, but don’t bruise my fruit here.’ He winked.

Two officers were pulling apart the cellar, bypassing the tubes hidden with bits of junk in separate sacks looking like innocent items of rubbish waiting for the garbage cart.

‘What’s in the casks?’ smiled one of the cops, knowing he’d found gold.

‘Just fruit vinegar,’ Angelo replied, sensing the game was up. ‘We brew it for the
insalata
dressing.’

‘Sure don’t smell like vinegar to me,’ said the cop. ‘Open it up.’

Angelo’s heart sank. They were caught red-handed so he passed over a tin mug and turned the tap. All his work would be poured down the drain.

The officer sipped the liquid and spat it out. ‘Hell fire, that’s strong stuff. You weren’t having me on. How you folks can stomach such stuff on your tomatoes is beyond me. It’s not fit for humans, but each to his own.’ He threw down the tin and climbed the stairs, leaving Angelo staring down at his failure. What would Salvi say? All this wine now vinegar and fit only for the drain. Still, he reasoned, even Rome wasn’t built in a day.

May sensed she’d slumped to the bottom of the pit and slowly, after that first sighting of Ella through the window, was beginning to climb out of her deep depression. She found her way to the work room each morning, where she was getting the hang of simple threadwork. The drugs trolley still appeared and she opened her mouth like a child, receiving a dose of brimstone and treacle. If she took the pills, maybe it would speed her out of this place. Sometimes, as she fingered the bobbins and focused on the little line of pins and patterns, she found she enjoyed watching her simple lacework grow. Sometimes when she walked around the gardens her feet were not so heavy and fresh air stung her cheeks. She began to feel again, and with the small pleasures came the pain of her losses, that ache in her heart that would never ease. Joe and Ellen were gone, but concern for the child in the window who gave her pictures, who’d made her own way to see her, fuelled her progress. She realized one night that she must have done something right to earn such love, even if she was a false mother.

Colours were coming into focus again, the fresh greens of new leaves and buds, the red brick shining in the sunlight. That cloud of confusion and weariness no longer pressed on her forehead and she knew there was hope, but she must guard her tongue if she was ever to find her way home.

‘Why do you keep saying Ella is not your child?’ Dr Spence asked, searching her face to see if she could give an explanation. It was hard to hold back the truth but she knew enough to know that what she’d done on the lifeboat was a criminal act, and that would mean prison. What happened to her was of no matter, but Ella must not be abandoned now. Better to eat her words, choke back the truth, swallow them no matter what the cost to herself.

‘I look at her and don’t recognize myself in her,’ she answered carefully. ‘I didn’t know what I was saying.’

‘Can you say more?’ Dr Spence persisted, leaning forward.

‘When I see her, I see her father and how he drowned. I see him. I couldn’t keep close enough. It was so cold, the water, ice, the debris . . . We were on the ship on our way to a new life, the three of us. The child and I were rescued. Joe was never found . . . It was so cold.’

There was a silence. ‘Is this true?’

She looked at him. ‘It’s the
Titanic
Relief Fund that’s paying for my treatment here.’

‘You are a
Titanic
survivor? Goodness me, why didn’t you tell us before?’

‘It’s not something to shout about, watching your husband disappear under the water,’ May said, twisting her hanky into a ball in an effort to stay calm. She had the doctor’s full attention now. She wasn’t just poor Mrs Smith, she was a
Titanic
survivor, one of the special ones with a story to tell. Only she wasn’t going to tell the real truth of it all, never.

‘Are you saying Ella reminds you of your lost husband?’

She nodded. ‘He was dark. I think of him and I wish it was him who was saved. He was a good man; he didn’t deserve such a death. That’s a terrible thought, I know. I didn’t want to lose him. I can’t forget what I saw. I didn’t want to go on without him. I wished we were all dead.’

‘But, Mrs Smith, you have survived and made a home and a new life. You should be proud of yourself. But any change under such terrible circumstances is stressful. What you suffered was an extraordinary event. No wonder it’s taken such a toll on your mental strength. Why has it taken months for us to get this out of you?’

‘The child needs me. I’ve been away too long as it is. I need to go home.’

‘I gather you’ve made adequate arrangements for her, so our welfare visitor tells me?’

‘She’s staying with a fellow survivor. We’ve become friends over the years. Her family found me work and now they’ve got Ella until I’m well enough to work again.’

Dr Spence shook his head and smiled. ‘Ah, the formidable Celeste Forester and her father, the canon: two firebrands. They’ve been loyal and very persistent on your behalf but we mustn’t rush things, Mrs Smith. An attack like yours takes years to build up. It won’t disappear in a day or a week, but the fact you want to leave is a good sign. You’ve been very run down and it’s taken a toll on your general health. Your body is undernourished. So you will have to look after yourself and eat well and find new employment if you must, but don’t rush to be too independent. Take any offer of help you can. A survivor of the
Titanic
indeed . . . We’ve not heard mention of that terrible disaster for years, what with the war. I’m so glad you told me. Now we have an underlying cause for your earlier derangement, an explanation for your distress. We must see if a home visit will help you along, if we can entrust you to the care of relatives, or friends, even. Perhaps we can look towards a referral back into the community. You will have to attend a meeting of the panel to assess your suitability for discharge but what you’ve told me will go a long way towards gaining their approval.’

May had thrown him crumbs of truth, but not the whole slice. She would have to stomach this awful secret for the rest of her life. It was the price she must pay for her crime. It might eat her away, given time, but that didn’t matter. She wanted to be with Ella and start again. The child must be given every chance to succeed, and a mother in a mental asylum was not a good recommendation. The sooner she got out of here the better.

When Celeste called again, she found a different woman sitting with her lacework, smiling at her arrival.

‘They’re letting me come home for a visit, just for the day. After all these months, I don’t know how I’ll manage. Is Ella all right, her school work? Oh, Celeste, you’ve been such a friend. I’m sorry I’ve been so bad. What must you think of me?’

Celeste grabbed May’s hand, smiling back. ‘Think of all the letters we shared, the secrets and the kindness you did to me. You’re getting better. I can see it in your face. We all want to see you back home with us. You and Ella can go for lots of walks. Don’t worry, she’s fine. She and Roddy are getting used to each other. Selwyn will bring you out. He’s been very concerned for you. It’s so good to see the light back in your eyes. We’ve so much to catch up on, haven’t we?’

Celeste hopped into Selwyn’s car, stopping to pause by a country lane to admire the view. He’d been trying to teach her to drive but she was better on her own when he couldn’t shout at her if she crashed the gear stick. Now she was getting the hang of the winding roads and making hand signals. Suddenly she felt as if all the different strands of her life were coming together at last.

Ella would be so excited that her mother was coming to stay at Red House until she was stronger. Celeste brought her round to their rooms in Lombard Gardens to pack up their belongings to put into storage. The rooms were to be relet and the owners were anxious to have the place cleared out.

What have I taken on here? she had kept asking herself since her return to Lichfield. A whole new life had evolved, one she could never have planned. Father was still refusing to move. Roddy was in the Choir School. Selwyn needed a woman’s firm hand to keep his hearth and home from disappearing into a fog of smoke and dust, and Ella was so much part of her life now. Celeste insisted that she had extra art lessons at the local art college in Dam Street. A talent like hers needed nurturing. There was hope of a scholarship to the Girls’ High School, too. She hoped May would not find her plans too ambitious.

Sometimes Celeste felt she was like Captain Smith, steering all these makeshift family members through troubled waters – but not into a submerged iceberg, she prayed. Ella had insisted she go to see his statue in Museum Gardens. It was indeed a true likeness.

‘It was he who saved your life,’ she said, and Ella looked at her askance.

‘Your mother and I were in the lifeboat together. That’s where we met, did she not tell you?’

Again, Ella looked puzzled. ‘No, my daddy drowned in a ship going to America. I know about that.’ She skipped off, uninterested in this news.

So Ella didn’t know anything. Celeste knew it was not her place to say more. Why did May have to make such a secret of their rescue? What was wrong in telling the girl how she came to survive such a famous disaster? But who was she to judge? She hadn’t exactly opened up to Roddy either. For her it was all tied up with going back to Akron and Grover.

Roddy had started to ask questions about his father. He’d seized their wedding portrait from her father’s cupboard and pored over it with interest.

‘We ought to let him know that we’re here. You make me tell lies that I’ve got no pa and I have . . . He’s not dead, is he? If you don’t tell, I will, and Uncle Selwyn will give me the address.’ There was a glint of anger and determination she recognized only too well.

She stormed into Selwyn’s garage, all guns blazing. ‘What have you been telling Roddy about Grover?’

‘All this cloak-and-dagger stuff, changing surnames . . . the boy is confused enough. He has a right to know about Grover. I can’t understand why you left a perfectly good billet and dragged him halfway across the world from everything he knows,’ Selwyn snapped.