Titanic (5 page)

 

 

So much has happened today that I scarcely know where to begin. The
Titanic
is, to put it bluntly, the most magical and astounding place in the world. Bigger, grander, and more exotic than I could possibly have predicted. She is awe-inspiring, and yet,
comfortable.
Right now, I am sitting in a deck chair on what they call the Promenade. I was up on the Boat Deck for a while, but the wind grew too cold for me, so I moved down to the more enclosed Promenade. Mrs Carstairs is off in her cabin, having a rest before supper, and Florence is curled up on my lap, snoring.

I guess I should start with this morning, and our final hours at the South Western Hotel. I had thought I would never be able to fall asleep, but awoke to find sunshine filling my room. A steward brought tea and toast right to my bedside, without my even asking, which pleased me a great deal. I fear that I could grow accustomed to this special treatment! I took another bath – simply because the shiny white tub was
there –
and then put on one of my new dresses. Mrs Carstairs has made it clear that she does not want to see me in any more “hideous convent discards”, and I suspect it is not worth the breath it would take to argue. Anyway, this dress is golden yellow, made of a material I cannot identify, but the cloth feels very soft. The fancy petticoat makes the skirt billow out amusingly. My new shoes seemed slippery against the floor, so I put on my dependable old boots instead. The dress is long enough so that no one will be able to tell anyway.

I brushed my hair, then pinned it back as well as I could so that it would not fly about. In the trunk, I even found a pair of white gloves, so I wore them too, just for amusement.

When I appeared at Mrs Carstairs's door, she squinted through her glasses and then nodded in approval.

“Much,
better,” she said, “but do not neglect your hat.”

I assured her that I would not dream of doing so, and went back to get the plainer of the two. I dread having to wear the gaudy one, as I am sure I will look quite the imbecile.

We had a most leisurely breakfast. I ordered poached eggs, along with sausage, kippers and a jacket potato. At St Abernathy's, eggs were always a special treat and you would receive a soft-boiled one only at Christmas, Easter and on your birthday. I was surprised that Mrs Carstairs, like her husband, preferred coffee to tea, but that must be the way Americans do things. She did not seem to fancy kippers, either. In both cases, I felt that it was a wretched mistake on her part. Florence enjoyed a small plate of chopped ham and the crusts from Mrs Carstairs's toast. Early on, I spilled a tiny bit of marmalade on my sleeve and quickly blotted it away with a damp napkin, hoping that no one would notice.

Many of the other people in the hotel dining room also appeared to be
Titanic
passengers, as they would look eagerly in the direction of the docks whenever the great steam whistles blasted away. There were even a few children, who sat in their fine clothes much less self-consciously than I did. The boat whistles had been blaring all morning, announcing to all of Southampton that it was Sailing Day. As the town was a bustling seaport, I suspected that they heard these ship whistles on a regular basis, and grew weary of them.

After our meal, it was time to go upstairs and prepare for our leave-taking. Apparently, passengers from the Boat Train were already boarding the ship. Porters arrived with wheeled carts to take our luggage away, and Mrs Carstairs handed out folded wads of banknotes with a casual air. The porters were elated to accept them.

As we crossed Canute Road and approached the quay, it became more difficult to navigate through the crowds. Trunks and bags and overstuffed boxes were piled everywhere, and I wondered how the porters could possibly keep track of them all. People crowded every possible space, and it was hard to separate the passengers from the onlookers. Only the various workmen, with their confident movements and expressions of tense concentration, stood out to me.

The side of the ship seemed to have openings all over the place, and gangways stretched out to meet them from the railway platform and the quay itself. The gangways looked rather like wooden bridges, with waist-high railings. Men and women in plain, sensible outfits were boarding on the lower decks, while the gangways above were packed with people arrayed in the grandest fashions. By virtue of clothing alone it was not at all difficult to tell which passengers were steerage, and which were first class. Presumably, the second-class passengers were the ones boarding somewhere in the middle.

I saw a thin girl in a kerchief and grey wool dress who seemed to be watching me somewhat enviously from farther down the quay. I realized then, with a start, that my appearance made her think that
I
was a young lady of privilege. The thought struck me as funny, and I was tempted to raise my skirt enough to show her my worn old boots. But she was already gone, and I was following Mrs Carstairs up a flight of stairs towards one of the first-class gangways.

I had never seen such a crowd in my life, and could not quite picture how many of us could fit inside the ship. Enough, I assumed, so that you might never see the same person twice. But I suppose some of the people were only here to see others off – or had only come down to stand nearby and vicariously enjoy the excitement of the day.

Walking across the gangway, I had a moment's unease, wondering if I
really
wanted to get on such a gargantuan ship and float off into the middle of the ocean. Dry land seemed so much more familiar and safe. In truth, I have not even sailed in a dinghy. For that matter, I have never even floated on a
raft.

“Please do not dawdle, Margie-Jane,” Mrs Carstairs said sharply, as a rather handsome ship's officer waited to greet us at the end of the gangway.

I nodded, and quickened my pace. To my surprise, seen up close, the side of the ship was pieces of metal welded and riveted together. I do not know what I had expected – not wood, obviously – but the bumpy appearance caught me off guard. I guess I thought it would be smooth and seamless, which only goes to show you how little I know about boats. I reached out to touch the metal, finding it – quite predictably – cold and solid. Nearby passengers looked disapprovingly at me, so I yanked my hand away.

We stepped inside the ship into a thickly carpeted hallway. I had not expected carpeting, either. A uniformed man just inside the entrance handed us each a small nosegay of flowers from a large wicker basket next to him. No one had ever given me flowers before, so even though it was probably routine on occasions like this, I felt flattered.

From there, we went to the Purser's Office. Mrs Carstairs handed our tickets and other necessary paperwork to Chief Purser McElroy, and made arrangements to come back later to deposit her valuables in the ship's safe. Once we were back in the corridor another smiling dark-haired young man stepped forward. He was wearing a white uniform, and introduced himself as our bedroom steward, Robert Merton. Our staterooms were down on C Deck, and he would be escorting us there, and then be at our service throughout the voyage.

Mrs Carstairs told him that she had sailed the White Star Line many times before, and began to give him a long list of instructions about exactly when and how she wanted things done. He nodded solemnly at each request, and then smiled at me.

“You would be Mrs Carstairs's daughter?” he asked, as he led us through a maze of carpeted corridors.

Mrs Carstairs gasped; I grinned. He might be the first, but he would probably not be the
only
one on the ship who would jump to that mistaken conclusion.

“No, I am her staunch companion,” I answered.

“Yes, this is Margaret Jane Brady,” Mrs Carstairs said, recovering her composure. “You may feel free to treat her as you treat me.”

Robert nodded, very solemn, although I could see amusement in his eyes.

“You would want to treat Florence just that much
better
,” I said, indicating the dog in Mrs Carstairs's arms.

Robert nodded again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That goes without saying, Miss Brady.”

So far, I was quite taken by Robert. He looked to be in his late teens, and seemed the sort to be one of William's friends. Mrs Carstairs ignored this entire exchange, enquiring as to the whereabouts and general safety of her luggage, and whether it would be unpacked for her, or if she would be required to do this herself, a concept she found disagreeable. I was so busy looking around that I missed Robert's answer.

People were milling about, nearly surrounding us, either trying to find their cabins, or exploring the ship and making admiring remarks. I noticed that I was not the only one who could not resist reaching out to touch things. Robert steered us expertly along to a set of three lifts, and we crowded into the first one that opened. Every woman crammed inside seemed to be wearing a different scent, and I found it a little difficult to breathe through the confusion of strong perfumes. We rode down one deck, and then walked through another corridor. The walls were a pristine white, and the floors still carpeted. It felt as though we were inside a hotel like Claridge's, rather than on a ship. Somehow, I had imagined that a sailing vessel would be much less – substantial.

“You will be right up here, Mrs Carstairs,” Robert said, pointing, “while Miss Brady is just across the way.” He opened her stateroom first, and I could see that our luggage had arrived ahead of us.

There were several boxes of fresh flowers piled up on a low mahogany table near a settee, and Mrs Carstairs immediately asked to have them arranged in vases at the first possible opportunity. She said proudly that most of them were probably from her dear Frederick, and was he not a thoughtful husband? She also asked that a bowl of fresh water be brought for Florence right away. Robert nodded, and smiled, and nodded some more.

I waited outside in the corridor, watching other patient stewards ushering other demanding passengers to their cabins, each receiving a bewildering litany of instructions and complaints.

“Come knock on my door as soon as you get settled,” Mrs Carstairs said to me. “We will want to be up on the Boat Deck when we cast off.”

I nodded, and followed Robert to my stateroom. He had an interesting accent, which I could not quite place. South London, maybe? Manchester? When I asked, he said he was a Liverpudlian – in other words, from Liverpool. Just for fun, I responded with some Cockney, saying that me being a Londoner, that practically made him a “bleetin' fawrner” but still and all, he seemed like a “right stiddy gint who acted proper”. He laughed, and instinctively glanced in the direction of Mrs Carstairs's door to see if she had overheard.

“She has not experienced this side of me yet,” I said.

His smile was very broad. “No, I don't suppose she has, Miss Brady.”

My stateroom was smaller than Mrs Carstairs's but still wonderful. Before leaving to tend to his other passengers, Robert took a moment to show me where things were – from the washbasin, to the bedside heater, to the button to push for immediate service, and even my life belt, which was resting neatly atop the wardrobe. I would be sharing a lavatory with someone's maid who had the cabin next to mine, but that was certainly not a hardship. He told me to be sure and call him if I needed any help, or even just had a question. Then, with a wink and a slight bow, he left.

I stood in the middle of my cabin, thinking about how lucky I was. I was in my own beautiful room, aboard the RMS
Titanic,
the finest ocean liner in the world, on my way to America!

 

 

I was just interrupted in my writing, but it was a pleasure, as a deck steward served me a hot mug of broth. I cannot get over how delightful it is to have people
bring
you things without even being asked. The liquid tastes beefy, and rich, and full of goodness from the marrow. I expect to be quite stout when this voyage is over.

Shortly before noon, Mrs Carstairs and I went along with the general flow of passengers heading for the upper decks. Florence remained behind, sleeping on Mrs Carstairs's canopy bed. Instead of taking a lift this time, we climbed what I heard people calling the Grand Staircase. It was, unquestionably, a very impressive piece of architectural artistry – broad mahogany steps winding upward, with a dome-shaped glass skylight above. A statue of a cherub holding a light aloft graced the middle railing, and a beautifully carved wooden clock with a pair of intricately detailed figures dominated the wall at the top of the landing. The time read 11.50.

The railings up on the Boat Deck were so crowded that we could find no place to stand. We moved down to B Deck, and found a small open space along the Promenade. I felt a shiver of excitement each time the steam whistles blew, trumpeting our departure. The air seemed filled with a sense of tremendous anticipation.

Below us, the quay was also jammed by an enthusiastic crowd of people waving their handkerchiefs or hats, and shouting farewells. In return, our passengers were also waving, and tossing single flowers or even full bouquets over the side. Some splashed into the water, while others were caught by lucky onlookers. I am sure I will never be able to forget that feeling of shared festivity and jubilation.

The
Titanic
is such a large ship that a group of tugboats had been assembled to tow us away, out into Southampton Water. As we began to move, ever so slightly, a tremendous cheer rose up. There were other boats berthed nearby, and their passengers and crew members were waving at us, too.

Out of nowhere came several sharp cracking sounds. I was afraid part of the ship had broken apart, but then saw a smaller ship break free of its mooring ropes and veer in our direction. It looked as though she might crash right into us! Some of the people by the railing did not even notice, while others gasped. The
Titanic
did not seem able to turn out of the way in time, but then a wave of water slowed the other ship, and one of the tugboats steered it to safety. An Englishman standing a few feet away from us said, “Well, what can you expect from a ship called the
New York?”
Mrs Carstairs was not the only American nearby who did not laugh at this. My fellow Brits, though, were almost uniformly amused.

There was something of a delay as the
New York
was secured, and I heard people grumble about being thrown off schedule. To me, it seemed a minor mishap and hardly worth complaining about. I was merely relieved that an accident had been averted. Two men behind us were talking seriously about the huge wake a ship like the
Titanic
created simply by moving her bulk through the water, and how anything in her path would be helpless in the face of that suction.

As she tends to be so nervous, I would have expected Mrs Carstairs to be extremely upset about our near-miss, but she was chatting casually with the woman on her left and discussing mutual acquaintances – of which they seemed to have many. We were underway now, but other than a slight sense of engines throbbing somewhere far below me, I could barely feel the ship's motion. Since I had been dreading a constant bobbing and lurching, this smooth and gentle pace came as a relief.

A bugle began trumpeting so close to us that I jumped. It was being played by a man in a crisp blue uniform with brass buttons. All around me, almost everyone began to move away from the railings and head back inside.

“Come along now, Margie-J,” Mrs Carstairs said briskly. “Time for our luncheon.”

From this, I gathered that it was routine for the sound of a bugle to announce meals. This was far preferable to the forceful banging on tin pots I had heard so many times during my childhood. It is also routine on board to call the midday meal luncheon and the evening meal dinner.

Margie-J. Do all Americans have a penchant for misbegotten nicknames, or is it just Mrs Carstairs? A vulgar habit, to my way of thinking. Then I heard another American lady up ahead of us happily greeting someone else by shouting, “Bootsie! How
are
you?” Bootsie? God save us from the Colonies.

The first-class dining saloon was on D Deck. We waited, in a crush of people, for a lift, and then rode downstairs. There was a large, inviting reception room in front of us, and a small band was playing off to one side. I did not recognize the tune, but it was very cheery. The reception room was filled with wicker chairs surrounded by small round tables, and an array of large, reedy plants had been placed in strategic locations. It struck me as a cosy place to linger.

The dining saloon itself ran the full width of the ship, and seemed even longer. The room looked as though it could easily serve several hundred people, and yet the small, elegant tables had somehow an intimate feel. The ceilings curved into detailed mouldings, and were supported here and there by thin white columns. A plush, patterned carpet covered the floor, and the tall, frosted windows made it seem as though we were anywhere
but
aboard a ship.

It was not my place to take the initiative, so I sat in the chair Mrs Carstairs indicated. It had a solid feel, with sturdy oaken arms and legs, and medium-green upholstery. At least
two
people my size could have fitted in the seat, and I felt rather young and small perched on its edge. If I were not careful, I feared that I might slide right off. It was a chair designed to comfort the corpulent, I suspected.

The tablecloths were white, and a small lamp with a dark red shade sat in the middle of the table as a centrepiece. A napkin was folded like a pair of wings on top of each plate, and accompanied by a daunting array of glassware and cutlery. Sister Catherine had advised me always to mimic whatever the most mannerly person at the table seemed to be doing, and I can only hope that that will carry me through.

Our table seated six, and shortly we were joined by a Mr and Mrs Prescott, whom Mrs Carstairs was delighted to see. She introduced me in the briefest possible way, and then they were off in an energetic conversation about the spring fashions, the delight of the Russian ballet, and an endless stream of people I did not know, and places to which I had never been. Even if I had felt bold enough to participate in the conversation, I would have had nothing to contribute to these topics. The Prescotts were pleasant to me, but expressed great disappointment that Mr Carstairs had been unable to make the voyage. Mrs Carstairs concurred, and then they began to speak of Broadway and the West End and other theatrical subjects.

Bangers and mash would have done me nicely, but our luncheon was far more impressive than that, with multiple courses. I elected not to drink any wine, and satisfied myself with water, instead. A cold potato soup, salmon, tiny spring peas, crisp asparagus with a tart dressing, roast meat – a stream of black-jacketed waiters bearing silver platters appeared at our table again and again. I generally prefer the heartier taste of mutton, but my sliced lamb was delicious. For that matter,
everything
– right down to the fruit tart and array of cheeses and fruits we were offered for dessert – was delicious.

After our meal, I was ready for a bit of a lie-down myself, so I was pleased when Mrs Carstairs suggested returning to our cabins. In our absence, her flowers had been arranged, and there was even a bouquet of yellow daffodils in my room! Our clothing had also been unpacked, and the luggage stowed away.

“Fairies came to visit, eh?” I said.

Mrs Carstairs laughed. “Oh, child, it is quite customary.”

An enchanting custom, I should say.

My washstand has been well supplied with thick towels and small scented soaps. After a mite of freshening up, I lay on my bed for a time, marvelling once again at how I could scarcely tell that the ship was moving. Even the hum of the engines had begun to seem familiar, and not loud enough to be oppressive.

It was just after three, according to the small clock in my room, when I went to take Florence for a walk, and ultimately ended up here on the Promenade, lounging on a deck chair. Yet another steward even brought me a steamer rug to tuck about my legs so I would not get chilled.

I have been sitting here writing for a while, then pausing to watch people stroll by. A number of children have been playing on the deck, tended by governesses for the most part, as well as the occasional parent. The children have tops, and marbles, and other small toys too numerous to mention. Except for one or two stormy bouts of tears, they all seem to be having a happy afternoon. Part of me would like to go over and join in, but as a hired companion, I do not suppose I am permitted to engage in childish pursuits on this trip. At one point a ball rolled over in my direction, and I tossed it back to the boy who owned it. Even though he was probably only a year or two younger than I am, he just said, “Thank you, miss,” and raced off to continue his game. I cannot help feeling a bit left out – too old to play with the children, and too young and naive to interact with the adults. In these fancy clothes, I can pass for one of them – but, to me, the differences in our social backgrounds feel too huge to overcome.

I suppose I should have a driving desire to examine the ship from top to bottom, but so far, I would rather adjust gradually to being here. There will be plenty of time for exploration in the days to come.

But now I think Florence could do with stretching her small legs, so I will write more later.