The Captain's Daughter (36 page)

Her words made May feel so guilty. Here she was with a child who wasn’t hers while poor Celeste was robbed of her true son. What a strange reversal of fortunes.

Their arguments wore down her resistance like a pumice stone on hard skin until Ella threw her uniform into the laundry basket for the last time and was kitted out in a serviceable dress, which lasted all of a day before she demanded to make a smock and wear old Land Army dungarees.

It was a lovely autumn afternoon a week after Celeste set sail for New York with her charge when May cycled into the city with her new shorter skirt on show. Selwyn was in Birmingham and she’d got time on her hands for a change. The bicycle gave her a sense of freedom to enjoy the fresh air. She’d packed her basket full of shopping, and headed back with the wind behind her, making her feel as though she was flying. It was a good feeling to be free. She was going to make a Lancashire hotpot for supper. As she considered whether she had enough potatoes for the topping, she took her eye off the road for a second too long, hit a stone and fell with a clatter, scraping the back of her leg on the kerb. Passers-by rushed to help her off the road. She sat shocked for a few moments, feeling foolish. The gash wasn’t too bad, the skin bloodied and full of grit, so she patted the wound with hanky, remounted and pedalled home for a welcome cup of tea.

Akron

‘I’ve had a letter from your mother, Roderick. She’s on some visit to Boston and intends to visit with us. We must make preparations.’ Grandma Harriet waved the letter in his face, unaware he knew already that his mother was coming. She’d sent a wire to the house and his father had not been in a good mood, stomping about. ‘I told that woman she’s not welcome here.’

‘But she has to see the boy. It’s only fair,’ Grandma had argued later, but his pa had fobbed her off as if he were squatting a fly from his lapel.

‘She’s not coming to this house. What will people think?’ ‘She can stay in the hotel downtown. She’ll want to spend as much time as she can with Roderick. It’s not you she’s coming to see,’ Harriet snapped back, which was something for Gran, who usually crept around his father, sensing his bad moods and keeping out of his way.

‘Did you know about this, boy?’ Grover turned to Roddy, his eyes boring into his own. ‘Is this all your doing?’

Roddy shook his head. ‘But I would like to see her, sir.’

He could see his father weakening at his polite request. ‘If you must, but don’t go overboard with the welcome mat. I don’t trust her motives. I don’t want to see her. She stays in Mother’s wing, and I don’t want her to set foot anywhere else inside this house. I don’t want Louella being upset.’

‘Then you should divorce your wife and marry the girl. She’s always hanging around here,’ Harriet said.

‘Hold your tongue, you old gossip. Divorce means courts, publicity and costs. Things will remain as they are for now. It looks better.’

Roddy stared at this man with despair. Once upon a time, he’d wanted desperately to be like him. So wanted to be his son. But not now he was beginning to realize just what sort of man he was. Nothing Roddy did was ever good enough in his eyes. How could he talk to his mother like that? He hoped he’d never answered his mother the way Grover grunted at Granny Harriet. He sensed that he was a disappointment to his father; his grades were average, his sporting prowess good enough but not spectacular. His father never praised his achievements or good reports; in fact, he never praised anyone. It was a shock to Roddy to realize that he didn’t like this man much at all. He was mean and hard to the servants, bullied the dogs, and Louella too when he drank too much.

It was best to keep a low profile when that mood was on him. True, he worked hard and times were tough for the Diamond Rubber Company. They were battling with competitors in the town. There were boardroom arguments; he’d overheard heated debates on the telephone and the thought of having to join that shark pool one day was not appealing. But it was what his father expected him to do. And so he’d have no choice but to do it.

Roddy craved the outdoor life. Increasingly his tracking and hiking was a release and enabled him to escape from the cold atmosphere at home. What would his mother think of him? Did she forgive him for leaving her? The young boy who’d set sail on the
Olympic
seemed so far from who he was now. That silly schoolboy who wanted to be the apple of his father’s eye was long gone. He sensed one of these days he was going to have to stand up for himself. But Grover was a big man with big fists. Roddy had already received a cuff round the ear once or twice when he’d stepped out of line.

It was after that last beating he’d discovered what was missing here, something that he’d taken for granted at Red House. It was love, tolerance and a feeling of safety. It was the difference between a house and a home. Selwyn, with his courage and quiet ways; Archie McAdam, with his interest in education – these men had compassion. His mother loved him simply for who he was, not for what he might become.

His father didn’t love anyone but himself and Roddy wasn’t sure he even knew what love really was. He showered Louella with brooches and bracelets and took her to fancy restaurants, but that wasn’t love either. It was about possessing something beautiful.

All he hoped for now was that in returning with his father to the States, he hadn’t sacrificed his mother’s love and compassion. She had once said that love was like an ever-flowing cup that refilled itself over and over again and never ran dry. He hoped that was true. This visit would prove it one way or the other.

The wound on May’s leg just wouldn’t heal. It itched like mad and she kept scratching it open. She tried the old bread poultice treatment to draw out the infection and then smeared it with goose grease to seal it but it grew hot and swollen, making her leg stiff. She tried to ignore it but when Selwyn saw her limping he insisted on driving her to Dr Howman’s surgery. The doctor took one look and said he didn’t like the look of it.

‘How long has it been swollen and fiery?’

‘Two or three weeks, I think,’ she replied.

‘Doesn’t it itch like blazes?’ He gently pressed it, feeling the heat of it.

‘A bit,’ May confessed. ‘I shouldn’t have kept scratching at it, should I?’

‘No, you shouldn’t. You must be a saint to put up with that for so long. I want you in the hospital. Now. We need to get that infection down.’

‘But it’s only a scratch,’ she protested.

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mrs Smith. It’s creeping up your leg. You should have come sooner. I’ll give you a letter to take with you. The sooner you get down to Sandford Street clinic, the sooner we can start treatment.’

May was bemused by all the fuss. Yes, she did feel a bit feverish but not enough to justify a hospital bed.

There was so much to do with Celeste away. Selwyn and Ella would have to fend for themselves. The injury to her leg was such a nuisance but it wasn’t getting better of its own accord, she acknowledged. Perhaps it would be better to rest it. Perhaps there was still a little bit of grit in it. Now it looked like a great purple spider spreading out in all directions up her thigh and all because she’d fallen off her bike. She didn’t understand how such a graze on her skin could make her feel so ill. The doctor was right, she should have gone to him earlier before it went septic, but once she was in the clinic they would soon sort it out so she could get on with her life again.

October 1926

Ella loved college. Every day was new and exciting, different from anything that she had experienced before. There were lessons in observing the shape and form of objects. They spent hours in sculpture class looking and thinking and trying to put what they saw down on paper. There was a chance to work with traditional implements, learning how to transfer ideas onto a block of stone, seeking out the shape within the stone.

She’d even attempted to sculpt a head from clay, making drawings from one of her classmates, looking at how each head was unique. But most of all there was the amazing work of other artists, teachers who were famous in their own right, whose work adorned the walls and distracted her from the worry of her mother in hospital.

She rushed back on the bus for visiting hours and found Uncle Selwyn standing outside the ward, looking worried. ‘Your mother’s got a fever and they’re trying to get it down. She’s rambling a bit. But don’t look so worried, I’m sure it’ll be over soon, once the fever breaks. They’ve put her in her own room off the corridor.’

Her lovely day suddenly fizzled away to be replaced with a sinking fear. Mum had been in hospital for a week and it seemed things were deteriorating rather than improving. ‘Can I go in and see her?’

‘She may not know you; fever befuddles the brain,’ he warned.

Even so, Ella wasn’t prepared for the change in May. She seemed to have swollen up more. The nurse smiled, ushering her to the bedside. ‘Your mother’s sleeping. We’re keeping her cool.’

‘Is she going to get better?’

‘She’s very poorly. The infection has got hold of her system, I’m afraid, but we’re doing all we can to hold it at bay. You’ll have to be a brave girl.’

Hearing voices her mother looked up with glazed, bleary eyes, staring at Ella as if she wasn’t quite sure who she was.

‘It’s me. Mum, I’m here.’

May shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t be here, I’m not fit for company. Go home. Your tea’s on the table and tell Celeste I want to see her. This isn’t getting any better so tell Joe too. I want to see Joe . . . Where are Joe and Ellen?’

‘It’s the fever,’ said the nurse, mopping May’s brow.

‘Uncle Selwyn did warn me,’ Ella nodded, trying to be brave and stop herself from shivering. The words brought back memories of that day at the seaside all those years ago when Mum had had that episode and ended up in St Matthew’s, but somehow this was worse. ‘She will get better, won’t she?’ she asked again.

‘We’re doing everything we can. With God’s help . . .’

Soon her mother fell asleep again and Ella crept out, but when she saw Selwyn she burst into tears. ‘Who’s Ellen?’ she snivelled, hurt that May hadn’t once asked for her. ‘Mum asked for Joe and Ellen.’

‘You are Ellen,’ he said.

‘But I’m Ella.’

‘It’s short for Ellen, didn’t you know that?’

‘She’s never called me Ellen before. Is that really my name?’ The name took her aback for a second. It was as if he was talking about another person.

‘Don’t ask me. It’ll be on your birth certificate. I told you she’s not really with us.’

‘Is she going to die?’ she asked, desperately hoping he’d reassure her.

There was a long pause and Selwyn gave her a kind look. ‘The infection is in her bloodstream, and that’s not a good thing. I saw it in the war in some of my men. But there is always hope. Her body can fight it off if it is strong enough. And your mother is nothing if not a strong woman.’ That was not the answer she’d hoped for but Ella couldn’t take in any more bad news. ‘When is Celeste coming back? I wish she was here. Why did she have to go away now, why can’t she come back?’

‘I’ve sent her a wire. I’m sure she’ll be back as soon as she can.’

How could Selwyn be so calm? Did he not care? Ella felt as if her whole world was falling apart, a million miles away from the grown-up she’d felt earlier. If Mum wasn’t here, who would look after her?

New York

Angelo was finding it hard to breathe in their apartment. There was a fight going on next door; screams and shouts were coming from the open windows but not a breath of air. Patti had the wind-up gramophone at full volume and was trying to do her tap routine. She was in Mandelo’s Tiny Troopers, dancing and singing wherever they could, showing off their frilly costumes that Kath sewed using remnants from the garment stores.

Jack was cheeking his mom again but Angelo hadn’t the energy to cuff him. He was turning into a tough street boy and had fallen in with a gang of hoodlums who hung around the alleyways. Who knew what he got up to out of their sight? He feared the
Padrones
, who funded the secret speakeasies that littered the city, were ruthless in getting boys touting for business in exchange for dimes and nickels.

Angelo coughed again. He’d been ill for weeks, exhausted even by climbing the stairs. It was the same old problem and everyone knew about the weakness he tried to hide. Across the room Frankie was trying to study for his entrance exam with Patti’s racket going on around his head. Angelo looked to the portrait of the Madonna for comfort. How could he sort them all out, cut Jacko down to size and shut Patti up? Now Kathleen had to go out to work in an Irish linen store and he was left to rein in these holy terrors.

He couldn’t shift the nagging fear that his time was running out. He, who’d never darkened the door of the church for years, had started making his confessions to old Father Bernardo once more. The doctor said he’d suffered dust on his lungs from too much smoke and bad air, and the weakness from the flu would take him early to his grave unless he got some fresh air and proper rest.

Kathleen had been distraught, wanting them to go and live in the country; easier said than done. Now all the energy had gone out of her, and Jacko was taking advantage by skipping school to roam with his gang.

Frankie had offered to leave school and work in Uncle Salvi’s store but Kath wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We came to this country for a better life, maybe not for ourselves but for our children. You won’t be leaving school, Frankie, not when the Fathers of the Blessed Sacrament are so pleased with you. They say there will be a place for you at junior seminary. We’ll survive. Jack will settle down and make us proud, and little Patti will have her name in lights on Broadway one day, so she tells me.’ She smiled, eager to hide her fears from her beloved son.

Angelo had never felt so helpless. If only he could get some strength back to be a proper husband and father instead of watching life carry on without him. It was bad enough that Frankie’s head was stuffed with Latin and Greek, with math and the liturgy. He loved music, too, chanting in the choir stalls, plainsong, carols, organ music. Frankie’d never wavered from his calling, even from his First Communion, no matter how many times Angelo had sneered at him. It was a never-ending argument with Kath and for once she was getting her way.