The Captain's Daughter (46 page)

‘Anthony knows a little place we can go to in the country for our honeymoon. You are pleased for us, aren’t you?’ Ella’s eyes were wide with pleading.

Archie sucked on his pipe, eyeing them both, smiling. ‘When you know, you know. I recall bumping into a little chap on the deck of the
Saxonia
and seeing his mother and thinking, I’m going to marry her one day. It took a little longer than I thought, though.’ Everyone laughed a little too loudly. ‘Congratulations!’

Anthony was a charming young man and devilishly good-looking but Ella could match him in looks and Celeste thought how handsome their children would be. They were so sure of themselves, so caught up in that first flush of passion. She felt afraid as well as anxious. Love like that wouldn’t last unless it evolved and mellowed into a deep contented friendship. Archie was her companion, her solace at the end of the day. She badly wanted that for them too, but war was dangerous work and the heavy losses in Bomber Command were no secret.

Celeste felt a shiver of fear. ‘We’ll have to get going, if you want a wedding trousseau.’

‘I’ll get some extra coupons but we don’t need anything too fancy,’ said Ella, brushing aside the idea of a traditional wedding.

‘I’m not letting you go down the aisle splattered with plaster of Paris. Indulge me, let me help you make the day special. We’ll go into Birmingham together and see what we can find.’

‘It’ll be chilly and a new suit will fit the bill. A Christmas wedding would be so romantic, but it all depends on Anthony’s leave.’

‘She’s right. It’ll have to be a short notice affair, I’m afraid,’ he agreed. ‘I just hope my parents can get down. The trains are so unreliable for civilians these days.’

Somehow Celeste knew these two would make it all happen for themselves one way or another. It was hard to think that there was a war raging when they sat by the fire sipping tea and eating seed cake as if they hadn’t a care in the world. But Celeste knew things had not gone well for the British troops this year, not after Dunkirk. The skies had been won by the RAF but not swept clear of enemy planes enough to stop the terrible night raids on the cities. They had seen the orange firelight over Birmingham and Coventry. How could those two make such promises of hope at such a dangerous time? Their wedding must be a wonderful spark of brightness in a dark, dark world; a defiance against the odds.

Ella deserved true happiness. It’d been a long time coming.

If only Celeste knew the same was happening for Roddy. She’d written to him to let him know the news.

February 1941

We’ve got a whole weekend in the country, Ella sighed, looking at Anthony sleeping so peacefully. It was a glorious February morning, perfect for a honeymoon walk in the woods. She smiled to see the sun creeping up behind the bare trees. How he’d wangled the extra twenty-four hours she’d never know. It gave them until Sunday night before they must part, simply ages.

They’d driven down in Selwyn’s Austin with petrol begged and borrowed, down the leafy lanes of Oxfordshire to a little village called Leafield, where Anthony had borrowed a cottage from a friend of a friend, someone he’d known at school.

The cottage was perfect with its thatched roof and sloping ceilings. Someone in the village had lit a fire and aired the rooms and filled the downstairs with hyacinth bowls to mask any dampness: such a welcome gesture.

‘That’ll be Simon’s mother. She has a place somewhere in the village.’

‘Then we must go and thank her,’ said Ella, sniffing the spring bulbs.

‘Later,’ Anthony smiled. First things first, he said, leading her up the rickety stairs. ‘Let’s go and christen the bed.’

Ella lay back reliving the moment when they had come together without fear of interruption or discomfort, lying together, holding each other, sampling the wonder of making love to each other. Now the bedroom was their sanctuary and she tried not to think about when Anthony would get leave again. There was no holding back the passion felt between them as they explored each other’s bodies, finding new ways to give and receive pleasure. Now sated and sleepy, she recalled every moment of their wedding, squeezed in just before the start of Lent. She’d felt like a princess arriving at the West Door in a pony and trap, wrapped in a white fox fur stole lent to her by the dean’s wife. She’d heard the organ playing their entrance twice before she got down the long aisle to the Lady Chapel. She loved the ‘Trumpet Voluntary’; it was so jolly and British and hopeful. Poor Anthony was standing stiff with nerves in his dress uniform while she grasped Selwyn’s arm to steady her excitement. All the people she loved were present wishing them well. Hazel, as matron of honour, walked behind her in a long burgundy evening gown she’d borrowed from a friend. Ella hoped her mother was there in spirit watching this most special of days.

It was worth it all to see the look on Anthony’s face, so proud, so loving. She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect wedding with a simple reception back at Red House, a crush of uniforms, cigarette smoke, speeches and toasts.

Celeste had insisted she wore her own mother’s wedding dress cut down and reshaped to fit her figure and the Brussels lace veil that went with it. Ella had splashed out on a pretty suit and coat with new shoes to see her through the honeymoon and beyond. Mrs Allen had made her a slip and pants in the prettiest dyed parachute silk the colour of faded tea roses and edged with cream lace. She’d wanted to weep with gratitude at the gifts showered on them at such short notice. There was even a parcel of goodies from Roddy, including a saucepan to replace the ones they had given away for the Spitfire Fund in the first flush of patriotism, earlier in the year.

She’d have to stay on at Red House. The school were too short staffed to lose her just because she wore a wedding ring. Anthony’s parents insisted she go and live with them but it was too far north from his base. She wanted to be as close as possible, and Lichfield was so central.

Every moment together must last an hour, time must be stretched out like elastic. Love in wartime was so unpredictable, so intense. For these precious hours there were no rules, no rationing; they owned the world. Ella shivered at the thought of Anthony’s return to base. They knew the risks but nothing was going to spoil this wonderful honeymoon.

They took a trip into Oxford to gaze at the golden colleges and dreaming spires. They strolled along the Cherwell and ate dinner in an old inn before going to the pictures.

The film showing was
The Lion Has Wings
, with Ralph Richardson and Merle Oberon. It wasn’t the happiest of films with its bombings revealing the reality of Anthony’s life. Ella, finding the film’s storyline much too close to reality for comfort, wanted to rush out into the fresh air. She wished they’d made another choice but Anthony was happy picking holes in the script and its inaccuracies, unaware of her fears. Be brave, she braced herself. Stop wasting time on what you can’t alter.

They took a walk to the Rollright stones, such a magical place to stand and make a wish. They gave her hope, standing weatherbeaten against the elements. This war was just, a fight against tyranny, and she too must do her bit to offer her services where they were most needed. Perhaps she could join up now?

On Sunday afternoon they made their way to a lovely thatched cottage called Pratts to say thank you to Simon’s mother for the welcome. A young girl answered the door and welcomed them in. ‘Mother’s in the garden,’ she said. ‘But do come through.’ Mrs Russell-Cooke, a statuesque woman, was busy pruning in the vegetable plot. She looked up. ‘Ah hah, the lovebirds have left their nest at last.’

Ella blushed, ‘We just wanted to thank you for the cottage.’

‘Simon told us all about you, and Anthony here was always a bit of a hero of his at school. I’m glad you made good use of it,’ she winked. ‘Come inside and have a sherry.’

They were escorted into a drawing room, beautiful artwork adorning the walls. Ella’s eyes roamed over them with interest. ‘What a lovely room,’ she said, pausing at a familiar face framed in silver on the windowledge. ‘I know that face!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s Captain Smith.’

Mrs Russell-Cooke nodded, surprised. ‘Well spotted, young lady. He was my father.’

‘You are Helen Smith? It was you who unveiled his statue in Lichfield?’

‘Yes, but I generally use my middle name, Mel. How strange, you look far too young to have known him.’

‘My mother worshipped him. I only knew his statue, the one by Kathleen Scott. I was just a baby but I was there at the unveiling in Lichfield.’

Mrs Russell-Cooke lifted the picture with a sigh. ‘Yes, frightful business all round. I was too young to know about all the furore but my mother was very upset, as you can imagine. She never got over the slur on his reputation.’

Ella sat down, winded by the coincidence. ‘I can’t believe this. Did you know that your father saved my life? He put me in a lifeboat. I was just a baby. This is so strange. My mother was always convinced he was my rescuer.’

‘Good Lord! I’d heard something like that had happened. There were rumours about a rescue story, but no one ever came forward as an official witness. Perhaps your mother could?’ Mel Russell-Cooke looked up in hope.

Ella shook her head. ‘Sadly she passed away a long time ago, but she was very angry at his treatment. It troubled her greatly that his statue was neglected.’

‘Me too . . .’ Mrs Russell-Cooke paused. ‘I’d have preferred he should be looking out to sea at Blundell Sands near Liverpool, not landlocked in Lichfield, but I’m so glad someone cared for him there.’

‘To meet the captain’s daughter . . . I just can’t believe it.’

‘I think this calls for something stronger than sherry,’ said the hostess. ‘You’ve given me such comfort. What a coincidence, though I don’t believe in coincidences. Perhaps this meeting was meant to be. My twins, Simon and Priscilla, were young when they lost their own father and I lost my mother the same year.’ Ella watched Priscilla standing by the window looking at the photograph with fresh eyes, listening intently to this revelation.

‘My father was always for the sea, but it was such fun when he returned home, laden with presents. Then he left one morning and never came back. Now, with a war on, we parents worry about our children. Mine have been such a gift and a consolation. Tell me more about your mother and the statue. It’s absolutely intriguing.’

Ella didn’t know where to begin. ‘We visited him on the anniversary of the sinking every year. My mother lost her husband on the
Titanic
and returned to England. As for me, I spent so much time around statues and stone, living near the cathedral, that it gave me a love of sculpture. I want to make it my career.’

‘Believe me, dear,’ Mrs Russell-Cooke sighed, ‘by the time this war is over, there’ll be plenty of call for your services. We’ll need monuments and plaques. I’m sorry,’ she apologized. ‘No morbid talk on your honeymoon. I wish you both all the joy in the world. You brave young things. Now I’ve met one of the youngest
Titanic
survivors. I keep meeting up with people from time to time. No one wants to talk much about their experiences of the sinking, and you won’t even recall yours, being only a baby. But I feel you’ve given me a gift. How wonderful, I gave you a roof over your heads and you have repaid me tenfold. Thank you, and please call again. Do keep in touch. In fact, I know many sculptors of note. They may be helpful to you.’

‘Sadly we must be going back tonight,’ Anthony chipped in.

‘If you meet up with Simon, keep an eye out for him,’ said Mrs Russell-Cooke, holding out a firm hand and staring hard at him. ‘He’s the only son I’ve got and he’s so very young.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Anthony replied. ‘Come on, time to go and pack. And thank you again.’

Mother and daughter waved them off down the lane and Ella, still spinning from this unexpected encounter, clung onto Anthony’s arm. ‘I can’t believe I’ve just met Captain Smith’s daughter. How very strange.’

Ella couldn’t get the coincidence out of her mind as they lay in the darkness that night, back at Red House. ‘There’s something else I never told you, darling, about that night on the
Titanic,’
she whispered. ‘I didn’t tell the captain’s daughter the whole story this afternoon.’

‘Hmm . . . Go on, what dark secrets have you been keeping for all these years in the depths of that magnificent bosom of yours?’ he asked.

Where should she begin? It was time to take in a deep breath before she revealed to her new husband what really happened on the lifeboat.

‘After my mother died, Celeste told me . . .’

She repeated everything she’d been told. ‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘I really don’t know who I am . . . Anthony, what do you think?’ She turned, waiting for his response but there was only the steady breathing of a man dead to the world.

December 1941

News of the attack on Pearl Harbor came to Roddy as it did to millions of other Americans on that Sunday afternoon in December. He was listening to a band show on the radio when suddenly a voice interrupted the music: ‘We’re getting reports that our fleet is being attacked by the Japanese. Ships are blazing.’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing and hurriedly tuned to a news station. ‘Planes have been hit on the ground . . .’ He kept switching channels, unable to take on board the full impact of this terrible news. ‘Troops were machine-gunned as they ran for cover . . .’ The images burning in his head were too awful to contemplate. A few minutes ago there was peace. Now there was going to be war.