The White Empress Read online

  White Empress

  Lyn Andrews

  Copyright © 1989 Lyn Andrews

  The right of Lyn Andrews to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 9868 3

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part II

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lyn Andrews is one of the UK’s top one hundred best-selling authors, reaching No. 1 on the Sunday Times paperback bestseller list. Born and brought up in Liverpool, she is the daughter of a policeman and also married a policeman. After becoming the mother of triplets, she took some time off from her writing whilst she raised her children. Shortlisted for the RNA Romantic Novel of the Year Award in 1993, she has now written twenty-eight hugely successful novels. Lyn Andrews divides her time between Merseyside and Ireland.

  Author’s Note

  I was once told that ‘scouse’ is a spoken, not a written, dialect and on commencing writing this book I found this to be profoundly true. Therefore, I have used it only in the first chapter to ease the burden not only for myself, but for those readers not fully acquainted with the dialect of my native city. I have, however, kept the conversations of the O’Dwyer family in ‘scouse’ to help lend ‘flavour’ to the background.

  I would like to express my thanks to everyone who has helped me in researching this book. Mr George Musk, Archivist for Candian Pacific Steamships. Nancy Williatte-Battet, Archivist of Canadian Pacific Railways. My aunt, Mrs Eileen Sabell, a former Chief Stewardess on the Empresses, for her invaluable memoirs of life at sea and of conditions appertaining to work in the munitions factories. My father, Mr Frank Moore, for his recollections of the city and port of Liverpool up to and including World War II and his own experiences in the Royal Navy during that conflict. My mother, Mrs Monica Moore, for her advice on fashion and its cost and many household details. My many ‘Gorry’ cousins, especially Marie Hazel Winter (nee Gorry). Number eighteen Yew Tree Road, the home of my late great-aunt, still stands despite the ravages of war and I spent many happy hours there during my childhood. The Eldon Street of both the pre-and post-war years has now gone, for what the Luftwaffe started the city planners have continued to this day, to the detriment of Liverpool and its citizens. But the residents of Eldon Street, forming themselves into a housing co-operative, have rebuilt their homes on the sites they have lived and worked on – an example of the dogged determination of the native Liverpudlian to overcome all obstacles. A determination so characteristic throughout the dark days of World War II.

  In memory of the men who fought – and died – to save the SS Malakand, No.2 Husskison Dock was renamed the Malakand Dock. Captain Kinley and Mr Lappin both survived the May Blitz, but thousands of men, women and children – on both sides of the Mersey – did not. All the movements of shipping and losses are as accurate as I have been able to make them; also the timing of the raids during November and December 1940 and May 1941. HMS Firefly is a figment of my imagination. However, I have tried to reconstruct her demise with what I hope is some degree of accuracy.

  And finally, I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Robert, whose patience, understanding, tolerance and interest have sustained me not only over the ten years of my writing career, but through twenty years of marriage.

  (L.A.)

  No ship ever fitted her name more than the Empress of Britain. She was, indeed, an empress, with pride and grace and dignity in every inch of her. She had millions of devoted subjects, in many countries, for she was primarily a cruise ship, and she had been seen and admired in more out-of-the-way harbors than any other liner. Her white paint was a coat of ermine that set her apart from the throng. It was always a thrill to see her come in the blue Mediterranean or in more distant ports of call; it was always an event in our own harbor when the great white Empress came in.

  She now lies blackened and twisted on the ocean bottom, the largest of all ships that have gone down in this war; but she lived up to the traditions of her flag and to the very end for the Admiralty has praised ‘the resolution and efficient handling’ of her anti-aircraft guns in her death struggle.

  The memory of this fine ship will survive until a new Empress of Britain inherits her name.

  NEW YORK TIMES 29 October 1940

  Part I

  1931

  Chapter One

  SHE HADN’T MEANT TO climb so far down. In fact she hadn’t meant to climb down at all and fascination now turned to fear. The sea, which from the deck above had appeared in her young, inexperienced eyes to resemble a green meadow – its surface as calm and viridiscent as dew on summer grass – had now turned grey and menacing. Its depths as dark and unfathomable as the peat bogs she had left behind in the Old Country. Its voice, the sonorous lapping of the waves against the hull, now just a few feet below her, was murmuring a warning.

  It had been easy to clamber down. There had been all kinds of niches and projections to assist her descent. But they had apparently vanished. Panic swept over her and she pressed her back against the cold steel, her fingers scrabbling desperately for something to cling to, to stop her from falling.

  ‘I won’t look at it! I won’t look down!’ She forced herself to utter the words aloud, but there was no escape. The sea surrounded her. Everywhere her petrified gaze rested presented the same vista. She closed her eyes but that only made her feel dizzy. ‘Oh, Sweet Jesus, help me!’ she gabbled. One lurch of the ship, one wave a little larger than the others and . . .

  ‘What the bloody ’ell are yer doin’ down there!’

  The voice came from above her and she opened her eyes. Squinting up into the sunlight she could see no one. She could see nothing but that sheer slope of black steel.

  ‘Keep still! Don’t try ter move!’

  The voice sounded very faint as if coming from far away.

  ‘’Ang on a bit, just wait til I think! Can yer sit down on that ledge?’

  She looked down at the ledge on which her feet rested. It was barely wide enough for standi
ng.

  ‘Ease yerself down! Slide yer back down against the ’ull an’ then gerrold of the ledge!’

  Every muscle was frozen. She couldn’t move an inch. She tried to cry out but it was as though a huge hand gripped her throat.

  ‘If yer can’t manage it then just keep still! Stay as still as yer can, I’ll be back!’

  He was going away! The only person who stood between her and . . . A tremor ran through her as a wave washed over her feet. She was going to die! Something heavy hit her shoulder and despite the blind panic she twisted her head. It was some sort of ladder made of rope.

  ‘Grab it!’ The voice from above yelled.

  She needed no second telling. Her fingers locked around the rough hemp and she clung to it. Her cheek, wet with tears and salt spray, pressed close to the thin wooden rung.

  ‘That’s it, girl! Now, put yer foot on the first rung! Go on! Yer won’t fall!’

  Everything was swaying. The ship. The sea. Her lifeline. ‘I . . . I can’t!’

  ‘Gerron it! Yer’ve got to! Yer can’t ’ang there forever!’

  Slowly she inched one foot upwards and the thin cardboard sole of her battered shoe felt the wooden slat beneath it. But it was still moving!

  ‘Now, move yer right ’and up the rope an’ get yer other foot on the rung! Go on!’

  In a moment of desperate courage she released her grip and then grabbed frantically for the ladder again.

  ‘Keep goin’ an’ don’t look down! When yer gerra bit further up I’ll climb over an’ ’elp yer, but yer too far down yet!’

  Inch by inch she clawed her way from rung to rung, her eyes tightly closed, fighting down the sobs. Then a hand with a grip like an iron vice caught her wrist and she was hauled bodily upwards in one swift movement. She felt the broad width of the deck beneath her feet and slumped down in an exhausted, quaking heap, her back pressed against the superstructure. She could hear the buzz of voices around her.

  ‘What the ’ell were yer tryin’ ter do, kill yerself or did yer think yer could walk on water?’

  She opened her eyes. Her saviour stood towering over her. A black-haired, dark-eyed young deck hand.

  He wiped away the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of a large, tanned hand and then pushed up the sleeves of the black jersey across the front of which was emblazoned ‘The B & I Steam Packet Co’ in large white letters. Despite his remark he watched her intently as he effortlessly pulled the rope ladder up on to the deck and began to coil it.

  The faces of the crowd were pressing forward.

  ‘Come on, move back, give ’er some air! She’s alright now! Come on, shift yerselves, it’s not a bloody peep show!’

  As they drew back, drifting away now the brief spectacle was over, she rubbed the sleeve of her blouse across her face. At least she had stopped trembling.

  ‘Well, yer deaf or somethin’?’

  ‘No,’ she managed to stammer, trying to remember why she had done such a desperately foolish thing in the first place. Why had she been such an eejit?

  ‘What’s yer name?’ He asked, hauling her to her feet. The grip on her arm was strong. His hand felt warm on her clammy skin.

  ‘Cat. Cat Cleary.’

  ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  A little colour crept back into her cheeks and she tossed back the tangled, unruly chestnut curls. ‘It’s short for Catherine!’

  ‘Then why aren’t yer called Kate or Cathy? Why Cat? Bloody daft name tharris!’

  Her fear was rapidly subsiding, being replaced by smarting resentment. The warmth of the sun adding resolution to put on a brave face. ‘Sure, didn’t me sister Shelagh give me the nickname when I was five years old!’ She grimaced. ‘Nasty, sneaking little cat! Isn’t that just the name for you Catherine Cleary, for that’s what you are! A cat! Cat Cleary!’ she mimicked. ‘So everyone’s called me that ever since!’

  The crowd had completely disappeared. He had finished coiling the ladder and they both lapsed into silence, staring at each other. She wasn’t bad looking, he thought. She was skinny and pale and the faded, cheap cotton blouse and creased linen skirt looked as though they had been intended for someone of much more ample proportions. He noticed that the skirt was held up by a large safety pin. Her shoes, sodden with salt water, were worn down at the heel and one was laced up with string. She was too pale and thin and looked as though a gust of wind would knock her over, but her small oval face, with its pointed chin, wide mouth and high cheekbones, was one that in a few years’ time men would look at twice. Her eyes were her most attractive feature. They were wide and almost the same shade – of pale green flecked with grey – as the sea which had so nearly claimed her. Her finely drawn, dark brows arched upwards and the thick mass of curling red-brown hair gave the piquant features an elfin look. Aye, with some flesh on her bones and filled out in all the right places, in a few years she’d be what his mates would term ‘a good lookin’ judy’.

  Beneath his pentrating gaze Cat turned her head away. She should be grateful to him. She was grateful to him, but the way he stood looking at her – barely disguising the fact that he considered her a brainless eejit – irritated her. He was tall. Much taller than her Pa, his stature enhanced by his powerful build. His shoulders were broad and his chest, beneath the regulation jersey, was deep and expansive. His hair was thick and dark. So dark it looked like the sooty embers of a kitchen fire. It was blown back from a broad brow by the breeze. His skin radiated raw good health for a life spent in the open had darkened its colour to nut brown. He had a wide mouth and when he spoke he revealed strong, white teeth. It was a face full of vitality, mobility and, she suspected, a sharp wit. There was nothing in his manner of the weary, downtrodden, despair that grinding poverty and hard drink had stamped on her Pa and most of the other men she had known in her life. He seemed not to have a care in the world and obviously feared nothing. He was about eighteen or nineteen she judged shrewdly, and she caught the hint of a smile in the depths of his dark eyes and she felt annoyed and stupid.

  ‘What’s your name? I suppose I’ve to thank you for . . . for saving me?’

  ‘Joe. Joe Calligan an’ yer could sound a bit more appreciative, like!’

  ‘I’m sorry, that I am!’ She did try to sound more grateful but failed.

  He leaned on the rail beside her. ‘Yer sorry I dragged yer back on board?’

  ‘No! No, it’s sorry I am that I snapped at you!’

  He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. ‘I still don’t known why yer did such a daft thing as to climb down on to that ridge? Yer must ’ave fingernails like magnets, there’s nothin’ to gerrold of!’

  Cat turned her head away. Golden sunlight sparkled on the calm green water below and her panic had completely evaporated. ‘I’ve never been on a boat before, not ever. I’d never even seen the sea until we set out from Dublin Bay. It just looked so . . . big and . . . it sparkled . . .’ She faltered, unable to find the words to tell him how that vast expanse of shining water had fascinated her so. How lulled into a sense of security she had become as she had been borne across it so effortlessly by the sturdy, little steam packet, the Leinster. He remained silent and preoccupied and she sensed that somehow he understood. Perhaps he, too, felt the fascination that for her had become almost fatal. She had only wanted to get closer to it, to smell its strange odour, to let it trickle through her fingers and wash over her hot feet. Well, it had done that alright! And now she felt acutely idiotic.

  She turned her back on it and gazed upwards at the black and green funnel with its narrow band of white, from which belched a cloud of dirty grey smoke that rose in a column, sullying the clear blue sky. Her eyes moved across the deck to where a white flag with its green and red cross fluttered from the stern rigging, alongside the red ensign.

  ‘It’s a ship, norra boat. If yer goin’ ter live in Liverpool yer’d berra get that right ter start with! Are yer stayin’ in Liverpool or are yer goin’ on?’

  ‘We
’re staying. Pa’s heard that there’s work to be had.’

  There was such hope in the green eyes that looked up to him that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that one man in four was out of work. That men tramped the city streets from morning to night, looking for work – any kind of work. He was lucky. He had been a deck hand for the British and Irish Steam Packet Company for a year now. ‘What kind of work did ’e do in Dublin?’

  She shrugged. ‘Anything he could get. Labouring mostly, but he hasn’t had anything for nearly two years now.’

  ‘So yer’ve packed up an’ come to try yer luck?’

  ‘There wasn’t much to pack!’ she answered bitterly, her gaze flitting over his strong, muscular frame. He’d never gone to bed hungry night after night. He’d never had to go begging along O’Connell Street, dressed in rags and with not a shoe to his foot in the freezing depths of winter. Getting precious little in the way of money but plenty of cuffs and curses. No, he’d never had to go back to the one stinking room they all shared in a crumbling, damp old house in a dark court off the mean, dirty streets that bordered the quays beside the River Liffey. No, nothing could be worse than the life they’d left in Dublin. ‘One of Pa’s friends told him there was work here, that they are digging a great tunnel right underneath the river so that trains and trams and cars can go right from one side to the other. Is that the truth of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, laconically.

  ‘It is the truth, isn’t it? Sure, haven’t I wondered myself if it wasn’t some joke they’d made up! Won’t it burst open and flood the whole place?’

  ‘Geroff, do yer think they’d dig it if they thought that would ’appen?’

  It was obvious that he considered her an ignorant Irish slummy. Two bright spots of colour appeared on her cheeks and her dark brows rushed together. ‘Well, if that’s the case, he’ll soon find work, won’t he?’

  ‘Don’t bet on it, ’alf the men of Liverpool are lookin’ fer work, too. An’ they’ve been diggin’ fer ages now.’