Past & Present Read online

  Misty’s Message: The type of partnership depends on whether your connection involves the past, present, or future, but your role, however slight, will be a powerful one that includes mutual trust and respect. Will it reunite two lovers? Perhaps. Or perhaps it will shed light on the lives of past lovers, no longer with us.

  Misty had taken the Two of Cups and turned it into a request for information through a mutual partnership. I should have been grateful, something in the way she formulated the post had resonated with Geoffrey Burrell. But it did make me wonder why she put in the part about the lives of past lovers. She wouldn’t know about Anneliese and Anton. Could Misty actually have psychic powers? I shook my head. Chantelle must have updated her.

  “Guilty as charged,” Chantelle said. We were sipping tea and munching on store-bought chocolate chip cookies while we waited for Geoffrey Burrell. If he were the punctual type, he’d be arriving within the next ten minutes.

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Her last post was effective. She may not be a partner, but she is part of our team. I didn’t give her any names, just the basic storyline. I hope you’re not upset with me.”

  “To be honest, I’m relieved. I can deal with Misty interpreting tarot in her own inimitable fashion, especially if it brings us leads or clients, but I’m not ready to label her as a bona fide psychic.”

  Chantelle laughed. “You’re not ready to label anyone a bona fide psychic.”

  She was right. Nonetheless, Misty’s Messages did seem to resonate. “I probably shouldn’t be so dismissive. Her approach appears to be striking a chord. Maybe we should get her working on some other messages. I don’t know what other messages, mind you.”

  “I’m sure she would have all sorts of ideas, especially if we gave her the slightest bit of direction. And she has done a great job on the website so far.”

  I admitted I hadn’t gotten beyond the most recent post.

  “Seriously? You have to check it out. Misty has child pages set up for the major and minor arcana, along with a photo of every single card in the tarot deck. I checked the stats, and both pages are already getting a ton of hits.”

  I promised to check it out as the doorbell rang. “That will be Geoffrey Burrell.”

  I’ve always believed that most people match their voice, i.e. big and boisterous generally meant a person of generous spirit and proportions, whereas soft-spoken and breathy belonged to someone young, sexy, and slender, or maybe a Marilyn Monroe type, a buxom blonde well aware of her charms. If that was the rule, then Geoffrey Burrell was the exception, for he was as thick and portly as his voice was thin and reedy. His height, or lack thereof, didn’t help his cause any. I’m five foot six in stocking feet. He was a good two inches shorter than me.

  I took Geoffrey’s coat and hung it on the hall tree, a fabulous piece I’d found at a local furniture store specializing in Mennonite goods. It had been made from a submerged log that had been salvaged and stained, with railroad spikes as the hooks, and a base carved out of pine. Not only did it look good, it made up for the fact that the front hall closet fit exactly six coats, crammed together.

  Geoffrey pulled his mustard yellow sweater over his considerable belly and slipped off his shoes, his black leather briefcase in hand the entire time as if I might take it and run. I adjusted my height estimation of him down by two more inches. The man might have been closing in on eighty and as bald and wrinkled as the day he was brought into the world, but he wore lifts. I stifled a grin. “You don’t need to remove your shoes.”

  “You have such lovely hardwood in here, I’d hate to scuff it up. Besides, I’m most comfortable just wearing socks.”

  Probably tired of wearing heels, I thought, suppressing a giggle. I invited him in and introduced him to Chantelle.

  The pleasantries exchanged, and the offer of tea, coffee, or cookies politely refused, Geoffrey got down to business, opened the briefcase, and pulled out a thin green binder filled with plastic sleeves. I was ridiculously excited at the prospect of finding out what was inside.

  “These are archival polyester sleeves,” Geoffrey said, his voice taking on a scholarly tone. “They provide a glass-clear, acid-free, non-yellowing or clouding, protective sleeve material which will allow us to handle and view the ephemera without obstruction. Additionally, the sleeves don’t crumple and the stiffness offers a good level of support and resistance from damage. Naturally, should you decide to make a photocopy, we can carefully remove the document from its archival sleeve.”

  I avoided Chantelle’s gaze, knowing that we might both burst out laughing if we made eye contact. Geoffrey Burrell had just told me more than I’d ever wanted or needed to know about archival polyester sleeves.

  “It’s fascinating, the way technology can protect our past,” I said, ignoring Chantelle’s kick under the table.

  “Isn’t it?” Geoffrey opened the binder to the first sleeve. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of material related to the Canberra, but you did say anything might be of interest, and I can certainly elaborate on the possible significance of each item as it relates to your case.”

  Geoffrey gently removed a cream-colored booklet titled “List of Passengers: T.S.S. Canberra Greek Line” in blue script. A Greek god, holding a three-pronged spear, was imprinted on the background in soft green. I thought back to my Greek mythology classes in high school. This must be Poseidon, Greek god of the sea. I caught Chantelle’s eye and knew she was thinking the same thing I was. Could this be the passenger list from Anneliese’s journey?

  “I’m afraid it’s not from June 1952,” he said, bursting my bubble. “The Canberra operated for the Greek Line from 1948 through 1954.” Geoffrey turned to the Title Page, which was dated Monday, June 4, 1951, for the journey from Montreal to Cherbourg, Southampton, and Bremerhaven.

  I felt a twinge of disappointment, but if my face showed anything, Geoffrey was oblivious. “This particular passenger list is not from June 1952, but this is what an intact passenger list would have looked like.” He turned a page that listed the ship’s officers, lingering for a moment before turning to the next, which listed first class passengers, broken down into three lists: Cherbourg, Southampton, and Bremerhaven. Each list had fewer than a dozen individuals, of which many were members of the same family. In the case of Cherbourg, for example, there were three surnames and ten passengers.

  Subsequent pages listed the tourist class passengers, which included seventy-plus names per category. Anton Osgoode was not on the list, not that I expected him to be. Some of the names had penciled checkmarks next to them. “What do the pencil marks mean?”

  “Very observant of you, and a good question,” Geoffrey said, his tone approving. “Travelers would carefully review and analyze the passenger list. Were any important people on board? Aristocrats, business tycoons, senior clergy, celebrities, and parliamentarians were all of interest. One would look for other passengers from the traveler’s home community, if it were shown. This particular list doesn’t include the passenger’s towns, but many lists did. In this case, my assumption is these tick marks were an aid to remember the names of the other parties seated at their dinner table.”

  Chantelle was studying the passenger list, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Would a first class passenger have an opportunity to dine or meet someone in tourist class?”

  I knew she was thinking of the postcard Anneliese had kept from the first class music salon. Since Anton Osgoode had been buyer for Eaton’s, a prestigious job at the time if Olivia was to be believed, he may have been in first class. Anneliese Prei, traveling on a German passport and emigrating from England, would have assuredly been in tourist class.

  “Do not let Rose and Jack and the Titanic be your guide,” Geoffrey said, with a chuckle. “The first class passengers would never mingle with the tourist class. It was simply not done. Should a tourist class passenger have somehow managed to find their way onto the first class deck, which is unlikely if not impossible, they would ha
ve been hastily removed and returned to their proper place.”

  Which meant that the postcard of the music salon was nothing more than a souvenir. It also meant Anton had traveled tourist class. I wondered if that bothered him, or perhaps there was a better chance of finding a guilt-free fling in tourist class. I realized I was being unfair to a man I’d never met, especially since Anneliese wasn’t blameless. After all, according to her passport, she was immigrating to Canada because she had a fiancé.

  Geoffrey was staring at me expectantly, and I realized that I’d probably missed something while I was spinning stories in my head. “I’m sorry, I was just mulling over everything you’ve told us so far.”

  The response appeared to mollify him, because he turned to a section on general information for passengers. There were warnings on opening portholes (definitely not recommended), details on laundry services, lost and found articles, mail and telegrams, baggage, storage of valuables, and religious services. It surprised me to see that deck chairs were rented out at a cost of a dollar and a half per day, pillows and rugs an additional seventy-five cents each.

  Anneliese’s immigration travel allowance equaled about forty dollars, her journey lasted nine days. Luxuries like deck chairs would have used up almost half of her allotment. I wasn’t sure what the rug meant, and asked Geoffrey about it.

  “Technically it’s a thick woolen blanket, not a rug that you’d put on the floor,” Geoffrey said. “The rest of this page is self-explanatory, but I still find it interesting, especially the rental charges.”

  “I do, too,” I said. “It really gives me a sense of the journey.”

  “I can almost imagine being there,” Chantelle said.

  Geoffrey beamed. “Exactly. Now you understand why I’ve been fascinated by this for years. Are you ready to see more?”

  Chantelle and I nodded in unison.

  The next sleeve offered a glimpse at a daily program of events and activities on the R.M.S. Sylvania in July 1957. Program had been spelled Programme, as if to fancy things up, despite a notation in italics at the bottom of the page that clearly indicated this program was for the tourist class.

  “The designation of R.M.S. stands for Royal Mail Ship or Steamer, denoting a seagoing vessel that carry mail under contract to the British Royal Mail,” Geoffrey said. “As you can see, this is from the Sylvania’s maiden voyage.”

  It was evident from the reverence in his tone that Geoffrey was proud of this program, though I was hard pressed to figure out how it related to the Canberra. I was thinking of a way to politely ask when Geoffrey continued.

  “While this particular program isn’t from the Canberra, it’s a good example of what you’d expect to find. There would be one program for first class, and one for tourist class. I also selected it because it includes instructions to passengers getting ready to disembark, along with a notation of a time change at midnight.”

  “They seem to have a lot on the go,” I said, taking in the number of things listed. A Quiz Competition; Afternoon Tea Music with George Forbes and the “Sylvania” Quintet in the Lounge; Cocktail Hour in the Smoke Room; BBC Radio Broadcast (reception conditions permitting); and a movie night, in this case Brothers in Law starring Richard Attenborough, Ian Carmichael, and Terry Thomas. There was a Fancy Dress Parade, followed by a dance featuring George Forbes and the “Sylvania” Dance Orchestra.

  “These would have been delivered to each cabin on a daily basis,” Geoffrey said. “Each of the day’s events would have also been posted the afternoon or evening beforehand. There would be exceptions, such as a Costume Ball, where people needed time to conceive and prepare their costumes, or the Farewell Dinner, the timing of that self-evident.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, and meant it. What would it have been like for someone coming to Canada for a new life, someone who’d experienced food rations and the horrors of war firsthand?

  I was ready to see what else Geoffrey had. What he’d shown us so far was interesting, but I was getting antsy. I wanted to see something that was part of Anneliese’s journey. I avoided eye contact with Chantelle. The last thing we needed was Geoffrey to think we didn’t care about his collection.

  “I can’t wait to see the rest of what you’ve brought,” I said, hoping to hurry him along in the nicest possible way.

  The prompt was well received. Geoffrey took us through a handful of lunch and dinner menus from different voyages and different ships, although none were from the Greek Line, let alone the Canberra. Nevertheless, he seemed excited about them, so it seemed fitting to ask a question or two.

  I couldn’t think of a single question. Fortunately, Chantelle came to the rescue.

  “Would the menus have been delivered to the staterooms in the same way as the daily event schedules?”

  “I don’t believe so. I personally have never found a menu specifically addressed to a stateroom,” Geoffrey said. “As in a restaurant, the menu for the meal would have been at the table. The environment the ship wanted to create was one of being in a fine hotel with an excellent restaurant. As you can see by the menus, the food would have been quite exotic by most standards.”

  I had to admit the food did sound exotic. A dinner menu from the Queen Mary, dated July 31, 1947, included two soups: Clear Turtle and something called Potage Nelusko. The fish options were equally enticing: Turbot poche, Sauce Riche, and Red Mullet, Meunière. There was also Roast Sirloin of Beef with Horseradish Cream, and Mousseline of Ham, Florentine. Vegetables, potatoes, and desserts covered the gamut from the ordinary, like fresh broccoli or boiled potatoes, to the unexpected, like Praline Parfait or Charlotte Russe, a dessert made with whipped cream, fruit, gelatin, and ladyfingers.

  “What about the seating?” I asked. “You mentioned before that passengers would often make tick marks next to the names of their tablemates. But would you always sit with the same group of people?” Meaning, would Anneliese and Anton always have been seated at the same table.

  “A passenger would always be seated at their assigned table,” Geoffrey said, “although it is not inconceivable that there could have been changes of place within a table’s group. People might have occasionally wanted to change tables and that would have been at the discretion of the maître d’. At the end of the voyage, the waiters for your table would be hoping for, and likely expecting, a gratuity.”

  The groundwork laid for his big reveal, Geoffrey was finally ready to share the last sleeve in the binder.

  It was a passenger list, but unlike the previous example, which had been in pristine condition, this one was a bit worse for the wear. The Title Page was there, confirming this was from the Canberra’s voyage in June 1952 from Bremerhaven, Southampton, and Cherbourg to Quebec City, but the passenger list had been removed. Disappointing, in that it would have been nice to see the names of Anneliese Prei and Anton Osgoode in print, but still something to show Louisa.

  “My assumption is that the passenger list had been extricated to give to someone else as a memento, but that’s just a guess,” Geoffrey said. “It could have been removed for any number of reasons.”

  “I’m sure our client will be pleased to see this, even without the passengers’ names,” Chantelle said, and I nodded in agreement.

  “You’re both too polite to ask why I would have purchased something in such terrible condition,” Geoffrey said with a smile.

  “It doesn’t seem to match the rest of the ephemera in your collection,” I said, “but I’m glad you did.”

  “More politeness, for which I thank you, but I’ve been saving the best for last. I bought this for the autograph page. I believe I told you that I’m a sucker for a love story.”

  “You did indeed,” I said.

  “Maybe I’m reading more into this than there is, but I couldn’t resist it. Of course, I realize the names attached to the signatures will mean nothing to you, or your client, but I am sure he or she will love it regardless.” Geoffrey flipped to the page and sat back, waiting for our rea
ction. I suppressed a gasp, not wanting to give anything away. A quick glance at Chantelle found her staring at the page, transfixed.

  I couldn’t blame her. For there, on the cream-colored card stock, the title Autographs on the top, was the penciled heading of table eight in uppercase. There were thirteen signatures on the page, some written with a flourish, others in a Germanic spiky, cramped script. I knew from the postcard of the Canberra’s tourist class dining room that the tables seated fourteen. It stood to reason that the owner of the page hadn’t signed it, but I found myself longing to know who that person was, because beside each signature there was a small, but intricate, penciled drawing.

  “I have never seen anything like it before or since,” Geoffrey said. “The artist was quite talented, don’t you think? What a wonderful way to remember people years later.”

  I nodded, fascinated by the images before me. A table tennis racket, a book, the ace of clubs, a racing form, a swim cap, a slice of pie, a teacup, a piano, a radio, a deck chair, and a wine glass.

  Only two signatures had a similar drawing next to the signature. It was a double heart, the initials A.P. inside one, and A.O. inside the other.

  Anneliese Prei and Anton Osgoode.

  21

  After extracting a written promise that we wouldn’t share them on the internet, Geoffrey permitted me to take color photocopies of the documents of interest, including the all-important autograph page.

  By unspoken agreement, neither Chantelle nor I mentioned that we recognized any of the names.

  “Wow,” Chantelle said over and over as soon as he’d left. She was doing laps around the table at a frantic pace.

  “Wow, indeed.” I dabbed on some cocoa butter lip balm, then dabbed on some more, hoping Chantelle would sit down. She was making me dizzy.