PETTY OFFICER JOHN HENRY EDWARDS STOOD just over six feet tall in his Royal Navy uniform, his hat in one hand, a bottle of whisky for his host in the other. While on furlough with Alice’s brother Vincent, Mr Edwards had endeared himself to the Taylors in two key respects. First, he had attended church on both Sundays since he and Vincent had been ashore. Second, he had recommended Vincent be reclassified on the Mameluke from stoker second class—a filthy job that demanded the relentless shovelling of coal into the ship’s boiler—to stoker first class, a promotion worth an extra five pence per day.
Alice, who had heard about little else than Mr Edwards for the past two weeks, wasn’t surprised to see him sitting at the dinner table when she returned from the Sunday service at Gardner Street. But she found herself disappointed. Mr Edwards was polite but distant, withholding the smile that had dazzled her when Vincent had introduced him after her Windsor Halls recital.
As the men discussed the intricacies of the Mameluke’s engineering, Alice wondered how much this effort at sociability was for the purpose of pairing them off. At first she had flattered herself to imagine that Vincent and her parents weren’t-so-subtly trying to bring them together. But nothing in Mr Edwards’ behaviour suggested he was here under false pretences. The Mameluke was in repairs for a few short weeks, and that was all. Once Alice had wrestled her unreasonable hopes into that logical straitjacket, she looked up and caught her mother’s eye. Her left eyebrow was raised slightly in a gesture that managed to be both commentary and question about the stranger at their table. At least Alice was clear on her mother’s agenda.
‘And where do you call home, Mr Edwards?’ asked Charlotte Taylor during a pause in the men’s conversation.
Alice observed Mr Edwards put down his knife and fork and wipe the corners of his mouth with his serviette, as if weighing how much he would share with his hosts. The air in the room, already heady with smoke from her father’s pipe, thickened in the silence.
Then, his voice quiet, Mr Edwards began to speak of his wife Ann and their son Alistair. About how they had been married for several years before she became pregnant, and about how he had feared to go on active duty and leave her in Plymouth while she was yet to give birth. Around the table the Taylors listened to the story of the telegram that conveyed the news of Ann’s haemorrhage giving birth to Alistair, who did not survive his mother.
‘The Mameluke’s my home, Mrs Taylor,’ Mr Edwards said. ‘I’m not ashamed to say I’ve even been glad of the war. Wouldn’t have known what to do with myself otherwise.’
When he stopped speaking, Mr Edwards looked hard at Alice for a moment, then lowered his eyes to his empty plate.
Vincent broke the silence. ‘Had no idea, John,’ he said. ‘Bloody awful.’
Alice’s father reached for his serviette and coughed for the sake of doing something. Her mother filled the awkward void with the sort of phrases Alice expected Mr Edwards had heard a thousand times.
‘I am very sorry,’ Alice added for want of what, she realised, she really wanted to say. That her empathy was as bottomless as the ocean for this man who had known loss of an order she could hardly fathom, and that she felt petty for the small aggravations she nurtured. She stood to clear the plates, not just because she felt more secure when she was in motion, but also because her action signalled to Mr Edwards that she believed that life unfolds in small moments like this one, and that feeling for another person—much like the revelation of a new piece of music—was a matter of gradual understanding and restraint. To be working as a choirmistress and performing regularly, with a home to return to and people to love—these things suddenly appeared precious and fragile to her.
Mr Edwards pushed back his chair and stood too. ‘Please, Miss Taylor, let me help you,’ he said.