Titanic (2 page)

 

 

I simply cannot sleep tonight. Earlier, I wrote to William to tell him the wonderful news, and Sister Mary Gregoria is to post the letter in the morning. I feel very lucky, and yet also frightened. I have grown used to my life here, and am not sure I am ready for so many changes all at once.

Mrs Carstairs and I are to sail for America, ten days hence, on a ship called the RMS
Titanic.
RMS means Royal Mail Steamer, Sister Catherine told me later. Before we left the hotel, Mrs Carstairs gave me all the details of our upcoming journey, and what she will expect of me. Mainly, I gather, I am to be polite and agreeable – and to fetch and carry and otherwise help out with whatever she needs at any given point in time. I assured her that I would have no problem complying with these rules, although I am afraid her loud tones will grate on me. Naturally, I did not share this concern.

Mrs Carstairs is terribly excited about being aboard this particular ship, as it is the
Titanic
's maiden voyage, and she is supposed to be the finest ocean liner in the world, as well as the largest ever built. I know nothing of ships, and see no reason to doubt her. I gather Mr and Mrs Carstairs have been sailing the Atlantic for many years, and have been on all of the great liners, including the
Titanic
's sister ship, the
Olympic.

Originally, they were to make this trip together, along with Mr Carstairs's – one assumes, faithful – manservant. Hence, they had reserved two cabins on the ship. But now, Mr Carstairs has been detained here in the city on business, and so will rejoin his wife in a month or two. Their daughter, it turns out, has only just given birth to their first grandchild, a boy named Theodore, and Mrs Carstairs wants to see him as soon as possible. Mr Carstairs did not want her to travel by herself, which is why they decided to seek out a companion.

I am still not quite sure how this fortunate assignment came my way. I believe there may have been an advertisement, but an “East End-ing” acquaintance of the Carstairs may have brought St Abernathy's to their attention. Now and again, with a desire to do good works, fancy London ladies come to this neighbourhood to tutor poor urchins, and otherwise provide enrichment and counsel to the destitute. The ladies call this “East End-ing”, and sometimes, less politely, “slumming”. Most of their charitable time is given to the better-known missions and settlement houses, like Toynbee Hall. But every so often they come across our small orphanage too. I suppose there are some who are awed by, and overcome with gratitude for, these earnest, well-to-do ladies, but I tend not to be among them. Somehow, I have never fancied being the object of pity.

And yet, in many ways, I suppose our situation here
is
rather pitiful. The nuns have limited funds, and we are always overcrowded. Right now, there are at least twenty other girls sleeping here in the tiny dormitory – one of three in the orphanage – and it can be very loud. The room can barely hold ten beds, so we have makeshift double bunks. Nora, who is only five, sleeps below me. I know she would rather have the upper bunk, but she is so often troubled by nightmares that I fear she would fall out and hurt herself.

There is a window just above my bunk, and when sleep will not come, I like to look out at the lively streets below. Whitechapel is never still, and there are always people to see. There is a public house around the corner, and I am particularly fond of listening to the sounds of music and laughter.

I was not quite eight years old when I came here. No, the true story is that William
left
me here, one cold and desperate night some five years ago.

When my family lived in Wapping, near the river, we were happy. We rented the bottom half of a cottage, which had two small rooms separated by a muslin curtain. Father worked very hard as a labourer at the London docks. When times were good, he helped load cargo; when work was scarce, he would toil as a coal-whipper, and come home black with soot. Mummy was always frail, but she took in sewing when she was able. She was consumptive, and I would often wake in the night to her muffled coughing. We worried about her greatly, but in the daylight hours she always had a smile for us.

I suppose we were poor, but we never went without food. There was little money to spare, but Father always made sure that Mummy had her tea with sugar, and that William and I had a glass of milk to drink. Once in a very great while, we would get to feast on fish and chips, all bundled up in newspaper. I don't know that there is any food I love more than fresh, “ 'ot” chips. After supper, Mummy would smooth out the newspapers and blot away the worst of the oil so she could read whatever was beneath. I remember her helping me with my letters and numbers, and later, we would read together for hours.

One icy February afternoon, three burly men came to the door, twisting their wool hats in their hands, and avoiding Mummy's eyes. A great load of crates had come crashing down at the docks, and although Father was able to push another worker out of the way, he could not save himself. They were sore sorry, the men said, shuffling their boots.

Mummy did her best to keep the family together. She began working in the rag trade, and was gone from sunrise to sunset, sewing buttons in a hot, airless factory. She grew very thin, and we rarely saw more than a shadow of her old smile. Then, early the next spring, she took ill. Her fever raged, and William and I did not know what to do, other than make tea and try to feed her digestives. By the time Mr Harris, who lived down the way, brought a doctor – a grey-faced little man dressed in a black suit – it was too late.

These are hard memories, and I will save the rest of the story for another time.

 

 

Today was a quiet day, as Sundays generally are. We go to a very long mass in the morning, eat a substantial midday meal, and then have free time until our early evening tea. I spent most of the afternoon glancing through
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
and trying not to think too much. I am to return to Claridge's later this week, as Mrs Carstairs has concerns about my wardrobe, and wishes to have me fitted for “appropriate” clothing. That seems like a frightful waste of money to me, but I have been told not to concern myself with such matters. I gather that neither money, nor the lack thereof, are problems for the Carstairs. I would far prefer to wear the clothes I have, but when I broached this to Sister Catherine, she just sighed, and said, “Be agreeable.”

As I sit here in the library, thinking about the future, I cannot help also remembering the past. In his letters, William speaks about the Colonies in glowing descriptions, but I am still feeling a trifle hesitant. I scarcely know Mrs Carstairs, and if we don't get on, the voyage could be difficult. For
both
of us. I suppose, though, I can occupy myself with Florence.

But this journey can only be easy, compared to the horrible days after Mummy's death, when William and I were on our own. For a time, we were able to stay with the McDougals, who lived three streets down. I knew two of their daughters from the ragged school. The McDougals' small rooms were crowded, so William and I each slept in a burlap sack on the floor near the woodstove. Food was scarce, and William did what he could to provide for us, so that we would not be a burden. I know he resorted to stealing more often than not, but if I asked him, he would get very angry, and I learned to avoid the subject.

Mr McDougal and his brother Kieran spent many an hour at the public houses, and would come home much the worse for drink. They would be spoiling for a fight, and Mr McDougal would swing out a big hand at anyone who looked at him cross-eyed. After I got knocked down a time or two, William grew to fear for my safety, and packed up our few possessions one morning and took us away.

But, of course, we had no place to go. We lived on the streets, sleeping in alcoves and doorways, or anywhere we could find shelter. Sometimes, we were able to earn a few shillings by mud-larking – exploring the riverbanks and wading into the filthy water, trying to find objects we could sell. Lumps of coal, lengths of rope, broken crates –
anything
that someone else might want. While William tried to interest passers-by in our gatherings, I would crawl under the stalls in the market, looking for discarded food. Sometimes I might be lucky and find a squashed orange, or crust of bread, but other days, we lived on rather foul scraps or – far too often – went hungry.

I think it was December – we had long since lost track of the days – when hard sleet fell all one day and night. Though I was terribly ill with a fever and hacking cough, I was afraid to go to hospital. William wanted to take me to a charity orphanage for girls some friend had told him about, but I refused. We had had this argument before, and I had no intention of being separated from him – he was all I had left. He threatened to
make
me go, and I said he would have to round up every bobby in London to do the job – and even then I did not like his chances. In the meantime, the sleet faded into damp fog, and then back to bone-chilling sleet. We huddled in an alley, with me trying not to weep between bouts of shivering and coughing.

“That's it,” he said suddenly. He stuffed our belongings – a cracked teacup of Mummy's, a battered mug, a bent spoon, some bootlaces, an old sardine tin filled with a pennyworth of salt, a chipped china figurine of a cat, and three slim water-stained books of Father's – into his sleeping sack, and helped me up.

By then, I was so ill I could not find the strength to protest. We walked and walked, as he could not quite remember where the convent was. William wanted to carry me, but I stubbornly shrugged him away and kept tottering along. As always, there were other wretched souls wandering the streets, or slumped in odd corners, but they never looked at us.

It must have been near dawn, and I was asleep on my feet, when he stopped one last time.

“Here you go, then,” he said, sounding pleased. He settled me down on an icy stone step and wrapped Father's old coat more tightly about my shoulders.

I knew he was going to leave me, and I started crying so hard, I could not speak.

“You
stay
here,” he ordered, “until the ladies wake up.”

I was able to choke out his name, and William must have been crying, too, because he blinked a good deal and his voice was thick. He wrapped his arms around me, told me I was his best girl, and promised to come back as soon as he could take proper care of me. Then, as the sky faded from black to grey, he handed me a piece of toffee wrapped in sticky paper.

“Make it last until the ladies come outside,” he said.

I knew he was about to leave for good, and I tried to get up so I could follow him.

“Please,
Margaret,” he said, tears covering his cheeks. “Do as I tell you.” Then he smiled at me – I tried to smile back – and kissed me on the forehead before quickly walking away. He did not wave, or even look back, and I watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

When he was gone, I sobbed until I thought my chest might break apart. It hurt very badly whenever I took a breath, and my whole body shook with each harsh bout of coughing. I was dizzy and hot, and the gas lamps seemed to twirl around me.

Some time later, I heard a horse's hooves clattering on the street, and the sound of a rickety cart trundling along. But I was too weary to look up, or even try to open my swollen eyes.

“ 'Ere now, wot's all this?” a deep voice said above me. There was a clank as he set down some milkcans, then a harsh knocking on the thick wooden door where I was leaning.

The door creaked open, and there were more voices, but I stayed huddled inside Father's coat, still crying. I can remember just staring at the cans of milk. I wanted one
so much.
Weak as I was, I had a notion that I could take one and dash away before they could stop me. I even reached out a shaking hand, but then thought of how ashamed Mummy would be, and pulled it back.

I could not make sense of what was happening around me, but the man seemed to be gone and the voices were all female now. There was talk of calling a police ambulance, and of whether a child who was so ill could be brought in among the others, and then of whether, after all, they could do anything
other
than bring in such a child. The last thing I remember is a warm hand on my forehead, and then someone lifted me up and carried me inside the building.

When I awoke, many hours later, I was in a bare white room with a strange, sharp odour. I found out later it was the infirmary. A lady in a big black cape was sitting by the narrow iron bed. Her clothes frightened me, but her face was kind. I remember that she spooned some beef broth into my mouth, and washed my face with cool water from a tin basin.

I have been here ever since.

 

 

Yet again, I cannot seem to fall asleep. So I am writing by moonlight. All day, I have been wondering how long it will take William to receive my letter. How surprised he will be! Postage is a luxury, so as a rule, we only exchange one letter a month. He is working very hard as a bricklayer, somewhere in the city of Boston. He lives in a boarding house run by an Irish immigrant lady in Charlestown, which he assures me is almost as fashionable a neighbourhood as Whitechapel. The mail can be so slow that it is actually possible I will arrive in the States before he even finds out that I am coming!

Once I get there, I would like to keep going to school, but I know that will not be possible. I will have to work, to help support us. I am sure that, like London, Boston has factories, and public houses and rich ladies who need maids – so I should be able to find a job.

I have not seen my brother since the summer before last, although it seems even longer. He must have grown a great deal by now, as he is almost sixteen. For all I know, he will scarcely recognize me, either.

One of the reasons I miss him so is because I am afraid I have never been one for making friends. Not by design, mind you. It's just that I have few talents in this area. It may be because I am loath to share my feelings. Also, I read too many books and speak, as I am often told, “like a right toff”. My not having the grace to be ashamed of this worsens the situation. Father always said—