Three courses later and the conversation had traversed from women’s suffrage, to the British miners’ strike, to the morality of curbing immigration into the United States, to the rights and wrongs of German war reparations, to the League of Nations and the possibility of world peace. Poppy was ready for a bit of fresh air. She looked longingly at the sliding doors that led out onto the deck and wondered when it would be polite to slip away.
Aunt Dot whispered something to Delilah who nodded enthusiastically, excused herself, and scooted away across the dance floor towards the bandstand. Was she about to sing? Although Poppy loved hearing her friend doing a turn, it was not what she felt like tonight. She wanted to be alone for a while: to think, to breathe.
The last week had been a whirlwind of emotion from the time Rollo told them that the Globe’s future was on the line, to him inviting her to join him in New York to – and at this Poppy bit her lip – Daniel refusing to support her decision to go. Then there was all the packing and wrapping up at work: the filing and typing, the last-minute instructions to the man who was covering her beat, the telephone calls to her contacts introducing him and explaining the situation and… she simply had not had time to process it all.
The microphone yowled and the bandleader – a Jewish man with slicked-back black hair and a pencil moustache, holding a clarinet in one hand – announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you have enjoyed your first meal on board the Olympic. On behalf of the captain and crew I wish you a bon voyage. If we may make your stay any more comfortable please do not hesitate to ask. We are here at your service. And at this point, I would normally say, without further ado, let’s start the dancing…” This was met by cheers and applause. The bandleader grinned but silenced the crowd with a “simmer-down” motion of his free hand. “However, before we do that” – he nodded to the young woman in the green dress beside him – “Miz Marconi here has informed me that tonight is an extra special night for…”
Delilah smiled, basking in the appreciative glances from the assembled guests. Poppy couldn’t help but chuckle. Anything to be the centre of attention. What “special night” is it for you, Delilah?
“… Miz Poppy Denby. Miz Denby, where are you?”
Poppy felt like a rod had been shoved up the back of her dress. Good Lord, no…
“She’s here!” called Aunt Dot in a voice worthy of the Albert Hall.
All eyes were now on the young woman in the pale pink dress. The rod in her back crumpled and Poppy’s shoulders slumped. She smiled self-consciously and nodded to left and right.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” the bandleader continued, “I have it on good authority” – Delilah giggled beside him – “that today is Miz Denby’s birthday.”
Poppy expelled all the air from her lungs. Her birthday. It was. The 6th of April 1921. Today she was twenty-three years old. It wasn’t as if she had forgotten, but with all the busyness she just hadn’t given it much thought. And she wouldn’t have minded if it had come and gone without notice. She was not in the mood for celebrations, but – as she took in the warm looks from her friends and family – she knew she just needed to pull herself together. It would be unkind of her to deny them the opportunity to do something for her. So she put her reclusive thoughts to one side, straightened her back, and announced: “It is. Thank you.”
The bandleader and Delilah shared the microphone and led the dining room in a round of “Happy Birthday”, and as the applause came to an end, the bandleader declared: “And now, on with the dancing!” This was met by an appreciative cheer.
Aunt Dot beckoned Poppy over. Poppy obliged. The older woman reached into her embroidered blue satin evening bag and brought out a small parcel wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied together with a purple ribbon.
“Oh, Aunt Dot, you shouldn’t have.”
“Of course I should have! Who else am I going to shower gifts upon other than my beautiful niece?” She passed it to Poppy, who took it with a warm smile.
“Thank you.”
“Open it!” said Aunt Dot with a look that reminded Poppy of a child on Christmas morning.
Poppy pulled at the ribbon and unfurled the tissue paper. Inside was a black leather box. She opened the hinged lid to reveal a string of pearls nesting in green velvet. She gasped. “Oh, Aunt Dot, the Prince of Wales’s pearls!”
Aunt Dot giggled. “Yes! He gave them to me after my run as Juliet in Drury Lane in 1906.” She turned to the rest of the guests at the table – Rollo, Miss King, and the Spencers – and explained: “It may be hard to believe but this plump middle-aged woman, stuck in an invalid’s chair, was once as lithe and beautiful as my lovely niece. And,” she winked, “despite rumours to the contrary, the Prince of Wales and I were never more than friends. Nonetheless, he frequently gave me gifts. He bought these, he said, on a royal tour of Ceylon. One hundred and twenty-four of the purest pearls. Put them on, Poppy; let’s see them on you.”
Poppy untwined the string, lowered her head, and slipped them on. They felt cold and heavy against her neck and chest.
“Stand up, my darling; let’s see.”
Obligingly Poppy stood and the pearls fell to her waist.
Aunt Dot clapped her hands in glee. “They were meant for you, darling. Meant for you.”
Everyone at the table agreed.
Poppy bent down and kissed her aunt. As she stood she said: “You still are beautiful, Aunt Dot; and if the Prince of Wales was here now, he’d say the same.”
“Hear, hear!” agreed the rest of the guests at the table.
“Hear, hear, indeed,” said a bass voice. Poppy looked up to see Captain Williams approaching the table. He reached out his hand to Poppy, who took it. “Happy birthday, Miss Denby, and may you have many happy returns.”
“Thank you, Captain Williams.” Poppy did a little half-curtsy then felt foolish. Did one curtsy to ship captains? She wasn’t sure.
The captain didn’t seem to mind. “Well, Miss Denby, as it is your birthday I should ask for your hand to dance; however, if you will excuse me and my old hip, I should rather step aside for a younger man.” He looked around the table and took in the eager faces of Toby and Miles Spencer. “I, instead, shall dance with your most beautiful aunt, Dorothy. I still remember the first time I danced with her at an Admiralty dinner back in… oh, when was it? Nineteen hundred and eight? She was the belle of the ball.”
“Oh Gilbert, you flatterer! But you know I can’t dance now.”
“Nonsense,” said Captain Williams. “Come, Miss King, I shall help you get the lady into her wheelchair and we shall spin around the floor like Romeo and Juliet at the masked ball.”
A flutter of panic crossed Aunt Dot’s face. Poppy reached out and took her aunt’s hand. It was quivering. “Is that all right, Aunt Dot? Do you want to dance?”
“Of course I want to dance! But tonight is your night, Poppy, and I shan’t spoil it by drawing attention away from you. Thank you for the kind offer, Gilbert, but perhaps we can dance here instead, using words instead of steps.”
The captain nodded his assent. “My lady’s wish is my command.” Then he turned to Toby and Miles. “Now which of you gentlemen will be first to ask the birthday girl to dance?”
Toby was on his feet like a shot; he bowed with a flourish and reached out his hand: “Miz Denby, may I have the pleasure?”
Poppy looked into his sparkling blue eyes and said: “You certainly may.”
An hour and a half later and Poppy had danced with at least half a dozen gentlemen. She was relieved that the music was finally slowing down and the guests were drifting into corners to smoke and enjoy their coffee. A number of older gentlemen had already retired to the smoking room to discuss things they thought ladies had no interest in, and some younger fellows took the opportunity to select partners for the more intimate waltz. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Toby Spencer moving towards her. Nothing against him, but she would rather not.
At that moment a group of guests at the next table stood, providing a temporary barrier, and she used it to finally slip out through the sliding doors onto the deck. There were a few people already there, so she walked along until she found a quiet spot between two lifeboats and leaned on the rail.
Nine decks below her the Atlantic heaved and swelled. She allowed her breathing to match the rhythm of the ocean. It was still hard to believe that she was on this floating hotel, travelling to the other side of the world. It was something she and her brother Christopher had fantasized about as children, telling each other stories of what they would do and where they would go. Their attraction to boats and the potential they offered for adventure had begun when they visited the great Mauretania when it was being built at Wallsend in 1905. Poppy was seven and Christopher nine. Even when Poppy was carried high on her daddy’s shoulders, she still felt like a speck of dust next to the giant liner.
“I’ll go to India,” said Christopher, who was reading Kipling at school, “and ride on elephants in the day and hunt tigers at night.”
“And I’ll go to London,” said Poppy, “and have tea with the king and queen.”
“You don’t go to London on a ship,” said Christopher. “Don’t you know anything?”
The seven-year-old Poppy took offence at that and said she did. She knew lots and lots and lots. And going to India was just silly because – didn’t he know? – tigers eat people at night. Everyone knew that.
Christopher declared that was utter poppycock and he would most definitely go.
Nine years later he did travel on a ship: across the English Channel to France. And then he travelled by train to Flanders. A year later he was buried under a sea of poppies, while thousands of miles away, nowhere near India, the Mauritania’s sister ship, the Lusitania, was sunk by a German torpedo.
Poppy sniffed back the tears that were beginning to well. Oh Christopher, I miss you. And not for the first time she thought: Why did God choose to call him home? Had all her prayers for her brother’s safe return fallen on deaf ears?
Poppy’s breathing was now out of sync with the ocean. She mustn’t get herself worked up – she mustn’t. It would do no one any good and it wouldn’t bring Christopher back. And besides, raging against God was never a fair fight. He was God and – well – she wasn’t.
She watched the waves again: the rise and fall, the fall and rise, and her breathing steadied once more. Being a fair-minded young woman, she decided to consider the other side. Weren’t there times when God had listened?
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away…
A gaggle of tipsy guests spilled out of the dance hall and weaved their way down the deck. She leaned in closer to the bulwark, hoping no one would think of joining her. No one did. Once again she was alone. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Poppy, are you all right?”
Poppy turned around and saw Rollo standing behind her. She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hands.
“Birthday girls shouldn’t cry.”
“S-sorry, Rollo; it’s just that…”
Rollo pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. “You don’t have to explain. Your tears are your own, Miz Denby.”
Poppy took the handkerchief with thanks and blew her nose with an indelicate snort, for which she apologized again.
“I fear, Miz Denby, that I am going to make you cry again.”
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Because of this.” He handed a small box to her, along with an envelope. “Poppy” was written in Daniel’s familiar hand.
“He asked me to give this to you. He said that he had bought it before your… well, before the latest developments – and that he still wanted you to have it.”
Rollo’s brows furrowed and he put both hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I don’t know what happened with you two, Poppy, but I hope when you go back to London after this little jaunt, you’ll both come to your senses. Life is too short to let something as precious as love get away.”
Then he laughed. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. My reputation would be ruined.”
Poppy smiled through her tears. “Thank you, Rollo, and mum’s the word.”
She held the box and envelope in her hand, stroking them with her thumb and looking pointedly at her editor.
“All rightee!” said Rollo, taking the hint. “I’ll leave you to it.” Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
When she was alone again, she opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of notepaper. It said:
Dearest Poppy,
Today is your birthday. I so wish we were spending it together. But circumstances have conspired for that not to happen. There is so much I want to say but don’t think it is wise to do so. I do not want to say anything I will regret. I don’t want to lose you Poppy, but we both know things cannot go on the way they are. I hope that in the following three months you will think of me, as I will most definitely think of you. I hope too that when you return you will feel differently about family and work and perhaps we can then figure out a way to be together.
Until then, with my deepest love and respect,
Daniel
Then she opened the box and nestled inside was a red enamel brooch in the shape of a poppy.