Titanic (6 page)

 

 

I had every intention of continuing my entry last night, but fell asleep almost before I had a chance to lie down. The sea air can do that, Mrs Carstairs tells me.

We stopped in Cherbourg, France, last night, and more passengers boarded the ship. The water was not deep enough for us to steam all the way in, so smaller boats brought the passengers out and transferred them aboard. “Tenders”, those boats are called; I am not sure why. I would like now to be able to claim that I have been to France, but sitting quite some distance offshore does not really count, I suppose. I saw the coast, at least.

This morning, we are
en route
to Queenstown, Ireland. I hope that we dock close enough to be able to see the land of my father's birth. It would be even better if we were able to disembark, so I could touch the soil of my ancestors, but that seems doubtful.

Robert knocked on my door early this morning, and then brought in tea, scones, marmalade and a perfect little bunch of grapes. He stayed to talk for a few moments, and I found out that this is his first job as a fully fledged steward, as opposed to being an assistant, and that he was very excited to have been assigned to first class.

“A strange thing happened yesterday,” I told him, indicating the cheerful vase on my bedside table.
“Elves
came, and brought me a gift.”

“They must have liked your smile, Miss Brady,” he said, with a grin. Then, a bell rang in a stateroom somewhere down the hall, and he had to leave to answer it.

I ate every bite of the food he had brought, yet still had no trouble eating a full breakfast in the dining saloon later. Perhaps the sea air makes one hungry, too? Not that having a large appetite is unusual for me, mind you.

After breakfast, Mrs Carstairs thought it would be nice to spend an hour or two in the first-class writing room, which is next to the lounge. Queenstown will be our last opportunity to post letters before we arrive in New York. Quite a few other passengers seemed to have the same idea, but we were able to find an empty desk and two chairs without much difficulty. There are lots of postcards and fancy vellum stationery available for the passengers to use. The top of the stationery has the same red flag with the White Star logo that I have seen on so many other items on the ship, like menus and matchbooks. Next to the logo is printed:
ON BOARD R M S “TITANIC”
. I am tempted to slip a few sheets into this diary to keep as a souvenir; I wonder if anyone would mind my doing so. I will ask Robert, maybe, later, if it would be all right. I am hoping that he and I will be friends, as I do not feel at all shy talking to him.

I wrote fairly detailed letters about the trip to William and Sister Catherine, and then worked on a simpler note to Nora. She cannot yet read, but I printed neatly in the hope that she might enjoy practising. Then I wasted several sheets of the stationery trying to draw an accurate picture of the ship for her to hang by her bed. I began to get frustrated at my lack of even minimal artistic competence, and crumpled one of the sheets so loudly that several people in the room looked up. Mrs Carstairs was mortified by this unexpected attention, which I attempted to divert by looking around as though I, too, were searching for the dastardly crumpling culprit.

A broad-shouldered man with kind, clean-shaven features stopped next to our desk. I had noticed him walking around, seemingly observing everyone for about twenty minutes, and he must have noticed my sketching struggles. He leaned over and examined my discarded drawings before I had time to cover them with my hand. My face felt hot with embarrassment, as they truly were inept.

“Please excuse my causing a disruption,” I said. “I am trying to send a picture to a little girl of whom I am terribly fond.”

He smiled, and said he would be happy to put together a quick diagram
for
me, if I would like. I thanked him, but explained that to Nora,
my
having drawn the ship myself would mean more to her than the quality of the rendering.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, in that case, may I suggest that you angle the funnels more? Then just try for very clean lines. Long strokes, instead of attempting so much detail.”

I gave that a try, and my next effort showed some small improvement.

“There you go,” he said. “I think you'll do very nicely now.”

I thanked him again, and then he said, “Good day, ladies,” and went on his way.

“My goodness, that was Mr Andrews!” Mrs Carstairs said in an awed voice, once he was gone.

“A nice fellow,” I agreed, drawing intently.

“He
designed
the ship,” she said.

Startled, I stopped drawing. “Then I suppose he would have done quite an accurate illustration,” I said finally.

Mrs Carstairs shook her head, seeming exasperated. “You are a most curious child, MJ.”

MJ. “I thank you, Mrs Upstairs,” I said.

“And a very
difficult
child,” she said, sounding much more exasperated.

I nodded, sadly, and we both returned to our letters.

 

 

I am in my stateroom now, getting ready for bed. Once our letters were completed this morning, we went up to the Boat Deck to watch for Ireland. Mrs Carstairs did not see the urgency of this, but elected to humour me and come along. The sky was bright blue, and nearly cloudless; the sea, flowing in smooth, dark swells. There was an invigorating breeze, and I took several deep breaths of the wintry air.

Mrs Carstairs looked uneasy. “Where is your coat, I ask you?

I assured her that I was quite warm, with my pullover thrown over my shoulders. It is not a fashionable garment, so I knew she would prefer that I not put it all the way on.

How jarring it was to look in every direction, and see nothing but the ocean. Given the implications of that, too much thought would have made me apprehensive, so I decided it would be far better to praise this phenomenon.

“ ‘Oh ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,/ Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea,' ” I said.

“Browning again?” Mrs Carstairs asked, after a pause.

I had only meant to be jovial, not put her in an uncomfortable position. “Keats,” I said, after a pause of my own.

She nodded heartily. “But of course.”

From now on, I think I will refrain from spontaneous quotations.

The wind was increasing, and more and more people on the deck were retreating to the warmth of the Promenade or one of the public rooms. Shortly thereafter, Mrs Carstairs decided that she, too, would prefer to go back inside. I promised to join her when the bugler announced luncheon. We were going to try the Cafe Parisien this time, instead of the dining saloon.

As she left, I observed that I
was
cold, so I gave up and shrugged into my pullover, watching the horizon intently the entire time. If Ireland appeared, I did not want to miss anything. Then I saw grey shapes rising up out of nowhere. Hills? Mountains? As we drew closer, the land grew more distinct. There were steep, stark cliffs, grey and barren, with extraordinary green pastures and hills behind them. The land was both rocky and lush, and I fell in love with it at once. It lacked the civility and dignity of the English countryside, but somehow had a wild, bewitching charm. An intoxicating charm. So much green! How could potatoes ever have
dreamed
of refusing to thrive in fields like that? It seemed a crime against nature, as well as humanity.

Once again, we did not enter the harbour; but, rather, tenders crowded with new passengers rode out to meet us. Realizing that I was looking at Cork, where my father had been born, brought tears to my eyes. How I would have loved to have him standing here next to me, at this very moment. Mummy never got a chance to see Ireland, either, and I know she would have been staring as eagerly as I was.

There were other boats following the tenders, with people inside clamouring to come aboard. I asked a bundled-up woman reading in a deck chair what they were, and she said that the boats contained merchants hoping to come aboard and make a quick profit. A few were actually allowed to set up shop while we were anchored, and I heard later that they were displaying the most beautiful lace, along with china and linen.

It was with deep regret that I went inside for luncheon, and I barely noticed my food, so eager was I to return to the Boat Deck and admire Ireland. Two shrill middle-aged sisters were seated at our table, and they told us, at giggling length, about the horrifying thing they had seen while they were out on the deck. A demon-like face had appeared to them, peeking out of the aft funnel, and laughing, as one of them put it, like “Beelzebub himself!” Mr Prescott, who was also at our table with his wife, assured them that it had certainly been a member of the crew doing maintenance work. The sisters remained convinced that there must be a more sinister explanation. This was altogether too eccentric for me, and I asked to be excused, so that I could go back outside. Mrs Carstairs agreed reluctantly, but urged me to stay away from the funnel in question, just in case.

Back on the Boat Deck, I was pleased to discover that we were sailing along the coast, rather than heading straight out to sea. A great flock of screeching seagulls was following us, swooping, diving and otherwise enjoying the day. I leaned on the railing until well past teatime, watching the beautiful scenery pass by. We passed islands, and lighthouses and austere, craggy cliffs. The rock formations were fascinating in their variety, and I do not think I could ever get tired of those glorious shades of green in the landscape beyond. Of course, I will always love London, but my father must never have stopped regretting leaving this splendid country behind.

Someday, I must come back to Ireland and see all of that beauty up close.

After dinner tonight – the meal as lavish as ever, I might add – we went up to A Deck to listen to a concert by the five-man orchestra. I was not familiar with many of the tunes, but they were all gay and cheerful, and it was an enjoyable evening. People applauded each effort enthusiastically, and sometimes shouted out requests. The band would respond right away, they never once hesitated. I found the ragtime particularly engaging. Mrs Carstairs says it is very popular in the States, and was pleased to answer the many questions I had about American music in general.

I realize that I have yet to do my stateroom justice on paper. Right now, I am reclining on my bed, which has thick blue curtains I can draw around it for privacy, if I so choose. My entire room has been decorated in shades of blue, from the flocked wallpaper to the bedspread to the thick carpet. I even have my own writing desk and dressing table, the latter with a large old-fashioned mirror mounted above it. There is also a small sitting area, with a shiny square table and two comfortable armchairs. I have a bedside heater, as well as a ceiling fan. My washstand – with two sinks! – is against the far wall. The panelling is a glossy dark chestnut shade that matches the wardrobe exactly.

I have the porthole opened slightly, to get the air. It is dark, so there is nothing to see, but the breeze is welcome. Otherwise, it feels a little stuffy to me. There are numerous small lamps on the walls and tables, but I like keeping the room somewhat dim and mysterious.

Someone is knocking on my door – I wonder why? I have only just returned from walking Florence, so surely it is not Mrs Carstairs telling me she needs to go again.

It was Robert, with hot chocolate, some biscuits and a bright red apple.

“I thought you might want a snack before retiring, Miss Brady,” he said. “Most of my passengers do.”

I realized that a snack would, in fact, be a welcome treat. “Thank you very much for thinking of me,” I said. “It should never have occurred to me to bother you.”

His eyes twinkled. “I must say, you are not my most difficult passenger, Miss Brady.”

I imagined not, since I heard bells in all of the nearby cabins summoning him constantly. “I would be very pleased if you would call me Margaret,” I said.

He hesitated. “We are supposed to treat our passengers with the utmost respect at all times.”

“I will keep your disgraceful breach of protocol to myself,” I said.

He laughed, and then looked a little tired as two bells chimed simultaneously out in the corridor. “I must bid you good night then, Margaret,” he said, and left the room, still smiling.

I finished every bite of the apple and all three biscuits, making my hot chocolate last the entire time. While I ate, I read the Henry James novel I had borrowed from the ship's huge library after breakfast this morning. I also have some Ralph Waldo Emerson essays and a collection of Emily Dickinson poems waiting by my bed.

Frankly, I
never
want to leave this ship; it is the most wonderful place on Earth.

 

 

I have now discovered that when one is aboard ship, there is a whole new vocabulary to learn. I got Robert to explain some of it to me this morning, when he arrived with tea, toast and jam. “Port” is left, and “starboard” is right. I think. It is hard to keep all of these new words straight in my mind. The “bow” is in the front of the ship, and the “stern” is in the rear. When people say “amidships”, they seem to mean the middle. “Aft” is somewhere behind you. Corridors are “alleyways”, the kitchen is a “galley”, and walls are “bulkheads”. And
never,
ever,
ever
would you call the
Titanic
a “boat”. She is a “ship”. Why ships are called “she”, rather than “he”, has not yet been satisfactorily explained to me. Tradition, perhaps.

Mrs Carstairs has found a group of avid bridge players, and they spent most of today playing in the lounge. I watched for a while, but found the intricacies of the game quite dreary.

With Mrs Carstairs occupied, I had plenty of time to explore today. Her only firm request was that I be certain to come to her stateroom before meals to help her dress. That sounds foolish, but with all of her corsets and petticoats and elaborate dresses, she seems to need an extra pair of hands. She changes before every single meal, and I have yet to see her wear the same outfit twice. This variety seems to be very important to the women on the ship, although for the life of me, I am not sure why. It seems a great waste of time to worry so about fashion. I even grow impatient during the time it takes to comb my hair. Mrs Carstairs is disturbed that a young
man
is serving as our cabin steward, and says she is tempted to request a
stewardess
instead. I quickly promised that she could depend on me to assist in any way she desires, and reminded her of the lovely job Robert had done arranging her flowers. She seemed dubious, but finally nodded reluctantly and waved me away.

I went all the way down (G Deck? F Deck? I lost count) to the swimming pool and squash court this morning, and peeked inside the rooms. I had no urge to engage in either of these activities, but it was entertaining to watch others do so. Later, I examined the Turkish baths, the post office, and the first-class maids' and valets' dining saloon. I have not run across many of the maids and valets, and rarely even see the young woman who shares my lavatory. Her name is Josephine, and her employer is a crotchety and demanding elderly woman who keeps her so busy that she scarcely has a moment to herself. I am fortunate that Mrs Carstairs is far more reasonable about such things. We are, perhaps, not an ideal pair, but even my brief glimpses of Josephine's harried face rushing by make me count my blessings.

For amusement, I rode in the lifts for a while, and had a nice chat with a boy named Stephen who operates one of them. He is from Southampton, and is overjoyed to have found employment on such a fine ship. It is funny – I am really only comfortable here when I am speaking to members of the crew. I am sure I would also feel at ease if I were travelling in steerage, since I would no longer feel like such a fraud. I know how lucky I am, but still, it would have been nice if I had
earned
my passage on this ship.

Later on I wandered into the gymnasium and the very fit Mr McCawley, who oversees the room, demonstrated the various machines for me. In the East End, people are too busy working to
exercise,
but it seems to be different for the leisured classes. I did not care for the mechanical horse or camel – far too jouncy and erratic – but I pedalled quite effectively on a stationary bicycle. It is strange to ride and ride and not go anywhere, but there is a clock on the wall with small pointers that move to show how far you have travelled. I also tried the rowing machine, but did not find myself to be very adept at this.

First-class passengers can go anywhere they choose but the second-class, and most especially the third-class passengers, are restricted to certain parts of the ship. There are actually locked gates and other barriers to keep the steerage passengers segregated from everyone else. The only time I have seen anyone from steerage is from the end of the Promenade, looking down at the deck by the ship's stern. That particular deck is known – here I share some more of my new vernacular, courtesy of Robert – as the “poop deck”. There is almost always a great laughing crowd gathered there, and some man keeps playing the bagpipes. I have also heard a fiddler. It reminds me, fondly, of Whitechapel. First-class passengers tend to frown down at the steerage passengers, pointing and making comments as though they were at the zoological gardens in Regent's Park. This makes me so uncomfortable that I have decided I will stay to the bow end of the ship as much as possible.

I have no sense of what the conditions are like down in steerage, and hope it is not too dreadful. (William's stories of
his
transatlantic voyage were horrid – and haunting.) I have little sense of what is happening anywhere
other
than the first-class areas. Part of me would like to go down and see steerage for myself, but the idea of being able to pass through the locked gates at will, while others cannot, is terribly offensive to me. I think it would be very contemptuous. In the lift, Stephen told me that a number of first-class passengers have done just that, laughing when they returned and talking about how much fun it was to go “slumming”. So, despite my curiosity, I have no intention of doing that myself.

The ship is so big that you can actually get
tired
walking around it. When I bring Florence, I always have to carry her part of the way. She can be fierce, but she is not very hardy. Because it is so cold, Mrs Carstairs has been making me put a tiny handmade sweater on Florence before taking her out. This seems whimsical to me, but I am not about to argue. Besides, Florence enjoys preening.

On more than one occasion, I have passed a remarkably tall, moustached man walking his Airedale on the Boat Deck. He has been pointed out to me as Colonel Astor, and Mrs Carstairs says that he is one of the richest men in the entire world. He never seems to look cheerful, except when he is walking his dog. People are always gossiping about his wife, because she is much younger than he is and, “in the family way”. There is so much gossip during meals – about everyone and everything – that I am very glad to be such an anonymous figure. Once people find out that I am only a companion, most of them promptly lose interest in me, and begin to talk to someone else. I am not easily offended, so this bothers me not a whit. Besides, the marvellous meals themselves continue to offer me plenty of distraction.

A man named Mr Hollings has attached himself to us because we are unescorted. Apparently, gentlemen aboard ship feel a duty to look after women travelling alone. Mrs Carstairs says her Frederick would be very pleased to know that we are so well protected. His guardianship seems mostly demonstrated by his taking Mrs Carstairs by one elbow and leading us to our table at mealtimes. If Mrs Carstairs is out on the deck – a fairly rare event, as she continues to be occupied by marathon card games – Mr Hollings makes certain that the ever-responsive stewards are paying her what he feels is sufficient attention. Often now, during meals, he joins us, along with a rather weedy young man named Ralph Kittery, whose sole pursuits appear to be polo and the American stock market. Mrs Carstairs is much better about feigning interest in these subjects than I am. I can manage nothing better than a vague, impersonal smile, and maybe a nod or two.

What an unusual situation, to be seated at tables full of Americans, meal after meal. They are lively people, but almost childishly gullible. Any Englishman or woman would instantly see through my accent, which is, at best, of the light Oxford variety. I have been introduced to some of the British passengers, in the Reception Room before dinner and so forth, and once I speak, they almost always give me a smile that looks more like a wry wink. But the Americans all seem to think that I sound terribly clever. When I
do
speak, Mrs Carstairs appears to hold her breath. I am not exactly sure what she fears I will say, but it seems as good a reason as any to remain reserved.

A Mrs Janson from Philadelphia was included in our dinner group this evening. She is blonde and willowy and prone to blinking constantly. She asked where I was from, and when I said Whitechapel, by way of Wapping, she commented upon the beauty of the names. Insofar as Whitechapel is concerned, I wanted to say that yes, Jack the Ripper had apparently shared her affection for this area – but I held my tongue. Rarely do these Americans seem to enjoy my humour. But sometimes, I admit, I cannot resist.

“I met the most remarkable Parisian child on the Boat Deck today,” I remarked, during a lull in the conversation tonight. “Scarcely four years old, and already speaking French!”

A puzzled silence fell over the table. Then, to my surprise, Horace, the wine steward, laughed. He was not joined by anyone else, quickly changed the laugh into a cough, and began to refill everyone's glasses.

In the meantime, I returned to my haddock. And soon the conversation shifted, once again, to the many joys of the summer season in Newport.

Such are the social interactions I have been experiencing. I must be a terrible disappointment as a companion, since Mrs Carstairs and I are able to find little common conversational ground. But I am continuing to assume a number of mundane housekeeping chores for her, so I guess I am fulfilling the requirements of a maid. These tasks include sending her clothes out daily to be sponged and pressed, changing the water in her flower vases, ordering trays for her, and of course, taking very good care of Florence. Devoted as Mrs Carstairs is to her dog, she does not seem to enjoy walking her – or, more crucially, cleaning up after her. Yesterday, Florence caught me off guard right at the end of a row of covered lifeboats, and a passing ship's officer gallantly contributed his handkerchief to the cause.

I was happy to retire somewhat earlier than usual tonight; my day of exploring fatigued me. The sound of those steadily throbbing engines below is very soothing, and also helps lull one to sleep. With all of the many sights on the ship, I still think that I like the reading and writing room best of all. I could easily spend the full day there, and never grow restless.

Between that room, and the library, I would have no trouble finding activities to amuse myself.

The weather was so lovely today. I hope tomorrow is just as nice!