LITMIR.BIZ

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seas.’

      ‘That’s why the crossing is only seven days, I imagine. I’ll be glad when we dock in Liverpool, though.’ Gerda shivered.

      Jack smiled, looking right into her eyes. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll look out for you,’ he promised. ‘We can sink or swim together.’

      She felt herself fill up with happiness. Did it mean he had taken a fancy to her? Oh, she did hope so.

      *

      That evening Gerda and Jack strolled on the decks, under an inky black, star-spattered sky.

      ‘I’ve given so little thought to the war,’ she confessed. ‘My sister writes that all the young men back home are signing up, and women are having to work in the shipyards and coalyards to keep industry going. Yet in Brooklyn, the only concern of the ladies who visit my shop is that they can’t get imported French fashions any more and they want us to make replicas of their favourite Parisian styles.’

      ‘It’s not just the women who are out of touch. The American lads I worked alongside couldn’t see why Britain went to war just because the Kaiser’s troops marched into Belgium. One asked me’ – he imitated an American accent – “Who even knows where Belgium is?” He laughed, hoarsely. ‘There are many things I like about America, the land of opportunity, but it’s become very insular, despite the people of different races who mix in its cities.’

      Gerda didn’t know what ‘insular’ meant, but was too self-conscious to say so. ‘Where I live, they don’t mix so much; they all have their own neighbourhoods. I like listening to Italians on one block then crossing the road and hearing French ladies chattering, or a broad Irishman cursing.’ She blushed. ‘I don’t mean I like cursing – just that it’s colourful.’

      Jack laughed. ‘You won’t get that in South Shields, I suppose.’

      As they walked, they passed other couples strolling arm in arm and Gerda wished that Jack would slip his arm through hers, but he didn’t seem to think of it.

      ‘Will you be called up to fight in the trenches?’ she asked, wondering what age he might be. He looked over thirty, but you never could tell.

      ‘I’m most useful to my country as an engineer. Mr Marconi has arranged a job for me in a lab developing new types of portable field telephones. I start next week.’ He grinned, boyishly. ‘Don’t get me going on the subject or I’ll bore you to tears. I’ve been working on something similar in Hawaii where the technology is leaping ahead. Soon we’ll all be able to make telephone calls to anywhere in the world, whenever we like.’

      She watched him as he talked, the words about transmitters and electromagnetics going right over her head. She liked his passion but worried that he was too clever for her. Her conversation about fur trims and tango frocks would never interest him. He’d admired her violet taffeta gown with the spiral-draped skirt, but she hadn’t told him it was based on a Poiret design because somehow she doubted he had heard of Poiret. Perhaps they didn’t have enough in common.

      She realised he had paused, waiting for her reaction to something he’d said, something she hadn’t heard.

      ‘I wish I’d been able to telephone my sister from Brooklyn,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed her while I was away.’

      ‘You’ll see her very soon, pet,’ Jack said in an exaggerated imitation of a Geordie accent that made her giggle. He was good at accents.

      *

      Gerda was sharing a four-person berth with just one other passenger, Miss Ellen Matthews, a sour-faced Liverpudlian girl who’d been working in service in Chicago. The cabin was smart, with freshly laundered white sheets and towels bearing the Cunard crest, a washbasin and mirror squeezed between the two sets of bunk beds, and a cupboard with hanging space for gowns, but Ellen wasn’t impressed.

      ‘I’m sure I’m not going to sleep a wink on these beds. They’re narrow and hard as ironing boards’ … ‘Why was there no fish course at dinner? I’m used to better’ … ‘I asked a steward to fetch me a cup of tea and he said I’d have to fetch it myself from the ladies’ waiting room. Have you ever heard the like?’

      Gerda unpacked a few essentials and changed into a nightgown, slipping it over her head and unfastening the hooks of her brassiere, corset and suspenders beneath its tent-like cover. She cleaned her teeth with cherry tooth powder then unfurled her hair and brushed it out before pinning the curls in place to set them overnight.

      ‘Is that your sweetheart, the man I saw you with tonight? Are you two engaged?’ Ellen asked.

      ‘He’s a friend,’ Gerda replied, suddenly unwilling to admit she’d known him for only a few hours.

      ‘You want to watch it.’ Ellen narrowed her eyes. ‘Folks are already talking about how much time you’re spending together, like a pair of lovebirds. You don’t want to get a bad name.’

      Gerda was annoyed. ‘It sounds as though you’re jealous,’ she said, making Ellen huff indignantly and clatter her bedpan, muttering under her breath about decency and respectability.

      Gerda clambered into bed, pulling the sheet up to her chin. Her toes pressed against the wooden board at the end; at five foot six inches she was taller than average. Jack was a couple of inches taller than her and she worried he wouldn’t sleep well in such short bunks. She closed her eyes and waited for Ellen to finish her preparations and turn out the light before she let her thoughts wander freely.

      Jack still hadn’t said if there was a girl waiting for him back home, but surely if there was he wouldn’t be spending so much time with her? It wasn’t fair to give someone the wrong idea. She knew what that was like from bitter experience. But he seemed nicer than Alan Slaven … much nicer.

      Everyone had assumed she and Alan were engaged. They met when she was eighteen and stepped out together for the best part of two years, going for long coastal walks or visiting tearooms on his days off. She assumed they’d be wed after he finished his apprenticeship as a butcher, but in fact the long-awaited proposal never came. When rumours reached Gerda that he’d been seen dancing with another woman – a very pretty woman, according to her informant – she was simply surprised. It seemed incongruous. Alan had never struck her as a ladies’ man, with his ruddy face, thinning hair and big-knuckled hands. He’d seemed like a safe bet.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said when she raised the subject. ‘I’m very fond of you, Gerda; you’re a nice girl, but I don’t love you the way you should love someone you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with.’

      ‘What on earth does that mean? You’re just looking for pastures new. You’re a charlatan.’ The anger erupted out of her and she kept berating him until he picked up his hat, apologised one last time and disappeared.

      ‘What will folk say?’ Thomasine worried. ‘You’re tainted goods; all the time you’ve spent together without a chaperone and now he’s gone and taken up with someone else. He’s ruined you.’

      Wherever Gerda went, she saw people gazing at her with undisguised sympathy, or whispering behind their hands. It will pass, she thought; but six months later when Alan married the ‘other woman’, the gossip started again and this time she’d had enough. To be thrown over by any man was bad enough, but to be thrown over by someone as unappealing as Alan Slaven had spoiled her chance of finding a decent husband in South Shields. She thought of going to America then but her father got ill and she couldn’t bear to leave and miss the time he had left. It was only after he died, when she was twenty-four, that she travelled to New York to lodge with her mother’s old friend Else Gabrielson. It was to be a fresh start in a country where no one knew her, a place where she could find a husband who didn’t know she was so-called ‘tainted goods’. Perhaps she had left it too late because, five years on, on the 1st of May 1915, here she was on the Lusitania, heading home again without a man. The neighbours would look at her ringless hand and sigh. Unless …

      How could she tell if Jack Welsh was sincere?

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