In the shadow of war, p.17
In the Shadow of War, page 17
Jessie nods. ‘I understand. If I were you, I would probably do the same.’
Jessie stares at her reflection as she brushes her short brown bob. Has Mustapha seen Zara with Isham? What does Mustapha know and why hasn’t he told Aziz?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Celie
Edmonton, Alberta, Canada – May 4th, 1935
‘Good heavens, Mavis!’ Celie exclaims as they fight their way through the crowds lining 102nd Avenue in Alberta’s capital city. ‘It looks like all of Edmonton has turned out for the May Day parade. And here I told Frank you were treating me to a quiet day of lunch and the pictures as a birthday treat.’
‘I’m glad Frank’s feeling so much better. That was an awful flu he had.’
‘Yes, yes, it was.’ Celie smiles self-consciously. It’s best that Mavis and Fred think that Frank’s only had the flu. Only she, Frank and Dr Addison know the truth: that Frank’s lungs are rotting from the mustard gas he’d been exposed to in the war.
‘Frank’s much better now. He actually insisted I come after being his nurse for the past month.’
Mavis squeezes Celie’s arm. ‘I’m glad, but I’d totally forgotten it was the May Day parade today. It looks like everyone’s come out to protest the government.’
‘I don’t blame them in the least,’ Celie says as she shuffles by several women with baby carriages waving and clapping as a wagon passes by with three stuffed figures dressed as ‘Capitalism’, ‘Fascism’ and ‘War’ sitting astride sawdust bags labelled ‘Money’.
‘But Prime Minister Bennett’s “New Deal” is promising all sorts of things, Celie. Unemployment insurance, an old age pension, minimum wage—’
‘It all sounds lovely, Mavis, but it’s too little, too late.’ She thrusts her hand at a line of cars being drawn by horses in the parade, led by men brandishing a banner with ‘Bennett’s Buggies’ painted in red letters.
‘People can’t afford petrol anymore, so they’ve got horses pulling their cars, and our Prime Minister has the nerve to say the provinces are rich enough to manage their own problems! His government won’t last out the year, mark my words. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
Mavis grabs Celie’s hand and pulls her past the tall white-painted frontage of the J.A. Werner Hardware store where a cluster of men are unfurling a banner which proclaims, ‘People’s Unity: The Gravedigger of Capitalism’.
‘Wait! Wait, Mavis.’ Celie stops beside a boy selling black armbands under a sign exclaiming, ‘Mourn the Death of Capitalism!’.
Mavis releases her hold on Celie’s hand. ‘What is it?’
Celie pulls her camera out of her canvas shopping bag and loops the leather strap around her neck. ‘I’ve got to take some pictures. This kind of opportunity doesn’t come every day.’
Mavis frowns as a contingent pass by waving placards urging viewers to ‘Join the Communist League’. ‘I don’t think Rex Majors is going to be too keen to publish this kind of stuff. He’s a Conservative to his core.’
Celie focuses the lens and snaps an image as the parade marches by. ‘Writing a column about “Cakes, Carrots and Crafts” during the world’s worst financial depression is like buttering burnt toast. This is the burnt toast, Mavis.’
Mavis shakes her head. ‘I have a feeling Rex has met his match. I’ve never met anyone with such a social conscience. Where did you get that from?’
Celie shrugs. ‘I’ve always been this way. I just believe in fairness. The way I see it, we’re all set down on this earth together for a short period of time. Doesn’t everybody deserve a fair shake? Who benefits if only the wealthy have the wherewithal to live comfortable lives? Who benefits when the leaders of countries with imaginary borders wage war over the same disputed ground, killing thousands of people in the meantime? Who benefits when half the population – the female half – have no voice in the running of their country or their own lives? In the end, no one benefits. I believe if one person suffers, we all suffer. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. Why is it so difficult for everyone to understand that we are all in this together? It does no one any good to sweep things like this parade of people voicing their resentment at the status quo under the rug. The current situation is not fair, and that really upsets me.’
‘My word, Celie. Where did all of that come from?’
Celie smiles at Mavis over the top of the camera. ‘This is history in the making, Mavis, and we’re here right in the middle of it. I’m a photographer. I have to record this. It’s in my genes.’
‘You should be a politician, Celie. You’d get this country sorted out in no time.’ Mavis extends her hand. ‘Give me your shopping bag. I need some new garden gloves. I’ll go into the hardware store while you take your pictures. Then we can head over to Johnson’s Café for lunch. I’m fit to eat a tiger.’
Celie pops the film out of the camera and stuffs the roll into her coat pocket. She is winding a new roll of film into the camera when a voice addresses her from behind.
‘You have a good eye.’
She turns around. A tall square-shouldered man in a brown wool suit tips the brim of his slouchy fedora.
‘I beg your pardon?’
The man holds up his Rolleiflex camera. ‘I’ve seen you taking pictures. Looks like I’ve got competition. Who are you working for?’
Celie smiles politely and turns back to watch the parade. ‘No one. I’m just taking pictures for myself.’
The man joins her at the front of the crowd. He peers into the viewing lens on top of his camera and snaps a picture of six pallbearers carrying a wooden coffin labelled ‘Capitalism’. ‘You should be working for somebody. You know how to find the story. You’re not just taking holiday snaps.’
‘Is that what you think women armed with a camera do? Take holiday snaps?’
He turns his head as he looks at her. ‘Touché. I suppose I do.’
She focuses the lens and snaps a picture of women pushing baby strollers between marchers carrying banners demanding ‘Equal Pay for Women Workers’. ‘I’ve been taking pictures most of my life. My father was a photographer, as was my grandfather.’
‘In England? I can tell by your accent you’re not from this side of the Atlantic.’
She nods as she resets the viewfinder. ‘London. I worked in my father’s photography studio. I took pictures and wrote for the Daily Mirror during the war.’
He whistles through his teeth. ‘That’s impressive.’
Celie glances at the man, whose head is bent over the viewing lens as he focuses on the Boy Scouts trooping by. His short hair is as dark as the fur of the black bear she’d once seen trundle by the house in the spring thaw, and his square-jawed face is tan and weather-beaten, like a wind-battered cliff. He could be forty-five or fifty-five.
He looks over at her, and his eyes, as translucent as green glass, wrinkle at the corners as he smiles. ‘You’re looking at me like I’m an amoeba under a microscope.’
Celie feels her cheeks flush. She turns back to watch the parade. ‘Certainly not.’
She glances unseeingly at her wristwatch. ‘Oh, dear, is that the time? I’m terribly late to meet a friend.’ She offers her hand awkwardly to the man. ‘Good luck with your pictures.’
He grins as he shakes her hand. ‘Life.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Life Magazine. That’s where you’ll find my photographs.’
‘Oh. Well, I shall look out for them.’ She turns and pushes through the crowd toward the café.
‘Robson McCrea,’ he shouts after her.
She looks over her shoulder and sees him smiling at her.
‘It was very nice to meet you, Mr McCrea. I’m Celie Jeffries.’
‘There you are!’ Mavis says as she steps out from under the huge clock over the front doors of Johnson’s Café. ‘I thought you’d gotten swallowed up by the marchers.’
‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve just had the most unusual encounter.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Mavis says as she opens the door to the café. ‘It’s not every day you see gravediggers in a parade. Did you get some good pictures?’
‘Yes. I’ve used up two whole rolls of film. I think I might use Mama’s birthday money to buy another couple of rolls while we’re in town.’ Celie frowns as she follows Mavis to a table by a window. ‘Although I really should use it to pay down our Eaton’s account.’
‘Don’t be silly. Birthday money is birthday money. Spend it on yourself.’
Mavis waves at a pair of women at a table in the far corner. ‘Oh, look! It’s Rosita Majors. I think that’s her sister, Edna, with her. That’s right, I remember she lives in Edmonton. She’s waving at us to come over.’
‘Oh, um, right. I wasn’t really expecting—’
Mavis pokes at Celie’s arm. ‘Come on. They’re not going to bite. You’re spending too much time at home. You’re turning into a right old hermit. You need to loosen up and socialise a bit.’
‘I suppose. Let’s go socialise.’
‘Wonderful. Oh, what was that you said about an unusual encounter?’ Mavis asks as they head across the café.
‘It was nothing. Does Rosita have a new hat? Do you suppose she got it at Hudson’s Bay?’
‘It does look new, doesn’t it? You can’t buy anything like that in West Lake.’ Mavis stops abruptly and grabs Celie’s arm. ‘I know! Let’s go hat shopping at Hudson’s Bay this afternoon. It’s been ages since we’ve had new hats. Won’t that be fun?’
Celie watches the flat brown plains, still wet from the recent blizzard, spread out to the horizon as the train steams north toward West Lake. The dump of snow on the last day of April had been a blessing after the dry spring, and though she was the last to celebrate frozen fingers and chilblains, she’d been as happy as everyone else to see the snowfall. Maybe it’s a sign that the drought is finally over. They were desperate for a good wheat year after five terrible harvests.
She glances over at Mavis, who is snoozing, open-mouthed, beside her, the new Hudson’s Bay hatbox tucked in her arms like a baby. She hadn’t bought a new hat for herself in the end, nor any film. It hadn’t felt right to spend money on frivolities when she was making dresses for herself and Lulu out of flour sacks. She’d become a dab hand at using homemade dyes, rickrack, ribbon and buttons to disguise the plain white cotton. She’ll use the last of her developing solution to process the photographs she’d taken in the hope that she can sell the story to Rex Majors at the paper. She’ll buy new film with any money she earns from that.
She runs her finger idly over the window glass. Robson McCrea. Why is she thinking of him now? He is just a stranger who popped into her life for a handful of minutes. He’s probably already forgotten their meeting. Life Magazine, he’d said. Ol’ Man Forbes gets Life into his store, and though she’s often thumbed through the pages of photography, she’s never splurged on buying a copy. She can just imagine what Frank would say if she wasted ten cents on a magazine!
She’ll look out for Robson McCrea’s name now when she thumbs through the magazine. She’s just curious. About his photos, of course. Not him. That would be ridiculous. He’s just a stranger, after all.
So why did she tell him her name?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Christina
Bishop House, Portman Square, Marylebone, London – May 1935
Christina smiles a tight smile at the maid who greets her at the door of the Portman Square house.
‘I’m here to see Mrs Adam. Tell her Mrs Fry wishes to have a word.’
‘That’s not necessary, Mary,’ Dorothy Adam calls from the hallway. ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Fry. Go back to polishing the silverware.’
Christina nods to Dorothy Adam, who, in her smart navy jersey Chanel dress and with her auburn hair subjected to an expensive perm, appears to have adapted to the role of chatelaine of a grand London house as if it were one she was born to.
‘Hello, Dorothy. You’re looking terribly well.’
Dorothy casts her pale green gaze over Christina. ‘What do you want, Christina?’
‘I should very much like to have a word.’
‘I can’t see that we have anything to talk about. My solicitors were quite clear in their letter to you.’ She makes a movement to shut the door.
Christina steps forward and holds the door open.
‘Wait. I’ve had time to think about this situation. It’s absurd for us to be at loggerheads about the house, with both of our children involved. I’d very much like to clear the air. For their sakes, if not for ours.’
Dorothy smiles coldly. ‘You don’t need to act the contrite opponent, Christina. You’re here because Christopher has just turned twenty-one and you’re worried you will lose this house once and for all.’
Christina juts out her chin. ‘Dorothy, half of this house is Cecelia’s. Christopher’s coming of age doesn’t change that.’
‘Is that so? What do you intend to do about it? Your daughter hasn’t rushed back from Canada to stake her claim, nor has she contributed to any of the extraordinarily high maintenance fees incurred by Bishop House, no doubt the result of years of neglect on the part of your family. However it’s happened, the house has finally found itself in good hands.’
Christina’s jaw tightens. ‘My family always took impeccable care of this house. I can only imagine that its current tenants have neglected their duty of care.’
Dorothy moves to shut the door, but Christina holds firm. ‘I have had quite enough of this conversation, Christina. You shall hear from my solicitors.’
‘I am Cecelia’s representative, Dorothy. I have been very vocal about “staking her claim”. I assure you that she has every intention of moving to Bishop House when she returns to London.’
‘When will that be? Harry died three years ago. Cecelia has had plenty of time to visit London to view her inheritance.’ Dorothy’s green eyes narrow. ‘Does she even know? Have you even told her?’
‘What are you insinuating?’
‘Mummy!’
A dark-haired young man in the white trousers and jumper of a cricketer bounds up the steps.
‘Hello, there!’ he says, offering his hand to Christina. ‘I remember you. You used to visit us at our old flat, didn’t you? Jolly nice to see you again.’
‘Mrs Fry was just leaving, Christopher.’
‘Oh no, Mummy, we can’t have that.’ Christopher smiles at Christina, his blue eyes as guileless as a child’s. ‘Do come in for tea, Mrs Fry. Cook makes the best shortbread biscuits. She promised me some after my match, as long as we won.’
Christina bestows a generous smile on Christopher Adam and offers him her arm. ‘That would be lovely. And did you win?’
‘Of course!’ Christopher says as he accompanies her into the house. ‘I always win!’
‘… And I’ll be starting law school at Cambridge in the autumn. I won’t even need to change my dorm room!’
Christina declines the offer of a second shortbread biscuit from Christopher. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Christopher laughs. ‘Oh, no, my father wasn’t a lawyer. He was an accountant, wasn’t he, Mummy? He was killed in the war when I was a baby. I never knew him. Mummy brought me up.’
Christina raises an eyebrow at Dorothy. ‘I see. I’m terribly sorry about that. It’s a shame to grow up without a father.’
‘Oh, it’s been all right. You don’t miss what you don’t know, isn’t that right? Anyway, my great-uncle left Mummy this house in his will a few years ago.’
Christina glances at Dorothy, who raises her chin in silent defiance. ‘Is that so?’
‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Christopher says as he wipes shortbread crumbs off his lips with a napkin. ‘I didn’t even know I had a great-uncle! This is so much better than that flat we had in Chelsea, isn’t it, Mummy?’
‘Indeed it is, Christopher.’
Christina smiles at the young student, who is onto his third shortbread biscuit. ‘What sort of law are you interested in, Christopher?’
‘Oh, criminal, of course. I quite fancy swanning about a courtroom in my wig and gown.’ He laughs. ‘My friends call me “The Thespian” because I’ve been active in the Cambridge Footlights ever since I went up there. Mummy was an actress before she was married, did she tell you that?’
‘Yes, she has mentioned that.’ She smiles at Dorothy. ‘Where did you say you performed, Dorothy? The Windmill, was it?’ she asks, naming one of London’s infamous burlesque theatres.
‘I was a classical actress,’ Dorothy responds tightly. ‘My Ophelia was the talk of London back in the day.’
‘Not Lady Macbeth?’
The front door slams and an attractive brunette woman in her twenties appears in the sitting room doorway. ‘Oh, I’m awfully sorry, Mrs Adam. I didn’t know you had company.’
‘Not a problem, Vivien. Mrs Fry is just leaving. I’ll meet you in the conservatory in a few minutes.’
Dorothy turns to Christina. ‘I’m afraid I must cut our delightful visit short.’
Christina collects her handbag and rises. ‘It’s been a great pleasure, Dorothy. I trust it won’t be too long before we meet again.’ She glances at Christopher. ‘We have so very much in common.’
Christopher jumps to his feet and extends his hand to Christina. ‘Awfully nice to meet you, Mrs Fry. Do come by again soon. I’ll ask Cook to make her ginger biscuits. They’re even better than her shortbread.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Etta
Santa Rosa Apartments, Hollywood, California – June 1935
ALS, 4pp. Princeton University
Sheppard and Enoch Pratt Hospital
Towson, Maryland
