Chapter Eleven
James returned with a car within the hour. It was a Ford Model A, painted deep maroon with black hubs and cream wheels. He had paid almost double what it was worth new – $1,000 was more than the average annual salary, and the owner had handed over the keys almost without question. Cash in hand didn’t require an explanation. James had also bought a map and some pretzels in a brown paper bag, and they started out on the road less than ninety minutes after they’d docked.
Although it supposedly had a top speed of 65 mph, the car struggled to nudge past forty, and they drove for four hours before reaching the outskirts of Quebec City. It was large – far larger than Flora had expected, with tall factory chimneys in the distance speaking to heavy industry and rapid industrialization.
She looked on, mute and overawed that they were finally here. This was it. After a month at sea, they had arrived in the city that was Mary and Lorna’s last known destination. They passed through historical city gates, along narrow streets and wide boulevards, roads chaotic with so many cars and trams that made Glasgow look like a provincial village in comparison. Flora sat straighter and pointed at an extravagant green-roofed building on top of the hill.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
James peered up at it and smiled, but he looked tired. ‘Chateau Frontenac. Our bed for the night.’
She already knew it would be wonderful. Sumptuous. He had done – was doing – so much for her, getting them over here against all the odds, tackling every obstacle that sprang up in their path.
Her eyes fell again to his reddened knuckles, and she wondered how Digby Tucker was explaining his black eye to his wife. If James hadn’t come back for his scarf...
‘You’re so pale, darling,’ she murmured, reaching an arm across and stroking his hair.
He nuzzled her back. This morning’s disturbance had shaken them both, even if it had led to a breakthrough of sorts. ‘So are you.’
‘I’m fine...I feel the best I’ve felt in months.’ She refused to believe they were too late. She would not consider that this might be where the trail went cold, where their hopes might die. No one could go through all this, only for it to be for nothing – surely?
She looked out of the window, scanning for the tall cranes, railway tracks and grain silos that would announce the docks. Billboards flashed past, bearing slogans she couldn’t understand. What if this Joseph Landon only spoke French?
‘Do you speak French?’ she asked him.
‘Un petit peu,’ he replied, but then, seeing she didn’t understand, added, ‘A little...Enough. Don’t worry, I know how to make myself understood.’
The immigration hall was located on the Princess Louise quay, where all the Canadian Pacific Empress liners docked. The building was three storeys high and faced with barred windows, but beyond its sturdy walls there was only a flimsy chain-link fence as a barrier between this side, Canadian territory, and the other side by the water, where the passengers and immigrants disembarked.
James parked and Flora jumped out to get a better look. She had glimpsed the black hulk of a docked ship, and she gasped as she saw gilded letters across the hull: Empress of Scotland .
‘That’s it!’ she breathed, taking in the sight as if it was magical. It had brought their child over here safely. ‘James, they were on this very ship.’
James nodded, but his gaze was fastened upon the railway track that lay on the other side of the fence, between the ship and the immigration building. She knew exactly what he was thinking.
They headed for the main door, where a sign hung saying ‘Welcome Home to Canada’. They stepped into a main hall, tall-ceilinged, bright – and deserted. Wooden benches ran the length of the room, some of them askew; there was a letterbox, a glass-windowed telegram cubicle, and a reception desk. ‘No Smoking’ was painted in large red letters on the wall; there was a sign for a foreign money exchange...
James’s shoes sounded on the strip floors as they walked through. ‘Hello?’ he called, his voice ringing off into the distance. ‘...Anybody here?’
They moved into the next room. It was smaller, with numerous partitions for dividing the crowds that would pass through here in the summer months – men; women and children; Canadian nationals; British subjects; American citizens; foreign nationals. A row of cubicles was set into a wall, tubular structures like cages positioned in front of the cubicle windows as if to keep the immigrants set back. Glossy plaques were mounted above the windows: Intercolonial Railway; Grand Trunk Railway; Canadian National Railway; Canadian Pacific Railway. A door leading out. Passengers could literally disembark, be processed through Immigration and step onto a train – one of many lines – that would take them anywhere in Canada. They wouldn’t even need to step foot in the city. The ease of dispersion in this vast country concerned her.
Behind them a door slammed, footsteps crossing the floor in the other room.
‘Hello?’ James broke into a sprint, disappearing through the doorway as Flora hurried after him. She stepped through moments later to find him in conversation with a man who looked more than a little startled.
‘...pas ici! C’est interdit!’
Flora looked at James in panic. Did he understand a word?
‘Oui, je sais,’ James replied calmly. ‘C’est tout bien. Je cherche un ami...Joseph Landon?’
‘...Landon?’
‘Oui.’
The man looked at James, then at her. They were both respectably dressed, clearly rich. She smiled and the man seemed to wilt a little.
‘Il est là-bas,’ he said, lifting his arm and seemingly pointing to the next building. ‘Au deuxième étage.’
‘Deuxième?’ James clarified, holding up two fingers.
‘Oui.’
‘Merci. Merci, monsieur,’ James said, taking his hand before the man could withdraw and shaking it with gratitude.
Flora smiled too as she passed him, hurrying after James across the empty hall. He burst out through the door where they had entered and crossed the road towards another building. Above the door, a sign read: ‘Office of Immigration and Colonization; Harbour Commission’.
A woman looked up from her typewriter, frowning, as they walked in. ‘Nous sommes fermés,’ she said abruptly.
James hesitated. ‘Do you speak English, by any chance?’
Her lips pursed. ‘We are closed,’ she said with a heavy accent.
‘I’m looking for an old friend – Joseph Landon. I was told I could find him here. Upstairs.’
She sized them up, but James’s casual reference to an old friend, his specificness of Landon’s whereabouts, worked in his favour. ‘Attendez,’ she said finally, picking up a telephone and speaking rapidly into it. There was an agonizing pause. ‘...Il vient.’
‘Merci,’ James nodded. He had taken off his hat, and Flora could see he was trying not to wring it in his hands as he paced a few steps. Could it really be this easy, after weeks of obstacles and delays?
Several minutes passed, the woman typing with ferocious stabs on the keys, her eyes darting suspiciously towards them every few moments. Then came footsteps on the stairs and they looked up to see a man with curly, dark hair coming down with an expectant look. He stopped short as he took in the two strangers.
‘Ah, Landon,’ James said, immediately marching forward and offering his hand, so familiar as an old friend that the man instinctively responded in kind. He looked at them in bewilderment; Flora could see he was trying to place them. Did he in fact know them? ‘Good to see you again. Old Tucker said we’d find you here.’
Tucker’s name registered immediately. Flora watched Landon’s expression change as he looked between the two of them, seeming to get an understanding of the situation.
‘Comment ca-va?’ James smiled, aware of the typist watching them.
Landon withdrew his hand and slipped it into his trouser pocket. ‘Can’t complain, although the weather’s a bastard,’ the man replied in a broad Irish accent. ‘How is Tucker?’
‘Faring well. We just sailed over with him on the Empress of Britain .’
Landon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘She only docked this morning. You’ve made it to here from Montreal in a day?’
‘Yes, we’ve a tight schedule.’ James’s gaze was steady, though there was an easy smile on his lips. He really was a social chameleon, able to adapt to anyone. ‘We wondered if you fancied coming for a drink with us while we’re in town?’
Landon hesitated. ‘Well, I’ve a bit more paperwork to shift before I can get out this hellhole...Why don’t y’s both come up to my desk for a moment and we can talk over old times here for a bit?’
‘Marvellous idea,’ James said brightly, immediately following him up the stairs. He turned back to Flora. ‘Come on, darling.’
Flora felt the typist’s eyes upon her again as she delicately picked her way up the stairs.
The office was large but subdivided with partitions at each desk, overhead lights hanging low at intervals. Outside, the lights from the docks glowed, the sound of a train in the distance coming down the tracks.
‘Looks like we caught you in the nick of time,’ James said, making conversation as Landon led them over to his desk, set alongside the wall. ‘Long day?’
Landon didn’t reply; they were quite alone in the large room now and out of earshot of the receptionist. The pretence didn’t need to be upheld. ‘Why’s Tucker sent you here?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Let’s just say he owed us a favour,’ James replied, matching the shift in tone, his cordial smile now gone. This was business. ‘He said you’d be able to help us with what we’re looking for...for a fee, naturally.’ James pulled his coat back and opened his jacket to reveal a slim wad of cash in the inner pocket. He had had his British pounds changed for dollars when they’d arrived in Montreal, ready for buying the car.
There was a pause as Landon regarded them both, sizing them up.
‘This isn’t a sting,’ James said, reading his mind. ‘You can trust us. It was Tucker who told us to find you. We’re all friends. Mallory and my wife are inseparable.’
Flora tried not to shudder as Landon’s gaze settled upon her more heavily. She doubted the man had ever met Tucker’s wife, but James’s comment had given him permission to look at her more closely, and no one ever seemed to pass up that opportunity.
‘Tucker said you were the only man for the job.’
Landon looked back at him with a cautious look, flattered in spite of himself. ‘What is it y’want?’
‘Just to find someone...Well, three people, actually. They were travelling together. Two women and a baby. They came over on the Empress of Scotland .’
‘And why do you want to know? What is it to you?’
‘They’re friends of ours – both widows – and we’d like to see them while we’re over here.’ James’s voice was cool but Landon’s eyes narrowed, sensing the lie.
‘You’ve a lot of friends, it seems.’
‘Indeed we have. But our circumstances are more...fortunate than theirs. We promised their families back home that we’d check they’re getting on well in their new lives here.’
Landon clearly didn’t believe a word of it, but he also looked like he didn’t much care. ‘What’s the names?’ he sighed, reaching for a pencil and notebook.
‘Lorna MacDonald. Mary McKinnon...The baby is called Struan McKinnon.’
Landon tore off the sheet of paper and folded it, slipping it into his trouser pocket. ‘I’ll look into it – but that won’t be enough,’ he said, jerking his chin towards James’s pocket.
‘Of course not,’ James said coolly, reaching his hand in and drawing out the cash. ‘This is simply the advance. I’ll pay the same again when you tell me their whereabouts.’
He held out the money, his gaze level.
Landon hesitated, then took it with a nod. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he muttered. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Frontenac.’
Landon sniffed, as if he’d guessed as much. Flora didn’t drip in jewels like Mallory Tucker and James didn’t have a Mediterranean tan like Dickie Grainger – but there was something in the cut of their clothes, or perhaps the gleam of their hair, that quietly spoke to wealth. She had been aware of it when she’d been on the other side as a barefoot wild isle girl, and in the course of her experiences in Glasgow, in Paris and on the crossing over here, she had gradually acquired a rich gloss.
‘Then we’ll meet at the Old Homestead hotel on Place d’Armes. Opposite the Frontenac. I’ll let you know when.’
‘As you wish, Mr Landon,’ James said, tipping his hat.
‘Thank you, Mr Landon,’ Flora murmured. ‘We’re so grateful.’
Landon watched as James led her back towards the stairs. By the time they stepped out into the night, it was raining, but neither of them noticed.
‘It really is a castle,’ Flora said, her eyes trailing over the bedroom’s oak-panelled walls and heavy damask curtains. Turrets, turning staircases, tapestries...The Frontenac’s atmosphere was so different from the silken froth and cool finesse of the Paris Ritz, yet it oozed the same sense of heritage and wealth. There were, she was learning, many different ways to be rich.
She looked back at James as he shrugged off his coat, remembering how they had first met on the shores of St Kilda, crowded by mountains and cottages. Their future – not least the idea that they would ever find themselves here, on the seventeenth floor of the hotel’s main tower – had been impossible to predict as they’d stood barefoot on that golden sand.
‘What is it?’ he asked, sensing her gaze as he removed his hat.
‘Nothing,’ she smiled, drawing one from him too as he came over and took her into his arms. He kissed her tenderly, knowing she wasn’t the firecracker she had once been, that a fissure ran through her now that hadn’t been there before. She clung to him, resting her head on his chest. His heartbeat was the only steadiness in her life right now. She had no home; only him.
‘Are you hungry?’ His voice vibrated against her ear as he stroked her hair, and she nodded.
‘Famished. But I’m too tired to dress for dinner,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Can’t we have something up here?’
He smiled. ‘I’m afraid not.’
She pulled back. ‘Oh.’
‘There’s something we have to attend to first. Paperwork and the like.’
‘...Oh,’ she said again. The bureaucracy of immigration was overwhelming to her.
‘But I promise, champagne and sandwiches back here as soon as we’re done, yes?’
She nodded, suppressing a sigh as he turned to open their trunk. The clothes they had been wearing in heavy rotation for the past five weeks lay folded in crushed layers.
‘Hmm,’ said James. He reached for the telephone on a side table and called reception. Flora wandered over to the window seat, hardly noticing his half of the conversation. ‘Hello, yes...Callaghan...housekeeping services...if you would. Thank you.’
She glanced up as he came to stand beside her. ‘They’re going to send someone up to refresh our clothes. We can’t go down in wrinkles.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ she murmured. All she really wanted to do was sit here and look out over the city where their son might, at this very moment, be sleeping. He could be anywhere down there: in a pram they passed on the street, on the other side of an open window...
‘Darling, I’m going to pop downstairs to see if I can’t get ahead with this dratted paperwork. Once they’ve attended to you, come down and find me, yes?’
Flora straightened up as James headed for the door. She’d been in a daydream. ‘But...’
He was almost out of the room.
‘James? How will I find you?’
‘I’ll just be downstairs,’ he smiled, closing the door after him.
Flora blinked, before turning back to the twinkling lights of the city outside. It was dark now and she wondered whether anyone was looking up at her, silhouetted in the window of the city’s landmark building.
There came a knock at the door several minutes later and she stirred reluctantly.
‘Hello,’ she said, opening up to a bellboy standing there.
‘For you, Madame,’ he said, holding out a large box secured with a blue satin ribbon.
Flora frowned in confusion. ‘No, we asked for housekeeping.’
‘Oui, Madame, for you.’ And he held out the box towards her. ‘From Monsieur Callaghan.’
‘What?’ Flora took it in bewilderment, watching as he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.
She closed the door and stared at the box for a moment. When had James had a chance to go shopping? They’d been together all day.
No, they hadn’t, of course, she remembered.
He must have bought it when he’d gone to find the car, hidden it in the trunk and arranged for it to be brought up here for her as a surprise. The day had been long, intense and, in parts, distressing, but he showed her he loved her in a myriad of ways.
She took it over to the bed, slipping the ribbons off the corners with a smile.
Candles flickered in the oak-panelled room, moody shadows sloping over the floors as James waited for her before the desk that would serve as their altar.
His smile widened, climbing into his eyes as he took in the sight of her in the gown he had picked out for her: buttery ivory silk, cut on the bias, with lace cap sleeves and a short tulle veil on a mother-of-pearl comb. She had kept her long dark hair free, simply brushing it to a shine and accessorizing with the posy of dark pink roses that had arrived at the room a few minutes after the dress.
He had thought of everything. He always did. She had made only one adjustment of her own, a detail that was true to her.
She walked slowly towards him as somewhere a string quartet played. He looked so handsome in his new suit, and she marvelled at the way he always managed to surprise her. She had long since come to terms with the fact that their wedding would have to happen without her family in attendance; circumstances dictated prioritizing respectability over sentimentality or tradition. She had known they would marry at the first opportunity. She just hadn’t realized he meant the first opportunity.
Her gaze, acclimatizing now to the small, formal salon, took in the Justice of the Peace standing on the far side of the desk, two witnesses standing off to one side. She laughed softly, wondering how on earth he had managed to pull this together when all she had done for most of the day was stare out of windows.
‘You look even more beautiful than I dreamed,’ he murmured as she stopped in front of him. His gaze flickered downwards. ‘...Did the shoes not fit?’
‘Oh, aye, they did. But you said it yourself – you can take the girl out of St Kilda,’ she whispered, wiggling her bare toes against the plush rug underfoot. ‘...But never St Kilda out of the girl.’