Titanic (7 page)

 

 

I really enjoy the morning ritual of having tea and scones in my room – and as much conversation as we can manage before the peal of a bell calls Robert away. He has taken to bringing an extra scone or two, and joining me in my meal.

“How is it down in steerage?” I asked him today.

“Oh, quite comfortable,” he assured me. “I would be right pleased to journey that way myself. I've seen ships where
second
class is not so nice as our third.”

I gave that some thought. “How are
your
cabins, then?”

“Well, we have very little time to spend there,” he said, after a pause. “And it was a great piece of luck, my catching on with this crew. Many's the week I could find no work, and my mum sore needs the money.”

“My brother made his passage as a cabin boy on a fair rotter of a steamer,” I said. “I never thought I would be anywhere
but
steerage.”

He winked at me. “So, we've both had a bit of luck, then.”

As always, bells began to chime, and he was off. Each morning, he places on my tray the
Titanic
's small newspaper, the
Atlantic Daily Bulletin,
and I picked it up to read. The stories are more chatty than informational, and report items such as the number of miles we have cruised during any given 24-hour period. As the weather has been no handicap, the ship seems to do better and better, and there is a daily contest for passengers to predict the actual figure. We are expected to arrive in New York on Wednesday morning. Oh, I hope William is standing there on the dock waiting for me!

 

 

This afternoon while I was on the starboard-side Promenade, Colonel Astor stopped to pat and admire Florence. He had his own dog in tow, and I asked him what the dog's name was. When he said, “Kitty”, I laughed, which clearly pleased him. He may be an imposing figure, but how could you dislike a man who named his dog “Kitty”?

Mrs Carstairs and I took tea in the Café Parisien, instead of the lounge. The atmosphere is much less formal than the dining saloon, and we had a harmonious time. There is a light, airy feel to the room, complemented by numerous plants and wicker chairs. Trains of ivy actually climb the walls! We were joined by several other ladies, one of whom had a great booming laugh, which she employed regularly. Her name is Mrs Brown, and people seem to think her amusing, but boorish. Since she sat down right next to me, and plied me with friendly questions, I liked her at once. If anything, discovering that I was a mere companion only increased her attention. She feels that I will find America smashing, and that Boston will suit me well, as the area is famous for its educational institutions. I was encouraged by this information, and hope that her predictions are accurate.

For some reason, Mrs Carstairs is tired of bridge today, so I played hearts with her – still the only game I know – until it was time to help her dress for dinner. She instructed me to wear my paisley dress, and to save the green silk for tomorrow. I did as I was told, and she surveyed me critically before asking me to take off what she described as “that dreadful locket”. This stung me, but I only said mildly that it had belonged to my beloved mother and there were no circumstances under which I would ever take it off.
None
whatsoever.

“All right, then,” she said, studying my neckline, and finally sighed. “I will lend you a scarf.”

It was not until we were waiting for a lift that she remembered to apologize for offending my mother's memory. I accepted this graciously, but touched the locket protectively. All it contains are tiny dark locks of hair from when William and I were babies – I should rather have photographs of my parents – but I treasure it, regardless.

We were heading for the
à la carte
restaurant, which everyone calls “The Ritz”, after a famous hotel. I may not appreciate the connection, but I am sure there is one. “The Ritz” is smaller, and more elegant than the dining saloon. The chairs are upholstered in a floral pattern, and the groupings are less linear. The walls are panelled with an almost golden shade of wood, and there are many inset mirrors. Mr Hollings, who is dining with us again, says that the mirrors give the room the illusion of space. I took him at his word.

Our napkins had been folded into upright cones, and the gold-rimmed china is an entirely different pattern from the dishes I have seen elsewhere on the ship. I feel sorry for the people who have to wash all of them!

I have studied French, but not sufficiently enough to translate the menu with confidence. It is possible to order a full nine courses, but even my appetite is not quite equal to that task. I tried caviar for the first time – and do not expect to repeat the experience. Very salty, very strongly flavoured, and the eggs had a slippery feel I found unappetizing. I seemed to be the only one at the table to have this reaction, as the caviar disappeared twice as fast as the plover's eggs and other appetizers.

With each course, we are served a different wine. I sip some of the glasses, but have yet to come close to finishing one. When the waiter offered to bring me some lemonade, I accepted eagerly.

After the meal, I was glad to have the excuse of needing to walk Florence, as I felt quite overstuffed. How do ladies like Mrs Carstairs manage to eat
at all
while laced into those corsets? I count myself lucky that I have never been forced to put on such a restrictive garment. I suppose it will be inevitable when I am a little older, but I hope to put that particular symbol of maturity off as long as possible.

Florence and I each wore our pullovers, as it was cold on the Boat Deck. I sat in a deck chair for a few moments, breathing the refreshing air and looking up at the stars. In every other direction, I could only see the blackness of the ocean. Mostly, I could not even see
that,
but I sensed it. The ship's lights seem warm and comforting in the midst of this lonely ocean.

A first-class gentleman – I do not remember his name – walked past me, and began to light a cigarette.

“Excuse me, miss,” he began – and then paused to look at me more closely. “Aren't you Evelyn Carstairs's maid? I am not sure you are permitted out on this deck.”

I instantly felt ashamed, but also angry. “I am chaperoning the dog,” I answered.

He shrugged, lit his cigarette – right in front of me! – and continued on his way. Gentlemen
never
smoke in front of ladies – but I suppose servants do not count.

My peaceful time ruined, I got up and returned inside. I must try to remember that, for the most part, people on the ship have been very nice to me indeed. And he had smelled of whisky, so perhaps he was not in his right mind.

Even so, it hurt my feelings.

 

 

This morning, we went to a religious service in the dining saloon. I took great solace from this, which suggests that I may be more devout than I would have estimated. At St Abernathy's, we attended some form of mass every day, and it became part of the fabric of my life. The sight of nuns and priests came to be a comforting one to me. This mass was being called a Divine Service, presumably so that passengers of every faith would feel comfortable attending. Second- and third-class passengers were welcome, but not as many took advantage of this as I would have thought. Many of the ones who did come took unobtrusive seats, or stood, in the back of the crowded room. I was very tempted to join them, but knew that it would upset Mrs Carstairs, and so I just stayed where I was.

Rather than a clergyman or priest, the service was led by Captain EJ Smith himself. I know he is very busy commanding the ship, but he also mingles in passenger areas sometimes. He has a formidable appearance, with his dense grey beard and solemn eyes, but his voice is soft and almost melodic. Everywhere he goes, people want him to stop and talk to them, and he seems to be unfailingly polite. Mrs Carstairs is somewhat miffed that we have yet to dine at his table, although today we are to have lunch with the Purser, Mr McElroy, and the affable ship's doctor, Dr O'Loughlin. She feels certain that if her Frederick were here, her social standing would rise considerably.

At the service, we were each handed a copy of the White Star Line's Book of Prayer. Many of the prayers and psalms were familiar, while others had a specific nautical theme. The orchestra accompanied us on all of the hymns, which culminated with a rousing chorus of “O God, Our Help in Ages Past”.

At one o'clock, the bugler called us to luncheon. At St Abernathy's, bells summoned us throughout the day; now, I respond to a bugle. This may or may not be progress.

As we are going to be at a more prestigious table than usual, Mrs Carstairs told me to change into my yellow dress and to take extra care with my hair.

Most of our mealtime conversation concerned an endless stream of questions directed towards Purser McElroy and Dr O'Loughlin. As senior members of the crew, it is expected that they are privy to special snippets of inside information. There was much talk about the ship's performance, and whether the rumour that we might reach New York on Tuesday night, rather than the following morning, is true. One gentleman at our table – I forget his name – even wanted to know if the tales of icebergs ahead were reliable. Most of these questions were dodged with vague generalities. So my tablemates moved on to compliments, and complaints about many of the ship's amenities. These, Purser McElroy addressed with more authority.

I, of course, concentrated on savouring my meal, since I was ravenous. It would not have been appropriate to eat before the Divine Service, so I had declined breakfast this morning. I had been afraid that this would offend Robert, but he said he was only too pleased to respect my wishes. I
did
sip some tea, and we talked a little about what it had been like for him growing up with five sisters and three brothers in Liverpool. It sounded as though he had been raised in a close and jolly family, even though he said that he and his brothers had got into “many a scrap”. I admitted that while I preferred only to remember the happy times, William and I had been known to have a row or two ourselves. A row or
three,
William probably would have said.

During my third course, Dr O'Loughlin smiled across the table at me. He has white hair, and seems terribly kind. “You do not suffer from a delicate constitution, do you, child?”

“I embrace culinary excess, sir,” I said, and he laughed.

“Spoken like a true Edwardian!” Purser McElroy proclaimed, and more people chuckled.

After that wonderful feast, I was content to read in my room, while Mrs Carstairs napped. Before it was time to dress for dinner, we went to the Purser's Office, so that she could retrieve some of her jewels. Then we stopped by the wireless office, so that she could send a telegram to her son-in-law, to let him know that she might arrive earlier than expected. The young men working in the Marconi room must be somewhat overwhelmed with work, judging by the huge stack of messages that were waiting to be delivered.

That evening, it took Mrs Carstairs much longer than usual to get ready. She wanted me to help her arrange a singularly intricate hairdo, but my efforts on her behalf were clumsy. In the end, she summoned a friend's maid to assist her, all the while directing me to watch
very closely
so that I would be able to do it myself next time. I suspected that she was overdressed, but soon discovered that elaborate evening gowns with an abundance of accessories were the norm tonight. The men wore black dinner jackets and looked very debonair indeed.

I was a little unsteady in my new shoes, but put them on to make Mrs Carstairs happy. My green silk dress felt very sleek. Mrs Carstairs also gave me an extra pair of her gloves, which reached almost all the way to my elbows!

Anyone who had accused me of being hoity-toity at this particular moment would have been absolutely correct.

When we walked into the Reception Room for pre-dinner cocktails, the sight of my fellow passengers decked out in their very best was impressive. Trains and bustles, stylish jackets and stoles, furs and pearls, lace and satin, gold and emeralds, each more decorative and festive than the last. Tonight is an extra-special occasion as people will be concentrating on their packing tomorrow.

Mr Hollings fetched Mrs Carstairs a glass of wine, and me some mineral water. When it was time to go in for dinner, his stodgy young friend, Mr Kittery, glanced over, looked again, and then offered his elbow to me. This gave me the sense that my appearance – or at least the quality of my silk dress – was moderately successful tonight. Mrs Carstairs reminded him, sharply, that I am only a young girl, and he should behave in a gentlemanly manner. Since all he wanted to do was share yet another series of tales about his many polo exploits, I think her concern was misplaced.

Everyone in the dining saloon seemed to be in high spirits, and animated conversations raised the usual noise level. I tried a raw oyster for an appetizer, and found its salty intensity a bit much. The next course of cream of barley soup was more to my liking. No sooner had I laid down my spoon or fork than my plate was swiftly taken away and replaced by a fresh one.

The stream of silver platters borne by restaurant stewards came at a steady pace. Among other treats, I enjoyed roast duckling, château potatoes, and creamed carrots. For dessert I selected a chocolate éclair with vanilla ice cream. By now, I was quite satiated, and saw no need to avail myself of the traditional cheese-and-fruit course.

After a repast like that, it was almost surprising that any of us were able to
walk.
Some of the passengers seemed rather tipsy, but it was all in the spirit of celebration and good fun. Tonight's concert by the orchestra was even more stirring than usual, and I sipped a raspberry cordial throughout.

It had become so cold that I took Mrs Carstairs's advice and wore my pink coat when I walked Florence. It may have clashed with my gown, but there were very few people outside to notice. As a rule, there are many affectionate couples strolling about, but tonight, the frigid temperature seemed to have dissuaded most of them, and I often had full stretches of deck to myself. Fortunately, there was no sign of the rude gentleman with the cigarettes.

The sky was so astoundingly clear that I stopped and gazed up in outright fascination. The ocean was so smooth that it looked like glass, and the stars had an incomparable brilliance. The moon had yet to rise, but the starlight more than compensated for this. What an extraordinary evening it had been!

Once Florence was safely situated back with Mrs Carstairs, I treated myself to a comfortable soak in the tub and changed into my nightdress. I have been writing quite furiously ever since, but am beginning to feel drowsy, so I think I will stop soon. It is past eleven-thirty, and I am looking forward to a peaceful night.

Robert, of course, has already appeared with hot chocolate, which I am still sipping. After that gargantuan meal, I have no appetite for biscuits, but the cocoa is delicious. We did not have much time to talk, because one of the other passengers is feeling somewhat queasy, and Robert was waiting for Dr O'Loughlin to come up and examine him. However, in the morning, I am sure we can—

A very strange thing just happened. My hand seemed perfectly steady, and yet I spilled part of my hot chocolate. It was as though there was a jolt, and the hot liquid just slopped right over the edge. Perhaps the seas are beginning to get rough? Oh, I hope not, after such a tranquil time so far.

I am afraid Mrs Carstairs will be upset when she finds out that I have stained my new nightclothes with chocolate. Maybe I should put them to soak in a washbasin, and change into my old nightdress from St Abernathy's.

There seems to be some commotion out in the passageway, so maybe I will go and see what is happening. Maybe other people noticed the jolting sensation as well?

 

I have just returned, after shrugging on Father's wool coat as a dressing gown and slipping into my button-boots. People were walking by on their way to the deck to see if perhaps we had struck another ship. Others feel that we may have grazed an iceberg, as the weather is so cold tonight. I knocked on Mrs Carstairs's door, but she told me she was trying to sleep, and I should do the same, as any sensible person would at this hour. I am, however, inclined to get dressed, and go up to the deck to examine the situation for myself. I know he is busy, but I am even tempted to go and find Robert, and ask him if – wait, something is different. I am not sure what, but everything seems different.

There has been a change in the atmosphere that I cannot quite distinguish. My ears feel a little hollow, and –
that
is the difference. I can no longer hear the soothing, constant vibration of the engines. Over the past few days, that has become a comforting background noise – and now, just like that, it is gone. I wonder why.

Voices out in the hall keep saying the word “iceberg”, but no one seems upset. Maybe this sort of event is routine in ocean travel. It seems odd that the engines would stop, so I hope they are not damaged in any way. Maybe they are just running more slowly, which is why I can no longer hear them.

I think I will go out and find Robert now, since I know that he will relieve my curiosity.

This must be routine. What
else
could it be?