‘Damnation, there are times when I wish Frisco wasn’t such a hilly town. Where can it be? Have we lost it?’
Maura was peeping down back alleys, growing
increasingly agitated. ‘If we don’t find her soon she might be taken to the Barbary Coast and sold off as a white slave.’
‘Thank you for those few words of comfort, Maura.’ We both jumped as a muffled explosion sounded in the distance. ‘Was that fireworks? Are we near Chinatown?’
The Irish girl started to shake. ‘It could be gunshots. We’re almost at the wharves. Oh my, someone could shoot her!’
I cast Maura an anguished look. ‘That’s what Papa will do to us if we don’t find Prudence. Come on,’ and I set off at a trot again, soon breaking into a run, but sometimes obliged to walk a little to ease the growing stitch in my side. I felt hot and exhausted, had lost my hat and parasol some time back, and was having to bully the little maid to keep up with my much longer legs.
We were now approaching the dense area of warehouses, dives, beer halls and saloons that comprised the seamier side of San Francisco, all permeated by the rank odour of mud and filth and human excrement mingled with fish and salt breezes. The afternoon light was already starting to fade as damp mists were rolling in from the bay. I knew this was no place for two young girls to be alone, without escort. But nor was this the moment to be worrying about such niceties.
Maura, who again had been peering down side streets, suddenly cried out, ‘There it is, at the bottom of this back alley. I recognise that awful pea-green colour.’
She was right. The vehicle was drawn up outside a beer hall. Somewhere inside that building must be my precious
sister. I confess I did not pause to consider any possible danger to myself, or to Maura, my one thought being to rescue Prudence from her captors. I again set off at a run, but as I neared the vehicle a figure suddenly stepped out in front of me, and, quite unable to stop, I ran full tilt into him and landed flat on my back with the man on top of me.
Despite the fall having quite knocked the wind out of me, desperation allowed me to find my voice. ‘Get off, you oaf,’ I screamed at him, in most unladylike tones.
The fellow had the gall to roar with laughter.
I looked up into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, set in a grinning face that boasted a delightful smattering of freckles. I could swear that I felt my heart literally turn over, which shocked me even more. What was I thinking of? I really had far more important matters on my mind right now than a young man’s good looks. Opening my mouth to yell at him again, since he’d paid not the slightest heed the first time, to my utter dismay he stopped the cry by capturing my mouth with his own.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Here I was, lying in the filth and mud of a back alley where we’d followed the brougham that had kidnapped my lovely sister. There were all manner of stones and rubbish wedged hard beneath my back, and the pain of the long run was almost splitting my sides. Yet this stupid young man was actually
kissing
me!
I grabbed hold of his hair with both fists and yanked his head up. ‘Are you deaf?
I told you to get off me!
’
He laughed as I unceremoniously pushed him off and scrambled to my feet, shaking out my skirts in fury.
‘Bit picky, aren’t you, for a whore? It was only a kiss, for goodness’ sake.’
I was so furious at being thus described I swung my arm wide and slapped him hard across the face, then burst into tears.
Stunned by this unexpected attack and alarmed by its resulting reaction, he swiftly apologised. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t mean to offend.’ He sketched a hurried bow. ‘Pray allow me to introduce myself: Ellis Cowper, if you please, currently employed as deckhand and general dogsbody on the good ship SS
Kronus
.’ He held out a hand which I coldly ignored. ‘When I saw you running down the alley pell-mell, I meant to catch you, and swing you up into a kiss, just for a joke, you understand, only we both toppled over. I do apologise if I’ve made unwarranted assumptions about you.’
Unwarranted assumptions? How did a common sailor come by such grand words? Although his accent, I noticed, was British. I was about to give him the sharp edge of my tongue when Maura tugged at my arm.
‘Look, isn’t that him, the masher who blocked our way? He came out to get something from the brougham just now, then disappeared inside again.’
‘Right. Whatever happens, Maura, stick close to my side. I don’t want to lose you too.’
My young assailant was now attempting to brush down my skirts, still humbly apologising for his crass behaviour. I stopped him with one raised hand and my
most imperious tone. Mama would have been proud. ‘Pray unhand me, sir, I have no time for this. My sister has been abducted and is even now suffering God knows what fate in that beer hall below. Get out of my way this instant so that I may go and rescue her.’
The young man froze. ‘Abducted?’
‘Why do you think I was running? For the sake of my health?’ Brushing past him, I strode to the door of the saloon, and again without pausing to consider the wisdom of such an action, marched straight inside, chin high and, I hoped, a very determined light in my storm-grey eyes.
It was the following morning and Chrissie had breakfasted alone, astonished that she’d eaten every morsel of Mrs Gorran’s excellent porridge, toast and scrambled eggs, despite the substantial meal she’d enjoyed the night before. Perhaps it was all the walking in the fresh air that was giving her such a healthy appetite.
Oh, but she’d so enjoyed her grandmother’s company last evening, had loved listening to her story of how she’d met Ellis, and begged for more. ‘You can’t stop there. What happened to poor Prudence?’
‘Perhaps another time. Right now an old woman needs her rest.’
Chrissie could hardly wait. Now she asked Mrs Gorran if she may use the telephone in the hall, and rang Peter. The moment he answered she regretted her decision, as he was not in a good mood, castigating her at some length
over the trouble she was causing, both to himself and her poor mother, by this foolish show of rebellion.
‘I called upon Vanessa yesterday and I have to say she does not look well. You should be ashamed of yourself for abandoning your mother in this way.’
Chrissie tried to explain how badly she’d needed some time to herself but he was neither interested nor sympathetic. He asked few questions about where she was staying, seeming more concerned with his own situation. Chrissie listened with as much patience as she could muster; she had always tried to be understanding, knowing Peter was finding it hard to settle into civilian life, that he was discontented over being offered his old job back at the bank as a lowly clerk. He was even now harping on about this old theme.
‘I should have been made a manager by now.’
‘I’m sure you will be, in time.’
‘I’ve been back almost
two years
, and still with no sign of promotion. Of course, if I had a wife—’
‘You had a difficult war, Peter,’ Chrissie quickly put in. ‘You must allow yourself time to properly recover.’ She privately doubted he ever would, that perhaps he’d always been dissatisfied with life. Chrissie also strongly disliked the idea of being used as a means for his promotion.
‘And you had an easy one,’ he sulked, snatching at her sympathy and milking it for all it was worth, as he always did.
‘Hardly – bombs fell all over London. We would stand for hours in endless queues, spend night after night in air raid shelters and never know whether it would be our last.
The Blitz was the worst. We always feared the next bomb could easily have our name on it.’
‘But we had it worse at sea. And you wouldn’t believe what I went through in Africa and Italy, even if India was something of a sinecure. The heat, the fear, the knowledge we might be killed or fall into enemy hands at any moment.’
It was almost as if it were some sort of competition that he must win.
‘It must have been dreadful for you, I know,’ she said, doing her best to soothe him and dispel his black mood. ‘But you must put all of that behind you now, remember? It’s all over, in the past, and you can start to enjoy life again.’
Except that Peter somehow took pleasure in being miserable and complaining. Chrissie hadn’t recognised that trait in him until he’d asked her to marry him, and appeared to relish her constant refusals. It was as if he believed he deserved her rejection because he was unworthy of her, and yet she constituted a challenge to him, a prize he was at pains to win in order to prove himself.
Rapidly running out of patience with his moans and groans, as so often in their conversations, Chrissie was relieved when Mrs Gorran walked into the hall ostentatiously carrying a feather duster, as if to indicate there was work to be done.
She quickly said her goodbyes and dropped the receiver into its cradle. ‘Sorry I was so long. How much do I owe you for a call to London?’
‘Ooh, I dunno. I’ll need to ask Mrs Wren at the post
office. Don’t worry about that now. I’ll put it on your bill.’
Chrissie decided it would perhaps be wise to use a public call box in future, and reverse the charges. Not only might it be cheaper, but safer too, in case she accidentally mentioned any names that might be overheard by the
ever-present
Mrs Gorran. ‘I’d rather pay for any extras as I go along, if you don’t mind.’ And pulling her purse from her bag, Chrissie began to count out pennies and sixpences, trying to guess what a call to London would cost. ‘Will two shillings cover the call, do you think?’ Better to err on the generous side rather than cause offence. Trunk calls were always expensive. And she was certainly in no hurry to call Peter again.
‘Most kind. I’ll see to put it in Mrs Cowper’s telephone box.’
Chrissie was about to slip out for her walk when Mrs Gorran’s next words stopped her in her tracks. ‘I’ve arranged for you to have a boat trip this morning.’
She looked at the housekeeper, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Boat trip?’
‘My lad, Ben, he has this boat, see. Thought you’d enjoy a trip out on the lake, so’s you can get a proper view of everything.’
Chrissie had intended to explore the straggle of shops that led up the hill from the waterfront. Then perhaps head out of town to the woodlands and meadows beyond. A good walk in the crisp Lakeland air would allow her to clear her head and gather her thoughts. A trip in a boat with a strange man was the last thing she had in mind. She
didn’t even know if she was a good sailor. But how could she refuse without appearing rude?
‘How lovely,’ she said, striving for a show of enthusiasm.
Moments later Chrissie found herself being led at a cracking pace down to a short jetty, the housekeeper talking nineteen to the dozen. ‘Visitors flock to this little town for the beauty of its setting,’ Mrs Gorran was saying. ‘Others like to mess about in boats, climb a mountain, or simply enjoy a cream tea. Proper treat that is after all these years of austerity.’
Further along the shore Chrissie could indeed see holidaymakers revelling in the July sunshine: children trying to catch fish off the end of the pier, mums and dads fussing over little ones. Almost three years since the end of the war and optimism was high, helped in no small way by the King and Queen celebrating their silver wedding in April, and the announcement of a royal birth due at the end of the year.
A trip in one of the famous steam launches might be quite pleasant and offer an opportunity to do a bit of judicious probing. Perhaps her mother was right and keeping her name a secret would be no bad thing, might even give her a bit of leeway if she asked a few pertinent questions.
‘Here we are. This is our Ben. He’ll see you right, won’t you, lad?’
Chrissie was so shocked by the sight of the boat – little more than a wooden dinghy with oars, for goodness’ sake – she paid little attention to the young man who stepped
out on to the jetty ready to hand her in. She was aware only that he was a head taller than herself, with fair hair and the kind of tan you’d expect from someone who spent their time working outdoors. But then she noticed how impatiently he slipped the painter loose from its ring, heard the irritation in his response.
‘I’m sure Miss Emerson can manage without you organising her life, Mother.’
‘I dare say, but a little helping hand never did no harm.’
Chrissie was suddenly aware of vibes of irritation. This young man had no more wish to take her out on a boat trip than she had to go on one. He’d probably got much more interesting plans lined up. With his girlfriend, no doubt.
She could feel his eyes upon her, assessing her, judging her.
They were a most interesting blue with laughter lines radiating from the corners. But there was a kindness in them, the face really quite good-looking. She found herself foolishly wishing she’d worn a pretty dress instead of this old cotton skirt and blouse; painted her nails, worn a touch of lipstick. How ridiculous! In any case, she really didn’t need any more problems with men – wasn’t her love life tangled enough?
So what was she even doing here, about to accept the hand he offered and step into a rickety boat with a perfect stranger, even if he did look like Gregory Peck? She let out a little squeal as it again slapped against the jetty, rocking dangerously from side to side.
‘It’s all right, she won’t go over.’
‘Yes, but
I
might!’
Waves slapped at the fragile vessel as the big public steamer went by, rocking and banging it against the wooden jetty. The little dinghy looked extremely precarious.
She took a step back. ‘Um, let’s do this some other day, shall we? There’s really no rush.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he muttered, as if he really couldn’t care less. Ben couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Here was the girl in lemon yellow he’d longed to get to know from the moment he’d set eyes on her and compared her to a ray of sunshine. Now he was making a complete pig’s ear of actually meeting her, just because his interfering mother had arranged it. Why was his life so beset with bossy interfering women? ‘Perhaps you aren’t used to being out on the water.’
It was Hetty who answered, in her usual forthright fashion. ‘Course she isn’t used to being on the water, coming from London. But she’ll be fine, won’t you, love?’ She addressed this last question to Chrissie.
‘Yes. Yes, of course, I’ll be fine. Thanks.’ Now what on earth had possessed her to sound so confident? Pride?
Chrissie groaned as the boat rocked precariously in the water, grabbing the sides as she sat down with a bump on the wooden seat in the bow. She’d much rather not be here at all. Her mind was still back in the dining room listening to the stirring tale her grandmother had so recently related. She could have listened to her all night.
‘Now, you young people have yourself a lovely sail.’ The housekeeper’s bossy tones broke into her thoughts.
And, pleased at having finally accomplished her mission, she set off at a lick back up the jetty and left them to it.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Ben muttered, by way of apology. ‘She has a tendency to be a bit bossy, my mother. Nothing she likes better than to organise people.’ He was wishing desperately that he’d never been put in this embarrassing position. It was perfectly clear this young woman had no wish to spend her morning in a boat with him, and no doubt thought him a sad case for having to rely on his mother for introductions to pretty girls.
Chrissie was embarrassed too, since these were her thoughts exactly. ‘That’s OK, I’m getting the hang of it now – I think.’
His bark of laughter was almost patronising. ‘You don’t look as if you are, not by the way you’re clinging to the sides. You can relax – I haven’t drowned many people, not recently anyway.’
‘Sorry.’ Now they were both apologising. Oh dear, this was dreadful. The worst of it was that in any other circumstances, if Mrs Gorran hadn’t dropped this on them both, if Chrissie didn’t still have Peter hanging on for her answer, and if she hadn’t sworn on keeping to her single state if she ever did break free of her mother’s chains, then she might well have fancied Ben Gorran. He was really rather good-looking, she decided, as she surreptitiously studied him from beneath her lashes. Nor was he obliged to resort to the oars, as there was an outboard motor which sprang to life at the tug of a cord, which was a huge relief.
Chrissie consciously unclenched her grip from the
edge of the boat and was almost surprised she didn’t immediately topple overboard. Taking a breath, she told herself she would be fine. Ben began to point out various landmarks: the promenade, the Victorian splendour of the Belsfield Hotel, rows of tall Edwardian villas used mainly as boarding houses these days, every one of them bursting at the seams as accommodation was still in short supply.
‘Did Mum mention that this lake was used for building and testing Sunderland flying boats during the war?’ he asked her.
‘Really?’ Chrissie tried to sound interested.
‘Not that anyone’s supposed to know about that as it was top secret. Only those of us who live on the lake can say for sure. We used to see them coming in, testing them at one of the narrowest parts. If the pilot got it wrong, that would have been it. There was no room for error as he’d never have got up the other side and over the mountains.’
Ben went on with his tale but Chrissie couldn’t take in half of what he was telling her, nor had she any wish to listen. He was speaking far too fast, babbling like some demented overcheerful tour guide. Except that this tiny boat was much less substantial than the steamers in which Vanessa enjoyed evening soirées on the Thames. Stifling a groan and attempting to concentrate on what he was saying, she rather thought it was going to be a long morning.
For a while, perhaps to give her confidence, Ben kept close to the shore where the woodlands were lush and green,
overhanging branches skimmed the water, and moorhens paddled about in the shallows. Chrissie suddenly cried out, ‘Oh, look, what was that big bird with the long neck that flew by, so close to the water?’
‘A cormorant. And that’s a Canada goose. Do you like birds?’
‘I’ve never had time to find out. Oh, but they are so beautiful.’ This trip was turning out to be really most pleasant. Ben had thankfully stopped striving to entertain her, and Chrissie was beginning to relax and enjoy herself.
As they approached Belle Isle in the middle of the lake, they looked back at the town, Ben pointing out how the gardens stretched right down to the shoreline.
‘They are very elegant,’ Chrissie agreed. ‘Not much sign of flowers, though. Everyone is still busily growing vegetables. Got into the habit, I suppose.’
‘I’ll say, and keeping chickens. I don’t know how folk would have managed during the war without their poultry and the fishing. Guddling for trout wasn’t just a sport, it became a lifesaver. Generally brown trout in these waters. When I was a lad we’d sometimes go to Morecambe for the shrimping. I don’t suppose you did much of that in London either.’
‘We always had plenty of jellied eels,’ she said, and they both laughed, easing the tension a little.
‘See that big wooden shed just by the marina here? Boatbuilding used to be big in these waters, once upon a time, making those wonderful steam launches for the rich.’ The marina still bristled with the masts of a dozen
or so small yachts, but Ben chugged right past, to a quieter part of the lake. He told her more about the boats and this time she listened, about how the well-to-do would have their own crested crockery, and take their servants with them to serve a splendid picnic to their guests in Wray Bay or on one of the smaller islands. ‘The gentlemen would be in their blazers and straw boaters, the ladies wearing their finest gowns with those preposterous hats, no doubt.’ He grinned. She liked the sound of his voice – deep, and with a certain resonance to it.