The Captain's Daughter (35 page)

He always sensed her distress, gently touching her hand for reassurance. He’d lost his wife and had known terrible suffering in the Great War. He was her ‘Rock of Ages’, as the hymn went. Yet there was no future for them, not unless Grover released her or she tried to petition for divorce herself. She couldn’t risk losing contact with her son; her own happiness depended on that. One day he’d come back to her. One day this nightmare would be over.

Until then she’d go on helping other families whose children were in transit. No child would ever go missing on her watch. What she couldn’t do for Roddy she would do for her young clients. Besides, there was always the hope that one day Miss Fort would be looking for someone to escort a client over the ocean to the United States. That would be her chance, but until then she was making the best of what was on offer.

Ella loved watching the stonemasons at work. In Quonians Yard the Bridgeman & Sons restored masonry and carvings, and re-created broken tracery for the roofs of churches and cathedrals. They’d restored the front of the cathedral, with its fine statues and carvings. She sensed the skill and craftsmanship of generations coming from that workshop as she examined the beauty of the pieces standing in the yard waiting to be packed and shipped across the country and abroad.

Sometimes she would dawdle with her shopping just to catch glimpses of how they dressed the stone, how they prepared it using ancient tools. She longed to be able to do something so physical herself.

The girls at the High School teased her about her collection of photographs in her scrapbooks, pictures she’d cut out of posters, magazines and newspapers. Now she had a little Brownie box camera she could take pictures of anything that took her fancy. She’d visited the churches in town, bought postcards from Birmingham Art Gallery where she was studying women in the art world, including the Victorian stonemason who’d helped carve the statues in the front of the cathedral west wall. She’d written about Kathleen Scott and Captain Smith’s statue until Hazel got sick of standing in front of it.

Hazel was still her best friend. They’d gone up to the High School together, although Hazel was into science and biology and couldn’t see the point of art. She stared at Ella, eyeing her figure. ‘You’ll get arms like a boxer doing sculpture,’ she warned.

‘I don’t care,’ Ella said. She’d become a sculptor if it was the last thing she did. First, though, she must find out about the great masters, learn about artists of the past and how they worked, as well as the new ones who sometimes exhibited in the art galleries. There were anatomy lessons to master, reading skulls and musculature. It was all a big mystery but one that filled her with increasing excitement. Would she ever make it to Rome or Florence, or Paris to see Rodin’s work?

Ella was impatient to be out of school and into the real world, where people lived their art and had the freedom to experiment. Her own feeble efforts in the shed at the bottom of the garden were stupid, inferior models of faces that she wanted to smash up in frustration. But materials were expensive and her mother hated waste.

She loved faces: the power and the magic of worn faces, cheekbones, crooked noses – all those distinctive features that changed a face from plain to majestic. She marvelled at how a lump of plaster could be turned into something that would last for ever.

She loved paintings too, but it was the portraits of faces that she loved the most. She asked for a skull for her birthday but had to make do with a sheep’s one. It was important to feel the bones and the shapes inside a head, to build from the inside out.

It was scary how desperate she was to have the chance to study art and make things for herself. Would she have the physical strength to help cast bronzes and bigger pieces? She was wiry and slender but not very tall, and probably more suited to be a dancer than a sculptor or a stone carver.

More than anything she wanted to leave school and go to art college, but her mother was having none of it.

‘You must stay on and get your certificates after all the fees and education you’ve gone through. You must have a good profession behind you in case we fall on hard times . . . a schoolteacher, a secretary or comptometeress working an adding machine.’

‘But I don’t want to work in an office.’

‘Well, maybe a nurse then . . .’

‘I don’t want to be a nurse. I’d kill all the patients.’

‘Don’t be funny with me. You’ll do as you’re told, my lady. There’s been enough people in this house who never knew when they were well off,’ Mum sniffed, looking at the portrait on the mantelpiece.

Roddy was never mentioned by name. He was the silent ghost in the corner of the room ever present but never spoken of. He’d been disobedient and broken his mother’s heart. The warning was implicit: she must not do the same to hers.

Mum and Uncle Selwyn ruled Red House now, an odd alliance, if ever there was one. Aunt Celeste was always off on one of her trips, leaving them bickering or sitting down for supper like an old married couple. Uncle Selwyn had come out of his shell a bit but he still liked to do his soldering in the barn. It had been on one such occasion that Ella had had the bright idea of making pictures out of odd bits of metal. If only she could solder metal into shapes.

Selwyn had said no at first when she asked him to show her how to do it but finally, after a lot of pestering, she persuaded him to show her the basics. He’d insisted she watched from behind a protective visor, standing well back as the sparks flew. It was hot, gruelling work, but good practice for working molten metal into moulds if she ever wanted to do proper busts or larger work.

Then her mother had come in with a mug of tea and seen them both working and flown into a rage with him. He’d sworn at her for interrupting.

‘For God’s sake, woman, can’t you see the kid’s got spark and imagination? She’s got some big ideas. What’s a few burns on her hands . . . ? Let her learn anything worth making costs blood, sweat and tears. Don’t be stupid and limit her dreams.’

‘Don’t you call me stupid, Selwyn Forester! I know she’s got brains and beauty and talent for the two of us put together. You’ve no right putting her in danger. That’s not a girl’s work.’

‘It was in the war, or have you forgotten the steel makers and munition workers we all depended on then?’

Ella left them slugging it out in the garage. She hated it when they argued over her. Roddy would have marched her up the garden to cool off and made her laugh. She missed him.

Storming off to her shed she found her last piece of clean paper and drew from the white-hot heat of fury a picture that was in her mind: Selwyn’s broken face bent over the soldering iron, her face aglow watching from behind the shield. In her mind’s eye she saw a strange shape emerging. Two figures with arms raised in despair while the third squashed in the middle of them was forcing them apart. Her hand flew over the paper until she was spent.

If she was going to college they would want to see her work. She had to start somewhere, so what was wrong with right now?

Ella felt her head was bursting with ideas and, at the same time, her body was changing too, filling out, softening and curving. As part of the crocodile of High School girls marching along the pavements each morning, Ella passed boys on their bikes on their way to King Edward’s Grammar School, who winked and whistled at her. She blushed, knowing they were admiring her shape, and her black hair woven into a plait to prevent it from springing into curls.

Hazel would stare back at them and giggle. ‘He likes you.’

‘Stop it,’ Ella snapped, trying not to look pleased, though Lichfield schoolboys were so ordinary, all legs and pimples with sticking-up hair, not a bit like Michelangelo’s beautiful creatures or Burne-Jones’s portraits of the Knights of the Round Table. She stuck her nose in the air, pretending not to notice their whistling.

‘You only make them worse,’ Hazel moaned, nudging her. ‘I wish Ben Garratt looked at me like he looks at you.’

‘I haven’t time for complications in my life. I’m going to be an artist. We must pour our feelings into our work not waste them on spotty sixth formers,’ she sneered.

‘Listen to you, Ella Smith! From what I’ve read, artists have very complicated love lives. Look at that Miss Garman, the one who gave us that talk. My mum says she lives with a married man in London now, a right scandal.’ Hazel looked so funny when she was trying to be sniffy, Ella thought; her nose twitched like a rabbit’s.

‘Oh, you mean Jacob Epstein, the sculptor, her lover.’

‘And she’s had his baby . . .’

‘So? Artists do things differently.’

‘I think his portraits are so weird and ugly. You don’t want to be like him, do you?’ Hazel looked shocked.

‘I don’t know what my style will be,’ Ella confessed.

‘You’ll have to watch saying things like that or you’ll have Miss Hodge on your tail.’

‘No fear, my mum would skin me alive if she heard us now,’ Ella laughed. ‘I want to start my career now, not be stuck at these boring books.’

‘You can never have too much education, my stepdad says.’ Hazel’s mother had just married George, the soldier.

‘But learning to be an artist is an education too. I want to do it all the time, not just for two periods a week.’

‘Then go to art college. Cynthia’s brother goes there,’ she sighed. ‘He’s so good looking.’

‘Where? I can’t leave home.’ Hazel was voicing one of Ella’s own thoughts.

‘There’s Walsall, Birmingham, loads of places. You could go by train.’

‘But college costs money and things have always been a bit tight at home, though it’s easier now we live at Red House. I suppose there’s the ship money.’

‘What ship money?’ Hazel asked, intrigued.

‘The cheque from the Welfare for my dad. I saw it once and it has a ship in the corner. I would ask Mum but I don’t like reminding her about my dad. I was only a baby and we don’t talk about it at home. Mum gets upset. It was ages ago, and what with the war and everything . . . You don’t get anything for your dad, do you?’

‘There was a widow’s pension, an allowance, but I think it stopped when Mum married George. I’d miss you if you left.’ Hazel grabbed her arm as though to stop her from going.

‘Oh, we’ll always be friends. We can catch up at weekends. I’m not sure I’d be allowed to leave school, though. The Welfare lady will have to know. She keeps her eye on our affairs, checking whether we are still entitled. But you’ve given me an idea.’

‘Oh, I’m not doing it for you,’ Hazel grinned. ‘If you leave Lichfield, then it leaves the pitch clear for me to work on Ben Garratt. Like I said before, it’s never too soon to get an education.’

Celeste was pacing the floor with excitement. ‘I’ve got an assignment . . .you’ll never guess where . . . There’s a family in Boston with a young girl who’s been staying in Birmingham with some relations of the Cadbury family. She’s homesick and she’s returning home but the Elias family want her to be chaperoned. They want someone who’s travelled to America before to escort her. Can you believe it? I can get across to the States for free! Who’s to stop me seeing Roddy now? I can easily get a train from Boston to Cleveland. When Miss Fort told them I was a
Titanic
survivor and more than up to this task, it was all settled. They’re very protective of Miss Elias . . . Phoebe . . . I love her already. I’m going to write to Harriet Parkes and demand to see my son.’

‘Better to ask her nicely don’t you think?’ May offered, concerned. She knew how much Celeste missed Roddy and was worried that her friend’s hopes would be cruelly dashed. From what she’d seen of Grover, he wasn’t someone who would acquiesce to this request lightly.

‘You’re right, of course. Softly, softly, catchee monkey Celeste laughed, already looking brighter than she’d done for months. ‘The Elias family will pay my return fare and I’ve got some of Father’s money left . . .’

‘You’re not expecting to return with Roddy?’ This was the big question no one dared ask but May felt she must.

Celeste shook her head. ‘I’ve resigned myself to losing him until he’s old enough to choose for himself. But to see him after all these years . . . I just can’t wait. And who knows . . .’

There was a spring in her step as she flew out of the room, leaving May shaking her head. Life in Red House seemed to be full of comings and goings these days.

She’d been rattled by Ella pestering and fussing about going to college, a summons to the school for an explanation as to why she was being withdrawn, getting approval for her grant. Now Ella was going on the bus to Walsall College of Art without a backward glance at the opportunities lost at the High School for Girls.

Miss Hodge had tried to persuade Ella to stay on, but when the minx got that flash of hard coal in her eye there was no gainsaying her. May had given in, knowing if all else failed at least Ella could resort to teaching art in a good school. Part of her was proud that her portfolio had been deemed good enough. How could she refuse Ella anything?

It was funny, not having her tearing home from school all legs and cardigans, flinging off her hat with relief, kicking off her school ‘coal barges’ and racing up the stairs two at a time. Red House was quiet now, too quiet until Ella returned home, usually late and covered in plaster of Paris or paint, her face all aglow. May sighed. It was all Selwyn’s doing.

One morning, he’d shoved Ella’s drawings under her face as she ate breakfast. ‘These are damn good for a girl of her age. She’s got original ideas and a style of her own. You can’t teach this stuff. It’s innate. Her talent shouldn’t be left to rot under the weight of academia.’

He’d talk such big words, losing her at times, but there was no getting away from Ella’s gift, one May knew didn’t come from her family. ‘She deserves a chance, don’t you think?’

Selwyn knew how to wheedle round her, to soften her frustrations. Celeste had taken his side too.

‘I just wish I knew what Roddy’s talents are now. Judging by his letters, all he seems to do is play football and go for hikes. You must write to the Welfare and ask for a grant. It’s her due . . .’