Chapter Eighteen
I’d never heard so many Irish voices outside of Dublin as I did in Portsmouth and Southsea that summer.
Employed to work at the royal dockyard and the railway station, the Irish were everywhere.
They helped with our luggage and found us a conveyance to take us to our hotel.
The concierge was from Belfast, the porters from Cobh, Dublin and Galway.
It was a comfort to be surrounded by the singsong lilt of my homeland again.
The view from our room was panoramic, taking in the green of the common and the wide expanse of sand and water.
We were a short walk from the entertainment and stalls on the Clarence Esplanade Pier.
I began to imagine days of wandering the shore, eating ice-creams, watching the performers in town for the season and reading the books I’d squeezed into my bag.
While I’d worried about maintaining my pretence of being friendly towards Mr Irving on the trip south, especially in the close quarters of a railway carriage, it had been for naught.
Between comforting young Irving, who was overtired and grizzling, and being grateful when Elizabeth and Emma took it in turns to carry him up and down the train, the rest of us sat in comfort and drank tea, ate the cake Mrs Daw had packed, and exchanged stories.
When Mr Irving tried, he could be a pleasant companion.
I wondered briefly what he thought of me.
After all, I’d given him no cause to hold me in affection.
We spoke of many things – William Terriss’s new lady friend, an actress from Drury Lane; the Prince of Wales’s current mistress; and Mr Disraeli’s loss in the recent election.
We were of a mind that being free of parliamentary duties meant he could at last finish the novel he’d started years ago.
‘Whether anyone will read it is, of course, another matter entirely,’ said Mr Irving.
‘It’s what preoccupies every author,’ said Bram, revealing himself.
‘Does the work merit readers?’ Despite being busy, he’d almost finished writing a collection of short stories for children, Under the Sunset, and would soon be seeking a publisher.
With hopes it might be advantageous for Bram, I’d invited the publisher I met the night of the Merchant of Venice celebration months ago, Mr Marston, over for afternoon tea when we returned.
I reached across and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘Surely, publishers only accept work of quality, those that they believe have a readership.’
‘Ah,’ said Ellen, ‘I’m certain they give the famous special dispensation, assured the name will sell. Quality is not always a consideration.’
The days at Southsea became a blur of strolls along the seashore with Ellen, babbie Irving, Elizabeth and Emma, watching pantomimes and puppet shows at the pier, and lots of talking.
When the weather was inclement, there were card games, chess and quiet reading.
Tired from the eventful days, young Irving would be abed early and either Emma or Elizabeth would have the night to themselves.
Our evenings were most often spent in the hotel restaurant, watching the mellow sunset and drinking wine and whisky.
After dinner, the men puffed away on cigars or went for evening ambles along the foreshore, Bram content as a milk-addled cat.
That left Ellen and me, blankets across our knees to keep the cold at bay, wine in hand, and the moonlit sea to gaze upon as we gossiped.
It wasn’t until the holiday was drawing to a close that the newfound accord between me and Henry (as he demanded I call him) ended abruptly.
For the last two days, we’d been confined indoors due to incessant rain.
When the sun finally appeared, Bram and Henry decided to hire a boat.
Naturally, we women weren’t invited as the men wanted to fish and declared feminine chatter would scare away any chance of a catch (I’d argue it was lack of skill and patience as opposed to women’s conversation).
If Ellen and I weren’t enduring hours and hours of endless (and, frankly, quite smug and self-congratulatory) dialogues and evaluations between Bram and Henry of how well the Lyceum was doing, how fabulous their choice of productions, we were being forced to listen to them forecasting future ones, making plans to tour North America, and what a wonderful actor Henry was.
He didn’t seem to notice or care that his leading lady was right there.
Nor that much of what he took credit for was due to Bram.
The vanity of the man was breathtaking and I was fast reaching the limits of my tolerance.
I wasn’t the only one glad to see the back of him and Bram for the morning.
Ellen and I, along with Elizabeth, Emma and the babbie, decided to take a picnic to the beach, having exhausted other pursuits.
It was a lovely day – the calm after the storm of the night before, as one old sea salt noted.
The sky was a glorious duck-egg blue, a few wispy clouds drifted, gulls squawked and floated in the thermals above.
We found a secluded spot and laid out a thick blanket.
We all wore wide-brimmed hats and removed our shoes so we might burrow our toes in the gritty sand.
Babbie was thoroughly enjoying himself until he grasped a fistful and shoved it in his mouth.
Oh, the cries! Emma and Elizabeth whisked him back to the hotel, leaving me and Ellen alone.
Such bliss. Just us, some egg sandwiches, Victoria sponge and cordial, the sunshine, and a friendly hound that came over and lay beside us, sharing some crusts.
‘Where do you think they’re going?’ asked Ellen, shading her eyes and looking across the bay.
The men’s boat was heading west towards a large fort on the other side of the wide harbour. Henry was signalling dramatically to the boatman, urging him to continue rowing.
‘Even off stage,’ said Ellen, ‘he can’t help giving orders.’
‘At least it’s not to Bram.’
‘Not today, at any rate.’ Ellen flashed a smile. ‘Did you know Henry doesn’t direct productions? Not really. He pretty much leaves us actors to our own devices. He’s much more interested in the staging of a show, the overall effect.’
‘I always imagined him needing to be in complete control.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, he is. He just manages from a distance.’
‘Not everyone,’ I said. ‘Some he manages very closely.’
We sat quietly a while, watching as the boat drew closer to the forbidding-looking fort. People on the beach noticed it too, and were standing and pointing.
‘It must be hard, though,’ I continued, trying to ignore the small craft, the attention it was attracting. Why were people so interested? ‘To both oversee a play and star in it. Is Henry ever tempted to step back? Cede the starring role to another actor? Say, someone like William Terriss?’
Ellen guffawed. ‘William? Never. Nor anyone else for that matter, even if it did ease his burden.’ She sighed.
‘The problem with Henry as an actor is that he doesn’t allow anyone else to shine.
He quite literally steals all the attention – not only by choosing plays in which he can take the lead, but by insisting the limelight remains on him, casting the rest of us into literal shade. ’
It wasn’t like Ellen to offer criticism of her lover, and I wisely remained silent.
‘I’ve tried speaking to him about it – Bram too —’
An almighty boom rang out. The ground shook, knocking me and Ellen backwards. We both shrieked as a huge column of water erupted like a gigantic fountain right next to Bram and Henry’s boat. It dropped with a roar, a liquid wall that momentarily obscured them.
‘Bram!’ I cried.
‘Henry!’ screamed Ellen.
We scrambled to our feet and ran to the water’s edge. What on God’s good earth had just happened? The boat was mercifully intact and the men, while drenched, sat clutching the sides of the wildly rocking vessel.
‘Bram! Henry!’ I yelled, waving my arms. Ellen jumped up and down, shouting, ‘Are you alright?’
Either they were deaf from the explosion, or we were too far away to be heard. People joined us, muttering in confusion and fear, pointing and gesticulating. There was another boom, muffled, deep. A woman shrieked. Ellen fell against me, then more water shot into the air.
This was followed by yet another explosion and waterspout, and then another. Along the beach, there were cries of fright, as people staggered into each other and the ground quaked. Children were sobbing. A couple of dogs began barking and yowling.
Amidst it all, the small vessel pitched violently. More water spewed, suddenly, ferociously. It was like a battle. Each time a boom sounded, Ellen and I almost lost our footing. Dead fish began to float to the surface.
‘There must be some kind of ordinance,’ I shouted above the noise. ‘In the bay.’
Ellen grabbed my arm. ‘Dear Lord. They’ll be blown to bits.’
The underwater detonations continued to ignite around the boat.
Instead of heading to safety when they could, we watched in disbelief as Henry forced Bram to sit back down (he’d been trying to use the oars to head to shore), and casually reclined in the bow and lit a cigar, passing it to Bram.
He then found another for himself. Seemingly unperturbed, the boatman gathered fish in a bucket, while Bram and Henry puffed away, bombs discharging around them.
A leathery local joined us just as another reverberation sounded.
‘Fools,’ he said in his gravelly voice, using the stem of his pipe to point at the boat. ‘They’ve drifted into an underwater minefield,’ he explained.
‘What?’ Ellen and I chorused.
‘Aye, they’ve coasted into the area used by the navy over yon fort for training. Didn’t they see the warning signs?’ His pipe indicated some signage by the jetty. ‘They’ll be lucky to make it to shore in one piece.’ He shook his head and wandered off.
Finally, the discharges ceased. The silence was deafening.
Bit by bit, normal sounds resumed. The lazy murmuring of the waves, the sniffles of children, the chatter of those who’d gathered at the foreshore ambling back to their spots.
The caw of gulls. Henry’s voice carried across the now calm water.
Following his instructions, the boatman picked up the oars and headed for land.
Ellen and I ran to meet the boat.
‘That was a right craic,’ chuckled Bram, leaping ashore then offering Henry his hand.
‘I’ve never felt so alive,’ exclaimed Henry, stepping onto the sand and stretching his arms above his head.
‘You pair of eejits,’ I bellowed as I reached them, my fear bursting forth. ‘What were you thinking? And don’t you look at me like that,’ I reprimanded the boatman, shaking my finger at him. ‘What were you doing taking them over there? They could have been killed.’
‘’Twas that gentleman insisted, ma’am.’ The boatman nodded towards Henry, who gave an amused shrug.
‘I wanted to see the fort. Didn’t know it would defend itself from curiosity quite so vehemently.’
‘Henry,’ cautioned Ellen. Her eyes flashed. ‘We thought you were going to —’ Tears began to well.
I was too angry to cry. ‘Surely, you knew about the minefield, Bram. You’ve been talking to all and sundry. Someone must have warned you. There are signs.’ I gestured towards them.
‘Oh, they did,’ admitted Henry. ‘There are. We just thought it worth the risk.’
Ellen gasped. I swung to Bram. ‘Worth risking your life? You have a son, Bram. A wife, too, yet you still went on this foolhardy boys’ adventure? Do you realise what might have happened?’
‘But it didn’t, Florrie,’ began Bram, holding out his arms. I slapped them away.
‘Don’t you Florrie me. I can’t believe that you only thought to satisfy your own selfish desires —’
‘Florence, Florrie,’ said Henry, using his Shylock voice, like treacle over pancakes.
‘Stop making such a fuss, dear. Leave Brammie alone. No harm has been done.’ He laughed and, before I could prevent it, looped his arm through mine.
‘Come, let’s go back to the hotel, and while Brammie and I change our clothes, how about I organise a whisky, or better still, a tisane for you.
Calm those nerves. Funny, you never struck me as the hysterical kind. ’ He patted my hand.
I was made to walk a few steps with him, Bram and Ellen following, before the fury spreading in my chest reached my head. I whipped my arm from his, any notion of being strategic forgotten.
I stood inches from him, our faces level.
‘How dare you,’ I began; my tone was steel.
‘You may have my husband at your beck and call, but you’ve no right to tell me what to do and how to think or feel.
’ My words were a sword that I thrust again and again.
‘Nor do you have any right to tell me how I may speak to my husband. That’s my business, which makes it absolutely none of yours, sir.
This is not the theatre. I’m not a character in your production that you can direct hither and thither and bend to your will.
This is real life, Henry, mine and Bram’s, and I won’t allow you to treat it with your usual callous disregard. ’
Henry’s mouth dropped open. ‘No-one has ever spoken to me like that before.’
‘Then it’s about time,’ I snapped.
‘Brammie,’ said Henry. ‘Are you going to allow your wife to speak to me like that?’
I spun towards my husband, folding my arms. ‘Well, Brammie?’ I dared him.
Ellen stifled a grin.
Bram shifted his gaze between me and Henry, guilt rearranging his features. He cleared his throat. ‘Err … Florence doesn’t need my permission to speak, Henry.’
I almost keeled over then and there. At once, the heat of my temper cooled.
‘Well,’ I said, brushing sand from my skirts so Bram and the others wouldn’t clock my astonished expression, ‘I’ve had my say and will not mention it again.
Go change your clothes, Bram. The mines may not have killed you, but you’ll catch a death in those sodden garments.
’ I deliberately ignored Henry. ‘I’m going to check on the wee mannie.
Like me and Ellen, he swallowed something most unpalatable. Coming, Ellen?’
With a last withering look in Henry’s direction, I entwined my arm through hers and returned to the hotel.