Women and Children First: Bravery, love and fate: the untold story of the doomed Titanic. Gill Paul
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of seaweed. Reg had been the one who saved John when he panicked after swimming into a shoal of jellyfish, coming to drag him out even though he got stung himself. Whenever they had time off in New York, they’d choose a landmark and head for it. A few times, they’d not realised how far it was and had to sprint back to the ship, arriving just as the deck hands were pulling up the gangplank. They hadn’t missed a sailing – not yet – but a couple of times it had been touch and go.
John didn’t understand what was up with Reg on this trip, but he wasn’t himself. He seemed overly disturbed about one of his passengers having an affair, and in John’s opinion it all stemmed from his family background. He knew that Reg’s dad used to play around, driving his mother to the gin bottle. That’s why he was a bit puritanical about the opposite sex. He didn’t ever join in the banter among the lads in the mess about which were the best-looking passengers, or speculate on the ones in third class that might be up for a spot of how’s your father. It was unusual that Reg had commented on the looks of that girl on the boat deck. That’s why John had been pulling his leg about it; he hadn’t meant any harm.
The truth was that John loved Reg like a brother. He considered him family, perhaps more so than his own family, whom he rarely ever saw. They weren’t bad people: his mam had been loving, but unimaginative. When John announced he wanted to go to sea they hadn’t understood it. Why didn’t he stay in Newcastle and work in a factory, where there were regular wages, day in, day out? John felt he needed more colour than that. He liked a change of scenery and he loved the weather at sea: the dramatic, multicoloured cloudscapes, the way the ocean was sometimes grey-green, sometimes petrol blue, sometimes balmy turquoise. He was more of an outdoors person than Reg. Being at sea suited him.
That Sunday afternoon, John decided to try and help Reg’s situation. He wandered up to the boat deck and hovered near the officers’ quarters until he saw James Paintin, the captain’s personal steward, known as ‘the Tiger’, who had worked with him for almost four years now. Reg had filled the role briefly in November 1911 when James took time off to get married, but there was no doubt it was James’s position. He was the captain’s closest confidant in many ways, and a decent man as well.
John stopped him on the boat deck and briefly outlined the situation. ‘I know Mr Latimer is just doing his job, but he doesn’t see the problems Reg can have with the female passengers due to him being such a handsome fellow. He never encourages them but some of them are a law unto themselves. He deals with it quietly and never complains but I’m worried that if he has a bad report after this voyage, he’ll leave White Star altogether. Is there anything you can do to help?’
‘What about you, John?’ Mr Paintin teased, his voice thick with a cold. ‘No problems with the girls for you?’ He blew his nose into a big white handkerchief.
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ John grinned.
‘Well, leave it with me. It sounds as though he deserves a reprieve on this one. I won’t have the chance to talk to anyone tonight because the captain’s at a party, but maybe I’ll see what I can do tomorrow. Don’t mention anything to Reg until then.’ His nose was red and shiny, his eyes watering.
‘You all right, sir? Want me to get you a hot toddy?’
‘I might pop down and have one with Joughin later, but not till after the party.’ He looked out towards the horizon. ‘So what do you think of the ship, John?’
‘She’s the best ever, sir.’
‘She’s a grand beast, isn’t she? Sometimes I get a queer feeling about her, but the passengers seem to be happy and that’s the main thing.’
He sneezed as he walked off towards the captain’s cabin. John stayed outside for a bit to watch the ocean until it was time to get ready for dinner service. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky but there was no warmth in the low white sunshine.
Chapter Fourteen
‘I hope there isn’t some kind of illness being passed around,’ Reg remarked to John on their way to dinner service. ‘Two of my ladies are unwell now.’
‘It’ll be the way you’ve been putting your dirty great thumb in their soup,’ John quipped. ‘I don’t like to think where it’s been!’
‘Rather my thumb than your feet,’ Reg replied. John’s feet always gave off a rank odour when he removed his socks at night and he was frequently joshed about it by stewards in the surrounding berths. Someone even left a pack of Odor-o-no on his bed.
John ignored him. ‘The Wideners are throwing a party for Captain Smith at seven. I’m going to be rushed off my feet. Will you watch my back for me?’
Reg agreed. That meant he would keep an eye on John’s tables as well as his own, and signal to John if he noticed anyone waiting to place an order or for plates to be cleared. If things started backing up, he would step in and help directly, although they would try to avoid it coming to that because passengers in first class preferred their own personal steward.
Perhaps it was the party for the captain, or perhaps it was because there were only two nights left before they reached New York, but all the ladies seemed to have made a special effort with their appearance. The younger ones wore quite daring décolleté gowns in vibrant shades; the older matriarchs appeared to have been unable to decide which jewels to wear as they peered into their jewel boxes and had just piled on the lot. Diamonds and precious stones glittered in tiaras, necklaces, earrings, bracelets and armlets. Light sparkled in them and split into multitudes of coloured dots that bounced off walls and ceilings. The men looked handsome – or at least as handsome as nature permitted – in black tie and with brillantined hair and waxed moustaches. As each party walked in, there was a surreptitious turning of heads in their direction, just long enough for an opinion to be formed on the outfits and for the mot juste to be found.
The chef had pulled out all the stops, serving ten courses and several options for most: oysters, salmon mousseline, the infamous filet mignon, roast duckling, roast squab, foie gras, éclairs. There were going to be a few groaning waistbands, a few people groping for indigestion remedies in the middle of the night.
To Reg’s surprise, Lady Juliette Mason-Parker was back, looking fetching in an ivory gown trimmed with lace at the sleeves and neckline. Her complexion seemed rosy, although he supposed that could be rouge.
‘I trust you are feeling better, my lady,’ Reg said quietly as he fluttered her napkin onto her lap.
‘Yes, thank you so much,’ she whispered, and gave him a quick smile with her eyes. It was obvious she didn’t want her mother or anyone else at the table to hear of her misadventure.
Once again Mr Grayling came into the dining saloon on his own and when Reg asked about Mrs Grayling’s condition, he didn’t have much to say.
‘She’s fine. Just didn’t want to risk it tonight.’
Reg speculated that he could have dined with his mystery boat deck girl in the absence of his wife, but for some reason he preferred to sit on his own at the corner of another table. At first the occupants tried to engage him in conversation then gave up at his monosyllabic responses. Yet again, Reg’s eyes swept the busy saloon looking for the girl; yet again, he didn’t find her.
The Howsons had wangled an invitation to the Wideners’ party so Reg didn’t have to serve them, and he found all his other passengers in celebratory mood. Bottles of champagne, Madeira, Château Lafite and aged cognac were broken open and quaffed. The noise level in the room rose as the levels in the glasses dropped. Faces reddened and smiles broadened. The Wallace Hartley trio played ragtime classics out in the reception room and a couple of young men did a Turkey Trot on their way into the saloon that had diners laughing and applauding.
Behind the scenes, some young scullions in the galley were playing up. As Reg picked up plates from the hot press, a movement caught his eye and he looked down to see one of them crouched beneath the press,