Women and Children First (6 page)

The stewards were free from the end of lunch service, at around three o’clock, until just before dinner began at six. They ate a meal in the mess on E Deck, usually whatever was left over from the third-class dinner, then had a couple of hours free. Reg liked to walk around the ship, exploring. He folded a white tea towel over his arm so that it would look as though he was engaged on an errand, but in reality he was spying. He liked to watch the passengers and see how they chose to spend their days, trying to imagine what it must feel like to be them.

That Saturday, he started up on A Deck where, on the first-class promenade, he overheard a group of passengers discussing whether they might see a pod of dolphins. ‘On our last crossing they followed the ship for ages and they were simply divine creatures, so intelligent.’

Reg didn’t interrupt to tell them that the North Atlantic was far too cold for dolphins in April. They were intelligent enough to be sunning themselves down in the Caribbean at that time of year.

He walked the length of A Deck and into the first-class smoking room, where there was already a card game in progress. Men’s heads were bowed in concentration and a blueish fug of cigar smoke hovered above them. In the Verandah and Palm Court next door, some children were playing with hoops on sticks, whooping as they wove among the tables, while their nursemaids sat talking in low voices. He walked down the stairs to B Deck. A few young folk were relaxing in the Café Parisien and, as he walked past, one of them called out, ‘I say, could you fetch us some pink gins?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Reg nodded, and he passed on the order to one of the French stewards employed there. Every room on the
Titanic
was an exquisite copy of something or other and this was supposed to be a Parisian pavement café, so the staff were all French (or at least spoke in mock French accents). He glanced along the length of the room, wondering if the girl from the boat deck might be spending her time there, with the younger set, but there was no sign.

He worked his way along the B Deck corridor and level by level wandered down into the depths of the ship. The reception room on D Deck was empty; most first-class passengers were either upstairs or in their cabins having an afternoon nap. Down on E Deck, he helped a gentleman who was looking for the barber’s shop but had wandered into the crew quarters off Scotland Road instead.

‘Good lord,’ the gent exclaimed. ‘How did I get into a staff area?’

‘It’s easily done, sir,’ Reg told him.

When he reached the third-class cabins on F Deck, there was a strong smell of garlic and cheap hair oil and the chatter was in Eastern European languages he couldn’t fathom. He’d picked up a smattering of Italian and French and Spanish from his trips round the Med, and thought he had a good ear, but these languages had lots of ‘schm’ and ‘brr’ sounds and no roots that he could identify.

The aft end of third class accommodated the Irish and it always sounded as though there was a party going on as they called from cabin to cabin, and groups of them congregated in the corridors. They were excited to be going to America, excited to be on this ship. One bunch of women hovered directly in his path and he couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.

‘Eileen, did you see yon toothy fellow dancing in the meeting room last night? He nearly tripped o’er his own feet trying to catch your eye.’

‘Away with ye,’ Eileen drawled. ‘He was just clumsy.’ She stepped back to let Reg past and there was a silence then a whispering behind his back. He sensed they were nudging each other and gesturing towards him.

‘Well, isn’t that lovely now,’ an older woman’s voice said, and they all laughed out loud.

Reg blushed, glad they couldn’t see his face, and turned off at the next doorway that led to a staircase. He descended to G Deck, where the post office was situated right next to the squash court. Suddenly there was a commotion. A door leading to the boiler room opened and an engineer emerged holding two scrawny, tousled children by their arms. Spotting Reg, he called over, ‘Can you find out where these two come from? I just caught them sneaking around the engines without a by your leave.’ He shook the boys’ arms, but they were giggling and didn’t look in the least abashed. ‘If I catch you in here again, I’ll have you scrubbing the decks,’ he warned.

Reg wasn’t looking at the boys, though. Over the engineer’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of the huge machine with all its pistons and cylinders and shafts, pounding back and forwards in order to provide the power that made the ship move. It emitted impressive hissing and clanking noises, and Reg could well understand why the two boys had sneaked in for a look. He’d have liked to do the same himself, but the engineer slammed the door, leaving him in charge of the children.

‘Which class are you in, lads?’

They looked at each other. ‘Third,’ the older one said. ‘With me mam and baby brother and sister.’ The accent was Irish.

‘What’re your names?’

‘I’m Finbarr and he’s Patrick.’

‘Where was your mum when you last saw her?’

‘She was in our cabin, changing the baby.’

‘I bet you don’t know your cabin number,’ Reg challenged. ‘Young lads like you would never remember.’

‘We do too. It’s E107.’ The older one was doing all the talking. He was a gangly lad wearing short trousers that he was too old for. Surely his mum could have got him some long ones for the voyage to cover those awkward kneecaps?

‘Let’s go up there, then. She’ll be worried about you.’

On the way, he told them what he knew boys would want to know: that the ship had two four-cylinder triple-expansion steam engines that drove the propellers, and a low-pressure turbine that recycled steam from the engines. He told them that it had a maximum speed of twenty-three knots but that they were currently only doing about twenty-one. He told them there were twenty-four double-ended boilers and six single-ended ones and that firemen worked day and night to feed coal into a hundred and fifty-nine furnaces. He told them the length and the breadth and the tonnage of the ship, and he was still talking when they arrived up on E Deck outside number 107.

Hearing voices, Annie McGeown opened the door and immediately grabbed her sons and pulled them into the room. ‘What have they been doing? Oh, I hope they haven’t been up to mischief and causing trouble?’

‘Not at all,’ Reg told her. ‘We were just having a chat about the ship.’ He saw the boys’ expressions of surprise when they realised he wasn’t going to tell on them for going in the engine room. ‘They’re clever lads,’ he continued. ‘I bet they do well at school.’

‘I’m so grateful to you, Mr…’

‘Parton. Reg Parton.’

‘I’m Annie McGeown. I wonder, could I ask you a question? Is there somewhere I can warm the baby’s milk? I filled his bottle from a jug at lunch so I could give him a feed later, but he doesn’t like it cold. I haven’t seen any other babies down here and I don’t want to cause a fuss.’

‘Do you want it now?’ Reg asked. ‘I can pop down the corridor to our mess and get someone to do it straight away. Other times, you ask any steward in the dining saloon.’

‘Oh, if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘Tell you what,’ Reg suggested. ‘Why don’t your two eldest come with me and they can bring it back again?’

This was readily agreed and Reg led them along the corridor and through the crisscross metal gate into Scotland Road. He showed them where the crew dorms were, and the storerooms and the mess, then he took them to meet Mr Joughin, who warmed the bottle and gave them a teacake each. The boys kept nudging each other in their excitement. Finally, Reg showed them back to the gateway into third-class aft, and pointed them in the direction of their cabin.

‘Will we see you again?’ Finbarr asked wistfully.

‘I should think so,’ Reg smiled. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you.’

‘Grand!’ Finbarr breathed, and Reg realised with amusement that they looked up to him. They must be the only people on the ship who did.

Once they’d gone, he wandered back to his berth for a lie-down. He had a Sherlock Holmes novel with him but he wasn’t in the mood for it. He spotted an old newspaper among John’s things and pulled it out. It was dated the 8th of April, the day before they’d sailed. Reg climbed up onto his bunk and opened it.

The headlines were all about two steamers that had collided on the River Nile, and they estimated around two hundred were dead. Reg shuddered. He hoped they had drowned rather than being devoured by Nile crocodiles. Seamen hate reading about deaths in the water so he quickly turned the page. The PM, Mr Asquith, was about to introduce his third Irish Home Rule Bill. Good luck to him, Reg thought. No matter what he offered, he’d never manage to keep all the parties happy. Some suffragettes had been chaining themselves to the railings at Parliament again. And then he came to the society pages and settled back to read properly.

There was a photo of some lords and ladies in full evening dress huddled under umbrellas outside the Savoy. The accompanying story congratulated them for coming out to a ball on such a filthy night and risking getting rain or mud on their expensive gowns and black tie dinner suits. The picture was grainy but they looked radiant and not the slightest bit damp. What you couldn’t see were the footmen off to the sides who were holding the umbrellas. They’d probably look like drowned cats, but he supposed that wouldn’t be the kind of picture the paper would want to print. Not on the society pages.

He glanced at the names. They were all called Charles, Edwin, Herbert, or names like that. None of them was called Reg or John. The ladies had flowery names: Violet, Charlotte, Venetia.

John came into the dorm. ‘There you are. I thought you’d jumped overboard after your little accident at lunch.’

Reg sighed. ‘You can bet the stupid flapper who caused it won’t be losing any sleep. Tell me, John, d’you ever wish your mum had called you Herbert? D’you think your life might have been different?’

‘If I had a different mam, my life would have been different. A name’s a name.’

‘What’s wrong with your mum, then?’

‘I dunno. I never see her. Haven’t been home in a while. We’re not a close family, not like yours.’ John came from Newcastle and he always claimed there wasn’t enough time between sailings to nip back and see his folks, but Reg guessed he didn’t make much effort.

‘The only thing close about our family is the way we all live on top of each other. I wish I could afford to get digs, like you.’

‘You’ll have your own place soon enough when you and Florence tie the knot.’ John put his finger in his mouth and popped his cheek.

Reg threw a pillow at him. ‘Don’t you get on my case as well! I’ve got enough people telling me what I should do. There’s a whole big world out there and you and me should be off exploring it instead of rushing down the aisle.’

‘That’s why we came to sea, isn’t it? To see the world, meet the rich – and clean up after them. Did I tell you I had to mop up after a yappy little dog had a widdle in the dining saloon yesterday? The owner knows she’s not supposed to bring him, but she sneaks him under her shawl then he sits on her lap eating bits of fillet steak and whatnot.’

Reg smiled. He’d noticed the lady in question, with a tiny nose poking out of her oversized handbag. ‘I bet she’s American.’

‘Course. An English lady wouldn’t do that. You can tell a mile off which nationality they are before they open their mouths, can’t you?’

‘Definitely. It’s the way they hold themselves. Americans slouch.’ John nodded agreement. ‘And they talk about themselves all the time without listening to other people.’

‘I can’t stand watching them eat,’ John added. ‘They shovel the food in. And their table manners would make your hair stand on end. They just reach across the table for things instead of asking and they use all the wrong cutlery.’

A steward lying on a nearby bunk, a chap called Bill, butted into their conversation. ‘I had one American gent complaining because his knife wouldn’t cut the steak, and he was actually using his fish knife. I didn’t say anything, though. Just went and got him another steak knife and then he was happy.’

‘I’ve got one who brings his own cutlery with him because he doesn’t trust ones that anyone else has used. He’s an odd one. Won’t share the sugar bowl with anyone else on his table, but wants one of his own. I just set completely separate things for his place. He’s not even one of the millionaires. He’s down on E Deck.’ This came from a steward named Harry.

It seemed everyone had a story about the passengers on their tables, although some thought the English were worst because they were so perfectionist and snooty. ‘Lady Duff Gordon won’t take food from a serving plate if I’ve served anyone else from it. There’s six of them at the table but I think she reckons she’s the grandest.’

‘You work in Gatti’s, don’t you?’ Reg asked, because the last speaker had an Italian accent. Gatti’s was the à la carte restaurant on board, run by Luigi Gatti, who also ran the restaurants at the Ritz in London. Passengers paid extra to dine there.

The chap nodded. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t suppose you have a girl who comes in there, really slender, with copper-coloured hair? She’s drop-dead beautiful, about twenty-ish I’d say. I saw her on deck last night in a silvery-white dress, very low neckline,’ Reg motioned with his hands, ‘but she hasn’t been into our restaurant so I thought maybe she eats in yours.’ He wondered why he was asking. It made him sound obsessed. What would they all think?

The Gatti’s waiter shook his head. ‘They are mostly older couples in ours. I can’t think of a girl like you describe.’

‘Reg is in love,’ John teased, and this was met by a chorus of whistles and ‘wey-hey’ noises.

‘Course I’m not.’ Reg was regretting opening his mouth. ‘I only saw her once. I just wondered why she never comes to the dining saloon. I ’spect that’s why she’s so skinny.’

‘She might eat in the Parisien or the Verandah,’ one chap suggested. ‘Lots of the young ones eat in the Parisien.’

‘A few of them get food sent to their rooms. Only if they’re feeling under the weather, though.’