Titanic (3 page)

 

 

I stopped writing for a while, as Nora was crying out in her sleep again. She is so small and alone that I always like to keep a special eye on her. She tends to follow me about a good deal of the time, but I find this to be a compliment, more than anything else, and slow my pace so she can keep up. At supper, she likes me to help her cut up her food, and butter her bread for her. She is an adorable child, and I am happy to do it.

I sat with her for quite some time just now, talking softly so we would not wake the others in the dormitory, and trying to calm away her tears.

“You was down the 'Dilly?” she asked. Nora speaks in the very sweetest and pure Cockney. “And did you 'ave Rosy Lee?”

I agreed that I had, indeed, been to Piccadilly, before having a scrumptious tea at the fancy hotel. I had brought her home a few petits fours and some smushed trifle, which she had eaten happily, without leaving the tiniest crumb behind. That only made me wish I had managed to set aside even more for her.

Unfortunately, talking about this reminded her that I would soon be leaving for America, and she began to cry all over again. I promised – as I had several times already in recent days – that I would write her lots of letters and that someday, when we were both rich ladies, maybe we could visit each other. She found this to be scant comfort, so I changed the subject by telling her a very long story about cats, and Buckingham Palace, and an
astonishing
amount of sweets. This lulled her to sleep, finally, and now I am back up in my bunk, looking out of the window.

There is no question in my mind that Nora and Sister Catherine are what I will miss most about living here. It is several days away, but I already dread our final parting, as I know that the chances of our meeting again are very slight indeed.

There are few things more difficult in life than saying goodbye to people.

 

 

Tonight the moon is obscured by fog, so I can barely see to write. Not that my handwriting is admirable under the best of conditions.

After William left me here at St Abernathy's, several months passed before we saw each other again. I wondered endlessly where he was, what he was doing, and how he was surviving on his own. Even
if
he was surviving on his own. Then, one Sunday afternoon, the littlest Murphy sister – there are four of them living here, each more freckled than the next – came to tell me that a young man was waiting to see me in the visiting parlour. At first I was perplexed, since I do not
know
any young men. Then I was overjoyed, realizing that it could only be my brother.

I ran out of the library so swiftly that Molly Murphy was left quite startled – and Sister Judith even more so when I dashed slam-bang right into her near the kitchen.

William was standing by the window, looking out at the grey, rainy day. He was wearing a thin black pullover and frayed wool trousers, with a cloth cap hanging out of one pocket. It was the first time I had ever
seen
him in long trousers. His face and hands were very clean, but his clothes were soot-stained, and he looked so much more grown-up than I remembered. Sister Eulalia was posted right by the door, with an expression of great suspicion on her face. Girls at the orphanage do not –
ever
– receive young men. I assume Sister Mary Gregoria was also lurking nearby.

“William!” I said happily.

He turned, his whole face changing when he smiled. “Sure, and she's
tall.
”

“Sure, and we get
bowls and bowls
of porridge here,” I answered.

We both laughed, while Sister Eulalia – who often helps with meal preparations – frowned. I introduced them, and after a few moments she went out to sit in the hall to give us a bit of time to catch up.

There was so much to talk about! I have to admit now that I cried a good deal, because it was so wonderful to see him after worrying for so long.

He had brought along a small bag of toffee and liquorice, which we shared. I had forgotten I even knew how to smile so broadly. For a time, after we parted, he had miserably continued mud-larking. He tried to find a job at one of the breweries, or the foundry, but was told that he was too young. His luck changed when he ran into one of Father's old friends, Mr Daniels, on the street one day. Mr Daniels helped him get work on the docks and secure cheap lodgings in a sailors' home. The home certainly wasn't fancy, but neither was it a workhouse – or a reformatory – and for that William was grateful. And so was I.

From then on, he came every Sunday. The weeks passed much more quickly and easily, for me, knowing I could look forward to his visits. He would always bring a gift of some kind – toffee, a newspaper, and one special day, a little bundle of hot chips. I wanted to give him something in return, and Sister Catherine patiently taught me how to knit so I could make him a scarf for his birthday. The final result was amateurish to say the very least, but he accepted it with great enthusiasm.

It was the summer of 1910 when William got a chance to sign on as a cabin boy on a cargo steamer heading to America. He did not want to leave me alone in London, but we decided that he would have many more opportunities to make his way in the States.

We planned that I would follow him when I was older – and he had enough money to pay for my fare.

The captain on his steamer was an unpleasant man, and William had a difficult journey. He worked long, hard hours, and was so seasick that he subsisted on nothing more than hard biscuits and water the entire time.

This gives rise to a bothersome notion. What if
I
get seasick, too? That would make me a rather unsatisfactory companion, I fear. Never in my life have I set foot on a boat – or even gone in the water, beyond wading in the Thames. However, I suppose worrying about it will not help. I shall simply have to wait and see – and eat sparingly the entire time, perhaps.

Well, the morning will come sooner than I would like, so I will stop writing for this evening.

Is there not some tradition of counting sheep in order to become drowsy? I think I just might give it a try . . .

 

 

Today I went back into the city to meet my new employer again. This time, I was allowed to go by myself, although I was given many instructions by the Sisters, and warned to keep the small change they had given me hidden in different pockets, so I would be safe from knaves and thieves. I have a bit of experience with thieves, but am quite certain I have never known a knave – nor so much as seen one from a distance.

The dress I wore was an unflattering cut, and an even worse shade of dull maroon. A postulant who did not do well in the orphanage atmosphere and was transferred to a more traditional convent had left it behind with a bundle of other unfortunate, but “earthly”, dresses. I do not remember her, but it was clear from the dimensions of the dress that she had been tall – and not slim. Sister Judith and Sister Catherine performed some necessary surgery with great handfuls of pins, and warned me not to move about freely, if possible.

“But, what if I meet a knave, and must take flight?” I asked.

Their reignited concern about just that dreadful possibility eliminated the chorus of wry chuckles I had anticipated.

So, it was off to Claridge's once again. There might have been a more direct way to go, but I repeated our exact motor bus ride, in order to enjoy another walk through Piccadilly Circus. But I resisted buying any food, as I suspected plenty would await me at the hotel. After all, teatime approached.

I had hoped we would meet in the foyer, so I could enjoy listening to that quartet again, but Mrs Carstairs had a servant downstairs awaiting my – slightly late – arrival. He escorted me up to her suite, where our tea was to be served privately. I was concerned that my table manners had not passed muster previously, but then caught sight of two fluttery young women clutching measuring tapes, pincushions and the like. I had, of course, forgotten that I was to be fitted with “appropriate garments”. Florence was stalking back and forth in front of the two women, letting out a fierce, if squeaky, growl every so often. This was making the women uneasy, to say the least.

“Hello, Florence,” I said.

She wagged her tail at me, then resumed her feisty strut.

I could not tell how large the suite was, because so far I had only seen the hallway, but it appeared palatial. Mrs Carstairs came bustling out, looking both more matronly and more unwieldy than I remembered. Judging from her widened eyes when she saw me and ran her eyes up and down my lumpy dress, I was more obviously working class than
she
had remembered.

“Good afternoon, Margie,” she said, quite brisk.

Margie? But I greeted her very pleasantly, regardless – and by the proper name, even.

She waved her hand at each of the two pale, jittery ladies in turn. “This is Hortense, and Mabel. Please be most cooperative with them.” She turned to the women. “As you can well see, this is a
dire
situation.”

I followed them into a sun-splashed sitting room, where a grand tea was spread out on a lace-covered table by the broad, sparkling windows. A man with sparse white hair, but thick grey mutton-chop whiskers, was seated at the table, reading a newspaper and clearing his throat every so often.

“Frederick,” Mrs Carstairs said, “this is Margaret Jane Brady, the child who will be accompanying me.”

Jane?

Mr Carstairs noticed us then, and stood up with a militaristic bow. “Yes, yes, so glad to see you,” he said, with a patient, but vague, smile.

I was relieved that he did not want to shake hands, or otherwise be demonstrative. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said, although I was tempted to call him “guv'nor” just to hear everyone gasp.

“Her clothes are very common, but I think she will do nicely,” Mrs Carstairs said. “Don't you, Frederick?”

Mr Carstairs nodded heartily, although his gaze was still lingering on his newspaper. “Yes, yes. Lovely, lovely.”

“Splendid,” I volunteered.

He looked up. “Yes, yes. Splendid.”

“I am to have her fitted now,” Mrs Carstairs said.

Right out in the
open
? Were Americans
utter
heathens?

I sensed a spot of alarm coming from Mr Carstairs's direction as well, but Mrs Carstairs was already ushering me into a small dressing room, crowded with more fancy clothes than I had ever seen in one place. And, oh, the shoes! So many glossy, impractical shoes.

“Be thorough,” Mrs Carstairs instructed Hortense and Mabel. “When they are finished, Margie, you may join us for tea.”

I despise nicknames, but suspected that pointing this out would make no impression whatsoever.

Hortense and Mabel had a great deal of trouble unpinning me from my dress. Although they were shop girls, and certainly not society ladies, my appearance seemed to offend them, and they exchanged more than one wince. I ignored this, except for mimicking one of Florence's snarls once, just to see them flinch.

After they had finally completed their oddly complex measurements, with muttered comments to each other, they undertook the not inconsiderable challenge of
re
-pinning me into my dress.

“Did you pick this out yourself?” one of them – I think it was Mabel – finally asked.

“Yes, quite so,” I said. “It fell off the back of the quaintest little lorry in Whitechapel.”

They gave each other knowing glances, and regarded me with somewhat more sympathy than before. Once they had finished the pinning and been shown out by a hotel maid, I found I could move even less freely than had previously been the case. Sitting down promised to be a challenge.

However, I was up to the challenge if I could then tuck into that appetizing array on the tea table. My dinner of bread and jam felt like a memory from my distant past.

Mr Carstairs rose to his feet when I came in, and I sat down as swiftly as possible, a small shower of pins escaping in my wake. Neither of my tea companions commented upon this, although Mrs Carstairs at least
noticed –
and frowned.

“I very much appreciate everything you are doing for me, Mrs Carstairs,” I said, very politely, “and urge you not to go to too much trouble.”

“Yes, well,” she said, after the barest pause.

Our conversation was stilted, and Mr Carstairs did little more than nod or grunt assent occasionally. I found it appalling that he was drinking coffee – but other than that, he seemed like a pleasant, if somewhat stodgy, chap. Both of them fed Florence tempting tidbits at every opportunity, and she took turns sitting in their laps. Once in a while, she visited me as well, and I would present her with a nibble of ham or chicken. She seemed to dislike watercress.

“What a wonderful hotel this is, Mrs Carstairs,” I contributed at one point.

“Obviously I should rather be at the Savoy, but—” she glanced at her husband – “my Frederick prefers it here.”

It turned out that they had theatre tickets that night, and reservations at a restaurant called Romano's, so soon it was time for me to take my leave. Mrs Carstairs reminded me, again and again, that I was to return on Tuesday morning, packed and ready to go. We would be taking the train to Southampton, and sailing the next day. Each time she went over the plans I felt shivers of excitement and fear. Mr Carstairs said it had been “capital, just capital” to meet me; I agreed; Mrs Carstairs went over our schedule one last time; and finally, I gave Florence a pat and headed off. Then I paused by the door.

“So, I am to return on – Wednesday evening?” I said, just for fun.

Mrs Carstairs's face went so pale that I suddenly felt a bit alarmed. But all she said was, “You are a very impudent girl, Margie.”

I graciously agreed with this observation – and left.