GILL PAUL
We Sink or Swim Together
Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © Gill Paul 2015
Gill Paul asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008136116
Version: 2015–05–06
Table of Contents
Read on for an extract of No Place for a Lady
Gerda stood on deck to watch the view as the Lusitania steamed down the Hudson River, coloured flags streaming from the masts and a choir singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’. She had lived in Brooklyn for five years but had only travelled into Manhattan a handful of times and had just seen the brand new buildings thrusting up into the clouds – ‘skyscrapers’, they called them – from a distance. She especially loved the Woolworth building, said to be the tallest in the world, its windows glinting in early afternoon sunshine on this fresh spring day. As the ship passed the harbour bar, she could smell the ocean. She knew rivers and sea mingled here because not far up the East River she liked to swim in a floating pool, where the water had a slightly salty flavour.
Gerda had mixed emotions about the trip: she longed to see her sister Thomasine and meet her new niece and nephew, to feel part of a family again, but at the same time she dreaded those familiar questions – ‘Is there not a beau? Someone special perhaps?’ – and the sense of failure they induced. At the age of twenty-nine, she was firmly ‘on the shelf’ and had no idea why it had turned out that way because, she yearned for a husband, someone to love who would stop her feeling so alone. She was pretty enough, with blonde, blue-eyed, Norwegian looks from the country of her birth; she was a talented seamstress who dressed well, given her limited means; and she lived in a respectable house, with no slur on her good name. She met gentlemen from time to time – nice gentlemen, with decent jobs – and they called on her for a while and then stopped, either saying they were ‘too busy’ or simply drifting away without explanation.
‘You’re too direct,’ her friend Charlotte told her. ‘You come across as too keen.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. How do I act differently from anyone else?’ She’d watched other girls, noted their jocular repartee, their bright smiles, the hand placed lightly on a man’s forearm, and she tried her best to emulate them, though it made her feel false.
‘Do you remember when Mr Taylor, the jeweller, began to call on you? You barely knew him and yet you asked about the extent of the accommodation above his shop, as if you were interviewing a potential husband.’
‘I was curious – that’s all.’
‘And with Mr Eliot, a highly eligible bachelor, you asked if he would consider pruning his whiskers …’
Gerda wrinkled her nose; she could see that had perhaps been indelicate, but his facial hair was so overgrown a small rodent could easily have nested therein.
‘You need to stop yourself blurting out personal questions. Be mysterious. Try to act as if you have dozens of gentlemen callers, as if you are the kind of girl who receives proposals every day of the week but will only accept if you meet someone exceptional.’
Gerda mused on this but still couldn’t imagine how she would follow it. If she play-acted too much the man might fall in love with the person she was pretending to be and she’d have to maintain the act throughout her marriage. Perhaps some women did that, but she feared she wasn’t a good enough actress.
Two young boys were running along the deck twirling hoops on sticks, and when she turned to watch, she caught eyes with a dark-haired man standing ten feet away. He wore a trilby and a nice suit: single-breasted, decently tailored, expensive cloth. He smiled and she smiled back instinctively.
A minute later he appeared at her elbow. ‘I didn’t like to disturb you as you seemed lost in thought. I hope you are not melancholy to be leaving New York City.’
He was English, with a northern accent and friendly eyes. ‘Not at all. I was simply admiring the view.’
‘Aha! Do I detect a hint of a Geordie accent?’
‘Actually I’m Norwegian, but my sister and I grew up in South Shields … And you?’
‘Manchester. T’other side of the Pennines. The name’s John Welsh. But friends call me Jack.’
‘Gerda Nielsen.’
He touched his hat. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Miss Nielsen.’
‘What brought you to America, Mr Welsh?’ she asked, wondering if he might be one of those men who came out to the New World to make their fortunes then returned home to collect their wives or fiancées once established.
‘I’ve been in Honolulu working for the Marconi radio company, but I got homesick for the old country. Now I want to go home and settle down, taste Ma’s hotpot and drink a decent cup of tea … What about you?’
‘I’ve been working in a dressmaker’s in Brooklyn but I’m on my way back to visit my sister.’ America was now a hazy mass on the horizon and all around them was dark