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?’