Women and Children First: Bravery, love and fate: the untold story of the doomed Titanic. Gill Paul
Читать онлайн книгу.Women and Children First: Bravery, love and fate: the untold story of the doomed Titanic - Gill Paul
seconds? That’s what came into my head. Thirty seconds, and I’d have had the plates scraped and stacked by the sink and I’d be on my way back out to my tables.’ He sighed. ‘I dunno, John, I think I’ve just about had enough of this life. I can’t see me going on like this, year in, year out. But if I’m going to leave, it would be better to do it with a clean record. I should have resigned before this trip. I should never have come on the Titanic.’
John was shocked. ‘You’ve got a great career here. Everyone wants our jobs. Why not talk to the glory hole steward and explain what happened when you dropped the plates? He could maybe talk to Latimer and sort things out for you.’
The ‘glory hole’ steward was the one who looked after the stewards in each dorm – the term being ironic, of course.
‘I thought I might have a word with the Tiger.’ The Tiger was the name given to the captain’s personal dining steward, the role Reg had filled on a previous voyage with Captain Smith.
‘Good idea. I’m sure you’ll straighten it out one way or another before we get to New York.’
Reg tucked into his beef stew, and almost immediately had to remove a piece of gristle from his mouth. Despite long slow cooking, this beef needed vigorous gnawing before you could swallow it, unlike that divine morsel of filet mignon. He’d talk to the Tiger, that’s what he would do. If he mentioned it to Captain Smith, Reg was sure things would be all right. The captain liked him. They’d been, if not friends, at least friendly companions on that last trip.
‘Hey, Reg,’ a steward called from another table. It was the Italian one who worked in Gatti’s à la carte restaurant. ‘I didn’t find your dream girl yet but I’m still looking for her.’
‘Who’s your dream girl, Reg? Do we know her? Is it Fat Ethel from the pantry?’ There was general laughter at the table behind theirs, which Reg ignored.
It did make him wonder where the girl was eating her meals, though. Why would you come on a ship that was famed for its luxurious amenities and then not avail yourself of them? She was a mystery passenger all right. Could she even be a stowaway? All these big ships had some. No one could ever tell exactly how many were on board, and it would be easier to stow away in first class than in any other because no one would expect it. Friends of passengers were allowed to come aboard at Southampton to have a look around, and the ship’s whistles warned them when the gangplank was about to be drawn up. What if some just stayed behind and found an empty cabin to sleep in? Would anyone even notice?
He considered this option as he ate, but it seemed unlikely that a girl whose appearance oozed wealth and position would risk the disgrace of being caught not paying her fare. Much more likely that she was eating in one of the other restaurants while he was busy at work. The ship was a labyrinthine floating city. It would certainly be possible to miss someone.
After he’d finished his heaped bowl of stew, Reg turned down John’s offer of a game of rummy and went to walk it off. First he headed up to the à la carte restaurant on B Deck, just on the off chance the girl might socialise in there. It could be her kind of place, he guessed: an elite social club as well as a restaurant, where the décor was even swankier than on the rest of the ship. There were festoons and swags and polished walnut, under an elaborate chandelier that was secured in position so that if the ship swayed, it wouldn’t move around and cause alarm. Their chief steward, a man Reg didn’t know, hovered by the door to prevent undesirables getting so much as a toe over the threshold.
‘Message for Miss …’ Reg mumbled an invented name as he peered past. ‘Can I just check to see if she’s here?’
He glanced round the room, but his colleague had been right. It was an older crowd in there, the dowager duchess types who donned their jewels and furs for breakfast and didn’t take them off all day. There was no sign of the boat deck girl.
He walked through the adjoining Café Parisien, which was lively today. Some young folks were playing a game that appeared to involve balancing cocktail cherries on their noses, and drinks had been spilled on the tables as each clamoured to have a go. Reg raised his eyebrows in greeting at the steward who was standing by, waiting to get access to mop up.
Next he walked along the port side cabins on B Deck and his feet slowed outside the door to the Graylings’ stateroom. He knew from the passenger list that they were in B78. He listened hard but there was no sound from within. Should he knock and ask if he could fetch anything for Mrs Grayling? But that was the bedroom steward’s job and he wasn’t sure who their bedroom steward was. Crew on a ship like this could get bad-tempered if you tried to do their job for them. Every role was clearly defined and even a simple thing such as Reg taking that tray up to the bridge the other evening could have upset Fred, the steward whose job it was, if he had ever found out. You could never have the assistant vegetable cook touching a dessert, or a steward pouring wine, and there would be hell to pay if a scullion put something away in the pantry. Stupid when you thought about it, when you were all there to serve the passengers. Eight hundred and eighty-five crew serving thirteen hundred guests: Reg calculated that was almost seven-tenths of a steward per passenger. Did the Ritz Hotel in London have such a high ratio?
He stood outside B78 for a few minutes but there was no sound from within so he walked on. When he reached the end of B Deck, he walked back along the other side, then descended a staircase to C. Ahead of him, he saw an English girl from one of his tables in the dining saloon rushing towards him with her hand over her mouth. Suddenly she gave a cry and bent double. Reg hurried over and saw that she was retching. A pool of lumpy yellow vomit was on the carpet at her feet and some had splashed the front of her gown. She looked up at him and they caught eyes before a fresh convulsion seized her gut.
‘Here. Please use this towel, ma’am,’ he said, handing her the one folded over his arm.
She grabbed it and held it to her mouth, her eyes signalling thanks.
‘May I walk you to your cabin?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘It’s C43. But what about…?’ She motioned towards the mess on the carpet.
‘I’ll have someone see to that, ma’am.’
She took his arm and leaned against him, holding the towel to her mouth as they walked down the passageway and round the corner to her cabin.
‘Shall I ask a doctor to call on you?’ Reg asked. ‘He could give you something to settle your stomach.’
‘No, really,’ she insisted. ‘It’s just that the food is richer than I’m used to. I probably made a pig of myself at luncheon. I’ll be fine now. I can’t thank you enough.’ She peered at him properly. ‘I know you from the dining saloon, don’t I? What’s your name?’
‘It’s Reg Parton, ma’am. Reginald, my mum calls me.’
‘I would shake your hand, Reg, but I’ve probably got sick on it. My name’s Juliette Mason-Parker. I expect I’ll see you later at dinner. Goodbye for now.’
After seeing her safely inside her cabin, Reg hurried back along the corridor but when he reached the spot, someone had already cleaned up the pool of sick, leaving a barely discernible damp patch on the carpet and a slightly sweet odour in the air.
Chapter Thirteen
John was worried about Reg. He seemed distracted on this voyage, and if he got himself demoted he might leave the service of White Star Line altogether – a prospect that filled John with gloom. He couldn’t face carrying on without his mate beside him. They’d sailed together for seven years, since they both started out as kitchen skivvies under a tyrannical chef on the Oceanic. They’d survived that experience by working as a team: when one had been given a mountain of potatoes to peel or thirty saucepans to scrub, the other would quietly relinquish their time off to help. They’d never put it into words but they were a unit on board rather than individuals, and that made it all more bearable.
John