The Captain's Daughter (44 page)

He’d been spared to see his kids grow up but not to start fighting in wars, not after the last show. How could his own family ever be ‘the enemy’? It was making his head spin as well as his legs ache from standing so long.

He looked at his pocket watch with relief. It would be over soon and there would be something to eat and drink, he prayed. Churches made him nervous, made him think of all the ‘what ifs’ and his mortal soul. Thank God, prohibition was long gone. On a day like this a man needed fortification.

1937

Ella entered the exhibition hall, trying not to shake, trying not to look at the corner where her work was being displayed in case there was no one there. She’d wanted to come alone, to get used to these strange surroundings before Archie and Celeste arrived with their friends to give her support.

If only someone had told her how terrifying it was to exhibit artwork in public. She’d been all over Europe staring at paintings and statues, examining student work as if there was nothing to it. Now she felt the humiliation of her work set up alongside others, ceramics of great delicacy and imagination, figurative metal sculptures, all twisted shapes and angles, and wonderful landscapes and portraits on the walls.

This was a Coronation year exhibition of the work of young Midland artists, a showcase for new talent, and some pieces were for sale. None of them could make a living from it, but to sell a piece, and the chance to be reviewed in the
Birmingham Post
, was a milestone on the path to public recognition.

She’d agonized for hours over what to put into it, borrowing back a bust of a child she’d done for one of the clergymen, a classical study of a hand and a new piece she’d been working on inspired by her recent study of churches in Venice and Florence.

She had been so taken with the Madonna and child images in the Uffizi, especially the
Madonna of the Long Neck
by Parmigianino. She’d photographed the most famous ones and captured pictures of mothers and children at play in the streets.

It was from one of these snapshots on her return that she found her inspiration: a mother sitting open-legged, cradling a sleeping child on her folded skirt. There was something relaxed and yet poignant about how the shape echoed the future pietà of Christ in death in his mother’s arms. She sensed the pride and sadness of motherhood, knowing it was tapping into her own unresolved conflict with the past. Somehow in creating these figures with affection, something new and more vibrant had come out in her work.

Now she was walking round, her hand gripping her wine glass, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to have exposed her work alongside many famous artists. Still two hours to go before they could pack it all away into her borrowed van and disappear back to the comfort of Red House.

It was Selwyn who caught her arm from where she was lurking near the doorway trying to look casual. ‘Well done, I see you’ve sold a piece already.’

‘I have?’ She tried to look unimpressed but he wasn’t fooled.

‘Stop hiding and come and see.’

To Ella’s surprise there was a small crowd admiring her work. ‘Here she is, the blushing wallflower.’ Selwyn dragged her over to meet a tall man.

‘This is Harold Ashley, our Head of Chambers in Temple Row. He’s churchwarden of St James’s and wants this or something like this for their Lady Chapel. I’ll leave you two to talk terms,’ he said, shooting away, leaving her stranded.

‘You take commissions?’ Mr Ashley asked, looking down at the little piece. ‘She’s lovely, tender and full of meaning. We would need one slightly bigger. I want to donate it in memory of my mother.’

‘Thank you,’ she croaked. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

Then she noticed there was a sticker on the sculpted hand too. What was happening? Perhaps she had some talent after all. This called for a celebration. She made for the table and for another glass of wine. Two sales and a commission in one night, wow! Could this mean that her career was taking off at last?

1938

How had it come to this? Celeste mused, trying to absorb all the latest air-raid rules and regulations. Many of Ella’s students were disappearing into the forces and now there was talk of rationing and petrol coupons and restriction to supplies should war come. It was all very worrying. Would her art college close? Would her private clients dry up? How was she going to earn a living?

The billeting officer had already been round to inspect Red House with a view to placing evacuees or air force officers with them. The thought of having to share the family home with strangers was another disturbance. War. No one could talk about anything else. Lichfield had always been a military hub with its barracks and now a new airfield being built behind them at Fradley. The city was right in the middle of the great crossroads of the A38 and the A5, with convoys and equipment passing through at all hours. How could they have come to war again?

Archie knew teachers and students who were caught up in the Spanish Civil War, dying of wounds; all that talent coming to nothing in that terrible maelstrom. How many more young men would give their lives before this madness ended?

Suddenly old soldiers were digging out their uniforms. Selwyn signed up with the Territorials and Archie with the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, on standby to cover for regular soldiers. Their peaceful world was about to be turned upside down. All the women would be expected to make a contribution. Ella would have to enlist or find another way to serve, something that kept her in touch with her beloved career. It would be a pity for all her good work to dwindle into nothing.

They were taking the ancient stained-glass windows out of the cathedral. Artwork was disappearing from museums and galleries, parks and gardens being dug up for vegetable cultivation. It felt as if the whole country was going on hold and no one knew for how long.

Celeste heard the drone of aeroplanes circling over the city and shuddered at the thought of enemy aircraft destroying this beautiful place. It just couldn’t be happening all over again, not within memory of the slaughter of the last war.

They were now living in one of the school cottages close to Stafford, where Archie was teaching classics. It was good to be alone, free from responsibility, and yet Ella had been such a presence in Celeste’s life. They’d steered Ella through those hard stormy years after Celeste had revealed the truth about her parentage.

It had haunted them, becoming an obsession for a while, searching for facts about
Titanic
passengers as if finding her parents was their duty. Ella thought otherwise, calmly refusing to follow up any of their leads. Archie had read everything he could about the disaster, especially Lawrence Beesley’s account, and they watched a dreadful film in the Palladium Picture house, which Celeste had had to leave when it came to the sinking. There
must
be other documents. She almost asked the
Titanic
Relief Fund but that would mean revealing May’s deception, branding them both as fraudsters. She couldn’t risk such scrutiny.

Selwyn advised her to leave well alone. ‘It’s up to Ella to sort this out when she’s ready.’ All there was to prove her identity was the little suitcase in which her baby clothes were pressed flat, a hand-stitched nightdress with the lace border upon it and the one shoe with its leather sole and upper made of lace over cotton. Celeste often fingered them as if one day they would reveal some hidden message to her. They were simple garments that could have come from anywhere in Europe and yet the lace border was so delicate and intricate. Whose hands had created them? Celeste closed the suitcase with a sigh, putting it back in the airing cupboard.

If only Ella could find some distractions other than work. She’d been bridesmaid to Hazel, who was now expecting a baby. Her husband had been stationed abroad. Hazel was her one true friend. If only she mixed with the young fry of Lichfield society. Her only follower was the faithful mongrel they’d rescued when she was found by the kerb, run over on the busy Burton Road, and that Ella had nursed back to health. Poppy gave Ella such companionship, guarding the studio door as she worked. Ella was totally wrapped up in her work and sometimes when Celeste called to chat, it was as if she was yet another interference.

There was one place where they both still gathered and that was in front of May’s favourite statue. Poor Captain Smith stood hidden from view behind a screen of shrubs and overgrown greenery in Museum Gardens. No one had followed up her request to the Council for it to be cleaned up. They made it a pact every year on 15 April to go to his statue and place flowers on the plinth. It was a habit that was ingrained from Ella’s childhood with May.

‘Did he really pluck me out of the sea, or is that another lie?’ she had once asked Celeste.

‘I’m sure he did, though I didn’t actually witness it.’ How could she not answer truthfully, especially now that most of that night’s events were a blur.

The captain’s reputation had suffered over the years and he was at best forgotten, at worst reviled, blamed for the accident. Celeste often wondered about his own family and the daughter who’d had to unveil the statue all those years ago. How had her life turned out under such a cloud?

If war did its worst, damaging buildings and churches, there would be plenty of need for carvers and stonemasons and craftsmen to repair the stone. Perhaps Ella should offer her services there, use her own skills to mend what was broken.

There you go again, planning her life for her, just like a mother, Celeste thought. She’s a big girl now, independent of all of us. Let her make her own way. Don’t interfere. You’ve done your duty by May. Let it rest.

But how could anyone not worry for the youngsters with war on the horizon? At least Roddy was safely out of all of this in America.

October 1940

One morning in October Ella was chasing Poppy across the fields at the back of Red House when she heard the whirring of a small aeroplane coming in low with a cough and splutter. She watched it circling, aiming for the barely finished runway at Fradley, but it was losing height and clearly never going to make it.

‘Poppy!’ she shouted, ordering the dog back, but the mutt carried on blindly, scared by the noise.

Ella watched in horror as the plane prepared to land in an open field, sinking desperately and then skidding along in the wheat stubble, spinning before tipping on its side. With no time to think she raced across the field to help rescue the crew – that’s if they had survived the terrible crash landing. There was smoke coming out of the fuselage and two men scrambled out, then dragged out a third out of the cockpit.

‘Are you all right?’ Ella shouted.

‘Get out of the bloody way, it might go up,’ yelled a voice from behind a leather helmet and goggles. They dragged her back away from the crash.

‘You can use my telephone,’ she offered, but they were still ignoring her.

‘What did I just tell you? Get back! If this kite goes up we’ll be toast,’ yelled the man staring at her. ‘Go on, shoo. Thanks for the offer, but we can hike back to the base over there.’

‘Not with an injured man, you can’t,’ she snapped, looking at the navigator lying cut and dazed on the ground. It was her turn to give orders. ‘I’ll get Selwyn to give you a lift.’

‘We’ve signalled ahead. They know where we are. The ambulance’ll be here in jiffy thanks, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Miss
Smith,’ she replied tartly. ‘You were lucky to find flat ground and miss the canal.’ She called out to Poppy but she didn’t respond. ‘Poppy! I’ll have to go and find her. She’s probably terrified.’

‘Sorry for shouting,’ the pilot replied. ‘We’ll help you. It’s the least we can do. Where are we exactly?’ He looked around, still in a daze.

‘You’re outside Lichfield,’ she said, pointing to Fradley Airbase.

‘Hell’s bells, bit out of our way then. Engine cut out.’

You were lucky . . . Poppy!’ she yelled.

‘No,’ the other uninjured crewman smiled. ‘Just another skilful manoeuvre from Tony here. Glad we found you, our rescuing angel!’

‘I’m Miss Smith,’ she repeated, distracted by no sign of the dog. ‘Poppy, heel! Where are you?’

They found her minutes later, lying in the hedgerow, shaking, a piece of metal stuck in her leg. ‘Oh, she’s bleeding,’ Ella cried as the pilot whipped off his silk scarf and fashioned a tourniquet around the leg.

‘This is a job for the veterinary. I’m awfully sorry’ He picked the dog up, but then began to wobble himself. ‘A bit shook up, head spinning like a bottle.’ He promptly sat down and Ella lifted her dog from him gently. ‘Don’t move until the ambulance comes. I’ll see to Poppy. She’ll be fine.’ She could already hear the bell of the vehicle as it raced up the farm track towards the stricken plane.

‘What’s up with Skipper?’ said the second crewman.

‘A bang on the head, I think,’ Ella offered as they eyed her with interest.

‘That guy’s nuts enough without this. Trouble’s brewing, we’re off course, we’ve pranged a kite and we’re out of leave. Trust Tony to lead us up the Swanee. How’s your pooch?’

‘Only a bit of metal, I hope. Must dash. Better luck next time,’ she said, turning for home but pausing for one last glance at the scene.

‘How’ll he talk us out of this?’ grumbled the navigator.

‘If anyone can do it, Skipper will. He’s a habit of landing on his feet and I’m not talking about the prang.’ The man winked at her.

Ella rushed back, relieved that no one had been seriously injured. Now the most important thing was Poppy. She’d borrow the Austin and get her seen to in Lichfield.

Later, when she returned, there was a beautiful bunch of flowers in a vase in the hall.

‘Some air force chappie left these for Poppy and a message for you somewhere in the middle of them,’ Selwyn laughed. ‘Watch out, I think you made a conquest.’

‘Hardly. What did he look like?’ She was curious though. Which one was it and how had he had managed to produce such lovely flowers when there was a war on?

The pilot arrived hours later, parking a little Morris tourer in the driveway. ‘Pilot Officer Harcourt reporting for duty with a jalopy, only borrowed, I’m afraid,’ he said, standing in the doorway with a grin a mile wide. Selwyn ushered him inside. ‘How’s the poor dog?’