Page 112 of Summer in Greece

‘I can see I’ve embarrassed you, Gertie. Do forgive me,’ Perkins said. ‘Become my wife and I will tell the world it was not you that opened the portholes. Do you understand?’

Oh dear! In a flash I saw a solution to all my problems. I was a traitor, a Judas, selling Perkins out for deliverance from these scandalous accusations. Allegations that were true. Yes, I did open the portholes, but I was determined to deny it, difficult as that was. This was not only for my own good, but for Merriberry who had been so supportive to me and would surely lose her job if the truth came out.

How many more lives would be lost if Merriberry left the medical profession? Also, I would not confess for my father’s sake. He did not deserve any more trouble in his life. And for my baby, who needed two parents. If I was prepared to surrender the man I loved for the sake of my child’s reputation, then so be it. Perkins had offered me this solution and I was seriously considering it, only because I suspected Manno’s baby grew inside me. The hole I dug for myself grew deeper and deeper.

*

The newspaper reporter was a stern looking man in his mid-thirties, all worsted suit, leather polish, and Brilliantine. He had a thick head of dark, glossy hair, and a mole with silver bristles on his jaw. He shook hands with father, Mr Hammersmith, and Perkins and half bowed towards me and the other ladies as an afterthought.

‘Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be out of your way as quickly as possible.’

Father indicated a chair at the dining table and as the reporter moved towards it, my father threw me a cautionary glance that said, think before you speak. I replied with a slight nod. He pointed to another chair and said, ‘After you,’ to me. A clever move, because it instantly made the sitting reporter slightly embarrassed for his manners. ‘Thank you, Father,’ I replied.

When we were all seated around the dining table with our tea, sandwiches, and cake, Father said, ‘Do you have a list of questions for my daughter, Mr . . . ?’

‘William Baily, at your service, sir. Yes, I came prepared so as not to waste your time.’

‘And do you have a carbon copy for our records, Mr Baily?’

The reporter looked flustered for a second. I considered how much I loved my father when he insisted Mr Baily rewrote the questions out on double paper with a sheet of carbon between. I watched, considering each question as he wrote. No surprises. Another shrewd move of my father’s.

‘Please leave a space for my daughter’s answers, under each question, and of course, a space at the end for her signature, and for the signature of the witness. Thank you.’

A slightly smug smile flickered across Father’s lips.

The interview was on a par with the inquiry, except that he did not bully me. Mr Baily was surprisingly courteous. He wrote everything down, dated and signed, and asked my father and Matron a few questions too. I relaxed; fully confident the newspaper would not misrepresent me.

After, when the men lit their cigars and swirled their brandy, I wandered outside and found Matron and Josephine sipping sherry at a table set beneath the big oak tree.

‘Gertie, come and join us. We were just talking about Kea,’ Josephine said. ‘Did you know Matron has just returned from there?’

Matron smiled. ‘There was a memorial service for those unfortunate souls that were not found. The villagers remembered you. The nurse whose father kept the army’s pigeons. They spoke fondly of you, Gertie.’

‘Did you see the mailman and his father, the ones that saved us, Matron?’

‘Manno was away to Syros. However, his father invited us to eat at his house with his daughter-in-law and his two grandchildren.’

‘Daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren?’ My mouth dried, what was she saying?

Merriberry nodded. ‘Charming toddlers. Easy to see they would grow up to be spectacularly beautiful.’

Manno had a family on Kea! Now I understood why he had not answered my letters.

*

The next morning, Father paced up and down the drawing room muttering to himself. When he realised I’d entered the room he stopped and stared at me. ‘Have you seen this morning’s newspaper, Gertie?’ he asked gravely.

‘No, not yet, Father.’ The broadsheet lay on the table. When I investigated, it was clear to see the newspaper editor believed I was at least partly to blame for the Britannic’s death toll.

TORPEDO OR MINE? the headline queried. Two paragraphs later, it went on to ask:

Who opened the portholes? An action that caused the two-million-pound ship to sink before it reached land. Below we have an exclusive interview with Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse, Gertrude Smith. Was this young woman responsible for the loss of so many lives, and also this great financial cost that our country must bear in these troubled times?

The reporter had only used half of the questions, which distorted the facts and made it look as though I had opened the portholes in defiance of the orders.

Mrs Cooper did not come into work until eleven o’clock.

‘Is everything all right, Mrs Cooper?’ my father asked, glancing at the clock.