Women and Children First (7 page)

‘Perhaps she’s not in first class?’ Bill suggested. ‘There are some lookers downstairs as well.’

Reg considered it for a brief second, but there was no question in his mind. ‘She’s definitely in first. Keep your eyes peeled for me, will you?’

‘For you? Not if I see her first,’ Bill rejoined, and they all chuckled at the idea. In reality, none of them would ever try getting it on with an upper-class lady. It wasn’t the way things worked. You were born to a certain station and that’s where you stayed. For a saloon steward to have an affair with a first-class passenger would be like a donkey squiring a thoroughbred horse.

Reg wished John hadn’t said he was in love. It was quite the opposite really. He was curious about the girl from the boat deck but he instinctively disliked her for what she was doing. He was still wondering if there was anything he could do to protect Mrs Grayling from finding out about the affair. He considered asking John’s advice, but when he thought about it, he was pretty sure he could guess what the answer would be: ‘Ye daft eejit! Keep your nose well out of it.’

By dinner time on Saturday evening, Juliette was restless in her gilded prison. No matter how large the ship, there was no escape from the exasperating presence of her mother, and from the burden of class expectations, which were magnified a thousand times on board. Here were the
crème de la crème
of American society and a good few British aristocrats, all mingling together and watching each other closely for any lapse in standards. Not for a second could you swear, or burp, or put your feet up on a table, never mind attend breakfast without a hat. Brought up with a brother who was close in age, Juliette enjoyed tennis, cricket and tree-climbing rather than needle-point and bridge. She liked male conversations about politics and exploration and technology but when she tried to engage their companions in the reception room outside the dining saloon in speculation about what might have happened to Captain Scott, her mother was desperate to change the subject.

‘Really, Juliette, I’m sure the ladies don’t wish to talk about such things.’

Juliette ignored her and continued. ‘Mr Amundsen has returned triumphant so at least we know it’s possible. But the papers are saying that Scott’s party did not have enough supplies with them for this length of time. I do hope they are all right.’

A middle-aged American woman called Mrs Grayling, whom they had met just that evening, smiled at her. ‘I’m fascinated by the stories I’ve read about both men. They seem infinitely resourceful. I have a hunch that Captain Scott will be fine. He might even have turned up while we’ve been at sea.’

Her husband didn’t agree. ‘They’d have told us. Someone would have telegrammed news like that to the ship and the captain would have announced it. Remember we heard the news that Amundsen had returned safely while on our voyage across to Europe.’

‘That’s true, dear,’ Mrs Grayling said, smiling in his direction. ‘At any rate, I wish Captain Scott and his team all the best.’

There was some discussion about who was dining at which table that evening and they decided to ask the chief steward to move them so they could sit together as a party. Juliette was pleased because there was no obvious suitor in the group that her mother could thrust upon her but humiliated when, over dinner, she guessed that her mother was asking Mrs Grayling if she knew of any possible marital candidates. Their heads were close together, voices lowered to little more than a whisper, but Juliette could tell by the way they occasionally glanced in her direction that she was the subject of their discussion. It was insulting. She was only twenty and perfectly capable of finding a husband for herself once the present unfortunate matter had been dealt with, yet her mother seemed to think it was her role now.

Juliette was seated between Mr Grayling, who didn’t seem to want to make conversation, and a Canadian couple who weren’t speaking to each other. She got talking to the husband, a man called Albert Howson who came from the Calgary area, and who proved to be a most agreeable companion. They talked about the rumour that King Edward VII had been married bigamously to Queen Mary, after a secret marriage in Malta while he was serving in the Navy, which meant George V wouldn’t be the lawful King of England. Neither believed it. Juliette was interested when he described Calgary as cowboy territory, but said that there were fortunes to be made for those prepared to speculate. But when she brought up the subject of women’s suffrage, she found Mr Howson unsympathetic.

‘Men are the ones who understand finance and business. How would a woman even begin to vote knowledgeably on fiscal policy? They would vote for the most handsome or charismatic candidate rather than attempting to review the issues.’

‘Don’t be such an idiot, Bert,’ his young wife cut in sharply. ‘Women would bring an emotional sensitivity to politics that would improve them for the better. We have more insight into human behaviour. We care about others.’

Her husband turned to her with a curl of his lip. ‘All you care about is fashion: who has the newest gown or the biggest diamond ring.’

Juliette turned quickly to Mr Grayling so as not to be drawn into their squabble. ‘Are you enjoying the crossing?’ she asked. ‘Is the
Titanic
everything you expected it to be?’

‘I don’t have any complaints,’ he replied. ‘Except that the soup is never hot enough. And the meat is frequently overdone.’

Their waiter was collecting plates at that point and Mr Grayling raised his voice to make sure he was overheard. Juliette felt sorry for the poor boy, who certainly bore no responsibility for the standard of the cuisine. When he lifted her plate, she turned to him.

‘The fish was quite delicious. Please pass my compliments to the chef.’

The waiter gave a slight smile and nodded. ‘Thank you, miss.’

She tried again to engage Mr Grayling, but he didn’t seem to want to join in the general conviviality. Was he shy perhaps? Or just not good at small talk? On the other side of the table, the conversation turned to the speed of the ship, and Juliette listened with interest.

‘I do wonder if they are going for a record crossing,’ remarked one gent. ‘They say we covered 519 miles yesterday, which is rather more than the day before.’

‘Would that mean we’d get into New York early?’ his wife asked.

‘In theory, yes. It could be Tuesday evening rather than Wednesday morning.’

‘That would be rather a bore as our chauffeur won’t be there till the morning.’

The Canadian woman, Mrs Howson, joined in. ‘You could send him a Marconi-gram. Have you sent one yet? They’re ever such fun. I sent my sister one yesterday, simply saying ‘You’ll never guess where I am!’ She thought we were coming back on the
Lusitania
so she’ll be astonished when she gets it.’

Mrs Grayling asked how Marconi-grams reached the people concerned, and one gent took it upon himself to explain about radio waves and how they were sent from ship to ship then on to base stations on shore.

‘How clever!’ she remarked. ‘What will they think of next?’

‘I imagine they will think of a way of using the telephone across an ocean. That will rather change the world, won’t it? Imagine being able to place a telephone call from New York to London!’

‘I can’t see it happening in our lifetime. How would they run the telephone wire along the ocean floor?’

‘Do you have a telephone yet?’ Mrs Howson interrupted. ‘It’s very convenient but I never say anything private on the line because the operator always listens in. You can actually hear her breathing. It’s most off-putting.’

Mrs Grayling said that her telephone always gave her a start when it rang. ‘It’s so loud and shrill. I’m not sure I like it. You use it more than I do, darling.’ She turned to Mr Grayling, trying to include him in the conversation. ‘What do you think?’

‘Technology has never been your strong suit, has it, my dear?’ He looked round the other guests at the table. ‘She doesn’t like to touch the light switches in case she electrocutes herself.’

Juliette was astonished by his patronising tone. It seemed a nasty way to talk to your spouse.

‘But there was that case in the
New York Times
,’ Mrs Grayling protested. ‘It can happen.’

‘I read that story,’ another gent burst in gallantly. ‘It
was
rather alarming.’

Juliette was interested to hear that so many Americans had telephones and electric lights in their homes. Back in Gloucestershire they had neither. She’d been trying to persuade her father to install a telephone but so far he hadn’t agreed.

Over dessert, the Canadian couple’s argument erupted into a fierce skirmish and Mrs Howson rose and stamped away from the table without saying goodbye to anyone. The husband quaffed the remainder of his wine in one swallow and remarked to the gentlemen, ‘At least that frees me up for the evening. Shall we retire to the smoking room?’

As the ladies rose to leave the dining saloon, Juliette caught eyes with a man at the next table. He was sandy-haired, with an intelligent face. She got the impression he must have been listening in to the Howsons’ quarrel and felt vaguely disconcerted that he might imagine they were friends of hers. He gave a slight smile and she smiled back and it was over in an instant. She followed her mother to the reading room and once they were seated, Lady Mason-Parker regarded her with a twinkle.

‘Mrs Grayling has invited us to dine with them the week after we arrive in New York. Isn’t that kind?’

‘Very kind,’ Juliette replied suspiciously. ‘Will it just be the four of us?’

Lady Mason-Parker played with a button on the sleeve of her gown. ‘She said she might try to find some young people to join us. That would make it more fun for you, I expect.’

‘Please tell her not to worry on my behalf. I’m sure it will be a charming evening anyway.’

It was an ambush, pure and simple. Juliette wondered which poor dupe was to be seated next to her. Would he be told that she was a titled English Lady looking for a husband? Probably. She dreaded the evening already.

Her mother went on to talk about the gown worn by Lady Duff Gordon at dinner that evening, speculating on whether it came from the Maison Lucille fashion house she owned, and remarking that ladies’ silhouettes were certainly getting narrower this season, no matter what the old-fashioned houses like Paquin might say.

Juliette listened for a while then, claiming a slight nausea, got up to return to their cabin. She stopped on the outdoor promenade to look out at the inky ocean and the star-speckled sky. She felt like a four-year-old confined to the nursery for bad behaviour at the tea table. She felt as though she were being punished for the brief affair with Charles Wood, something that really didn’t feel as though it were her fault.
He
had been the one who seduced
her
. As she had often done in the past, she wished she had been born a boy. Men had so much more freedom, and the increased responsibilities that went hand in hand with it would have suited Juliette just fine. The life she was being forced to lead was suffocating her. She put a hand to her throat, for a moment feeling almost literally as though she couldn’t breathe.

Most tables in the first-class dining saloon seated eight people. If a party was travelling together they were naturally seated together and you could put in a request to be placed near your friends, but otherwise the chief steward designed the seating arrangements. Reg had watched with secret amusement the shuffling around that had taken place after the first dinners on Wednesday and Thursday evenings. Some people asked to be moved if there were Jewish passengers at their table. Others asked the chief steward to seat them further away from the Astors, who were still being ostracised by New York society after the scandal of his remarriage. And yet more were simply bored to tears by the dining companions allocated to them.

It was all done with outward shows of politeness: ‘Oh goodness, they seem to have moved us to another table. I can’t think why!’ But there was a playground ruthlessness about it. ‘You’re not good enough to sit with us,’ they were saying. ‘I’d rather be with the Wideners or the Cardezas, thank you very much.’ Reg found it fascinating that in a society that already had so many stratifications, yet more were designed by the top stratum to further segregate themselves.

The Graylings’ table companions had been different for each of the four nights of the voyage so far. Reg doubted that she would have requested any change and he could only assume that other people wanted to get away from them because they felt uncomfortable around the obvious tensions in the marriage. He eavesdropped on a lot of the conversations as he made his way round, holding out silver platters from which diners could help themselves to appetisers, entrées and vegetables, and he thought Mrs Grayling was uncommonly polite and well-bred. She asked about other people rather than going on about herself, and she made everyone she spoke to feel good about themselves.

On Saturday evening, Mrs Grayling spent much time whispering to another woman, a titled English lady, while her daughter talked to the Howsons about Canada. Reg was more interested when the discussion turned to the speed of the ship. He’d felt himself that they were pushing along at a rate of knots. They seemed to be testing her, and she was running beautifully, all those pistons and cylinders and propellers doing exactly what they were designed to do.

As he moved round the table collecting plates, he heard them discussing the probability that one day telephone calls could be made from America to England. Reg had never made a telephone call. He’d only ever seen a telephone in the White Star Line offices and when it rang, it was so loud and insistent he’d almost jumped out of his skin.

He took the plates back to the pantry, as the wine waiter circled the table topping up glasses. Why didn’t the Graylings get divorced, he wondered? It happened more often these days and although there might be a brouhaha for a year or so, at least you could move on. Perhaps they were religious. Or maybe money was the tie. He supposed Mr Grayling would have to give her a large settlement from his multi-million-dollar fortune if they divorced. Having said that, he’d heard that the first Mrs Astor only got a small stipend from the vast family fortune because of some legal agreement she had signed before they married.

As he walked back out into the saloon to see to his other tables, Reg scanned the room for the boat deck girl, as he now thought of her, but yet again she wasn’t there. It was a spacious room with upwards of fifty tables, but he was convinced he would have spotted her. He’d always had a good memory for a face, especially one as remarkable as hers.

The Howsons were arguing again, and it transpired that Mr Howson had lost some money gambling that afternoon. As Reg approached to take their dessert order, their voices rose and she pushed her chair back and stood up. Reg kept well back so she couldn’t grab hold of his jacket this time.

‘I didn’t realise when I walked down the aisle that I was marrying a loser,’ she spat.

‘Well, I didn’t realise I was marrying a spoiled child,’ he drawled.

She threw her napkin on the floor and flounced over to Reg. ‘Will you bring some dessert down to my room?’ she asked in a cloying voice, deliberately loud enough for her husband to overhear. ‘You choose. Whatever you think I’ll enjoy.’ It was such blatant flirtation that Reg didn’t know where to look.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not allowed to leave my post.’

‘I insist!’ she demanded and stamped her foot. ‘I absolutely insist.’

‘In that case, I’ll see to it,’ Reg promised with a nod, and she smiled coyly. As soon as she had left the dining salon, Reg spoke quietly to Mr Howson. ‘I’ll have your room steward take something to your wife,’ he said, anxious there should be no misunderstanding between them.

‘Make it arsenic,’ the man muttered under his breath.

What was it about his tables that attracted the unhappily married, Reg wondered. Was it him? There were dozens of happy couples on the ship. He’d seen the Strauses, a couple in their sixties, holding hands as they sat on the promenade watching the sunset over the ocean. There was a young Spanish couple who were always laughing together, like a pair of little songbirds. Loads of couples seemed very much in love, but it was the ones who weren’t that gave you pause for thought. If he married Florence, would they end up bickering like that one day? He couldn’t bear to live that way.

Towards nine o’clock, the dining room was thinning out and Reg noticed that Mrs Grayling was once again sitting on her own at the table. He assumed Mr Grayling had gone to the smoking room for a brandy.

‘Would you like me to bring you something else, ma’am?’

She smiled. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ve been watching you and it makes me quite exhausted to see how hard you work. You don’t stop for a second, do you? And you’re so graceful as you weave your way around us all. It’s almost like a dance.’

Reg wondered if she had drunk too much wine at dinner, and coloured slightly, unsure what to say.

‘Goodness, listen to me going on. I was hoping to catch you.’ She glanced over to where the chief steward stood at the entrance. He wasn’t looking their way. ‘Hold out your hand.’

Reg did as she asked, holding it out flat. Her gloved hand came down on top of his and she placed something there then bent his fingers over so that it wouldn’t show.

‘This is from me, not my husband. It’s to say that I’m grateful for the way you’ve been looking after us. I don’t want to hear any more about it, though. I’m going down to my room now and we won’t mention it again.’

Reg pulled back her chair. ‘Thank you very much, ma’am,’ he said quietly. ‘It means a lot to me.’

‘You’re very welcome, Reg. I’ll see you at breakfast.’

Reg could feel that there was some kind of banknote in his palm but he didn’t dare check which denomination, so he put it directly into his trouser pocket and finished clearing his tables, then set them for breakfast. It was only later when he went to the lav that he fished it out and nearly fell backwards with shock. It was a five-pound note. He whistled out loud. He’d never even held one of these in his hands before, never mind one that was his to keep. It was green, with a picture of King George on it. Straight away, he decided not to tell anyone, not even John, because it would make the others jealous. They might even report him and he’d be forced to hand it back. He would keep it in his trouser pocket and never be separated from it. There was too much chance of pilfering if he left it unsupervised with his few possessions in the dorm for even five minutes.

Good old Mrs Grayling. What on earth would he say when he saw her the next morning? How could he ever thank her? Did she have any idea that it represented more than a month’s wages to him? Reg felt his cheeks grow hot with excitement. With money like this, maybe he could get a stall and sell meat pies to the seamen who came ashore at Southampton. The Seaview Café wouldn’t be happy about the competition, but all was fair in love and business. Where would he make his pies, though? His mum would never let him use her kitchen and he’d have no income to pay rent on a place of his own. Was there anything else he could do?

He wished he could ask advice from some of the millionaires on board. What gave Mr Straus the idea of setting up Macy’s department store in New York? Why did Mr Cardeza decide to get into manufacturing blue jeans? How had Mr Grayling raised the money to invest in South American copper mines?

But then none of them had been born in a two-bed terrace in Albert Street, Northam, with no father to look after them and no money. Someone had surely helped them take the first step up the ladder. The likes of the Astors and Guggenheims and Vanderbilts were a different kettle of fish because they had inherited their wealth, but how could you leap from poverty to business success? He needed to have a good idea, and save money until he had enough to start up. Think about what people need and don’t yet have, he urged himself, but no matter how hard he concentrated, that crucial bright idea wouldn’t come. He didn’t have the technical know-how to invent a way of transmitting telephone calls from New York to London. All he knew was the restaurant trade.

He lay on top of his bunk fully dressed, listening to the sounds of all the other stewards in the dorm chatting quietly to each other, their voices disappearing one by one as they drifted off to sleep. Reg knew he wouldn’t sleep for ages because he had too much on his mind. He felt restless and unsettled. He was twenty-one years old and still waiting for his life to begin, but he didn’t know how to get started, didn’t even know what it was he really wanted. John wasn’t ambitious like him, and he was probably a much happier person as a result. All John wanted was to find a good woman to marry, and maybe to make it up the ranks to be a sommelier or chief steward one day – although privately Reg couldn’t see that happening because he was too broad in his accent, too coarse in his looks. They liked their head waiting staff to be easier on the eye. Reg could have done it, but he was insubordinate at heart. He followed the White Star Line rules but sometimes felt as though his head might explode. He’d rather be his own boss one day.

Maybe too much contact with the rich had spoiled him, giving him airs above his station. Face facts: the only thing he was good at was waiting on table; the only money he had was a five-pound note. He should accept his lot, go home and put down a deposit on a nice engagement ring for Florence. Mrs Grayling would probably be delighted if he told her that was the way he planned on spending her money.

But he knew he wasn’t going to do that. That’s not what it had come to him for. It was his chance to do something that would change his life once and for all. He got fed up lying there with his thoughts swirling round and decided to get up. He jumped lightly to the floor, pulled on his shoes and wandered out into Scotland Road. He hadn’t consciously chosen a destination but his feet led him, almost without thinking, up the five flights of staff stairs to the boat deck

It was peaceful up there. The ocean was like a millpond. No wonder there was no swell on the ship because there was none on the ocean either. The stars seemed a little brighter than the night before, which meant there was less cloud in the upper atmosphere. The ship’s engines made a mere humming vibration up on deck, like a cat purring in its sleep. They were noisier down below where he slept.

An officer descended from the bridge and walked across to the officers’ quarters. Reg looked over the railing towards the surface of the water and saw someone’s head protruding through a porthole, smoking a cigarette. Otherwise all was still and silent as the grave. It occurred to him to wonder whether Mr Grayling might have another assignation with the boat deck girl. It had been around that time the previous evening when he saw them. Neither of them appeared, though. Why would they? It was after one a.m. on the White Star Line ‘Honour and Glory’ clock when Reg slipped down the Grand Staircase and back to his dorm.