Titanic Page 3

  We planned that I would follow him when I was older – and he had enough money to pay for my fare.

  The captain on his steamer was an unpleasant man, and William had a difficult journey. He worked long, hard hours, and was so seasick that he subsisted on nothing more than hard biscuits and water the entire time.

  This gives rise to a bothersome notion. What if I get seasick, too? That would make me a rather unsatisfactory companion, I fear. Never in my life have I set foot on a boat – or even gone in the water, beyond wading in the Thames. However, I suppose worrying about it will not help. I shall simply have to wait and see – and eat sparingly the entire time, perhaps.

  Well, the morning will come sooner than I would like, so I will stop writing for this evening.

  Is there not some tradition of counting sheep in order to become drowsy? I think I just might give it a try . . .

  Wednesday, 3rd April 1912

  St Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls,

  Whitechapel

  Today I went back into the city to meet my new employer again. This time, I was allowed to go by myself, although I was given many instructions by the Sisters, and warned to keep the small change they had given me hidden in different pockets, so I would be safe from knaves and thieves. I have a bit of experience with thieves, but am quite certain I have never known a knave – nor so much as seen one from a distance.

  The dress I wore was an unflattering cut, and an even worse shade of dull maroon. A postulant who did not do well in the orphanage atmosphere and was transferred to a more traditional convent had left it behind with a bundle of other unfortunate, but “earthly”, dresses. I do not remember her, but it was clear from the dimensions of the dress that she had been tall – and not slim. Sister Judith and Sister Catherine performed some necessary surgery with great handfuls of pins, and warned me not to move about freely, if possible.

  “But, what if I meet a knave, and must take flight?” I asked.

  Their reignited concern about just that dreadful possibility eliminated the chorus of wry chuckles I had anticipated.

  So, it was off to Claridge’s once again. There might have been a more direct way to go, but I repeated our exact motor bus ride, in order to enjoy another walk through Piccadilly Circus. But I resisted buying any food, as I suspected plenty would await me at the hotel. After all, teatime approached.

  I had hoped we would meet in the foyer, so I could enjoy listening to that quartet again, but Mrs Carstairs had a servant downstairs awaiting my – slightly late – arrival. He escorted me up to her suite, where our tea was to be served privately. I was concerned that my table manners had not passed muster previously, but then caught sight of two fluttery young women clutching measuring tapes, pincushions and the like. I had, of course, forgotten that I was to be fitted with “appropriate garments”. Florence was stalking back and forth in front of the two women, letting out a fierce, if squeaky, growl every so often. This was making the women uneasy, to say the least.

  “Hello, Florence,” I said.

  She wagged her tail at me, then resumed her feisty strut.

  I could not tell how large the suite was, because so far I had only seen the hallway, but it appeared palatial. Mrs Carstairs came bustling out, looking both more matronly and more unwieldy than I remembered. Judging from her widened eyes when she saw me and ran her eyes up and down my lumpy dress, I was more obviously working class than she had remembered.

  “Good afternoon, Margie,” she said, quite brisk.

  Margie? But I greeted her very pleasantly, regardless – and by the proper name, even.

  She waved her hand at each of the two pale, jittery ladies in turn. “This is Hortense, and Mabel. Please be most cooperative with them.” She turned to the women. “As you can well see, this is a dire situation.”

  I followed them into a sun-splashed sitting room, where a grand tea was spread out on a lace-covered table by the broad, sparkling windows. A man with sparse white hair, but thick grey mutton-chop whiskers, was seated at the table, reading a newspaper and clearing his throat every so often.

  “Frederick,” Mrs Carstairs said, “this is Margaret Jane Brady, the child who will be accompanying me.”

  Jane?

  Mr Carstairs noticed us then, and stood up with a militaristic bow. “Yes, yes, so glad to see you,” he said, with a patient, but vague, smile.

  I was relieved that he did not want to shake hands, or otherwise be demonstrative. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said, although I was tempted to call him “guv’nor” just to hear everyone gasp.

  “Her clothes are very common, but I think she will do nicely,” Mrs Carstairs said. “Don’t you, Frederick?”

  Mr Carstairs nodded heartily, although his gaze was still lingering on his newspaper. “Yes, yes. Lovely, lovely.”

  “Splendid,” I volunteered.

  He looked up. “Yes, yes. Splendid.”

  “I am to have her fitted now,” Mrs Carstairs said.

  Right out in the open? Were Americans utter heathens?

  I sensed a spot of alarm coming from Mr Carstairs’s direction as well, but Mrs Carstairs was already ushering me into a small dressing room, crowded with more fancy clothes than I had ever seen in one place. And, oh, the shoes! So many glossy, impractical shoes.

  “Be thorough,” Mrs Carstairs instructed Hortense and Mabel. “When they are finished, Margie, you may join us for tea.”

  I despise nicknames, but suspected that pointing this out would make no impression whatsoever.

  Hortense and Mabel had a great deal of trouble unpinning me from my dress. Although they were shop girls, and certainly not society ladies, my appearance seemed to offend them, and they exchanged more than one wince. I ignored this, except for mimicking one of Florence’s snarls once, just to see them flinch.

  After they had finally completed their oddly complex measurements, with muttered comments to each other, they undertook the not inconsiderable challenge of re-pinning me into my dress.

  “Did you pick this out yourself?” one of them – I think it was Mabel – finally asked.

  “Yes, quite so,” I said. “It fell off the back of the quaintest little lorry in Whitechapel.”

  They gave each other knowing glances, and regarded me with somewhat more sympathy than before. Once they had finished the pinning and been shown out by a hotel maid, I found I could move even less freely than had previously been the case. Sitting down promised to be a challenge.

  However, I was up to the challenge if I could then tuck into that appetizing array on the tea table. My dinner of bread and jam felt like a memory from my distant past.

  Mr Carstairs rose to his feet when I came in, and I sat down as swiftly as possible, a small shower of pins escaping in my wake. Neither of my tea companions commented upon this, although Mrs Carstairs at least noticed – and frowned.

  “I very much appreciate everything you are doing for me, Mrs Carstairs,” I said, very politely, “and urge you not to go to too much trouble.”

  “Yes, well,” she said, after the barest pause.

  Our conversation was stilted, and Mr Carstairs did little more than nod or grunt assent occasionally. I found it appalling that he was drinking coffee – but other than that, he seemed like a pleasant, if somewhat stodgy, chap. Both of them fed Florence tempting tidbits at every opportunity, and she took turns sitting in their laps. Once in a while, she visited me as well, and I would present her with a nibble of ham or chicken. She seemed to dislike watercress.

  “What a wonderful hotel this is, Mrs Carstairs,” I contributed at one point.

  “Obviously I should rather be at the Savoy, but—” she glanced at her husband – “my Frederick prefers it here.”

  It turned out that they had theatre tickets that night, and reservations at a restaurant called Romano’s, so soon it was time for me to take my le
ave. Mrs Carstairs reminded me, again and again, that I was to return on Tuesday morning, packed and ready to go. We would be taking the train to Southampton, and sailing the next day. Each time she went over the plans I felt shivers of excitement and fear. Mr Carstairs said it had been “capital, just capital” to meet me; I agreed; Mrs Carstairs went over our schedule one last time; and finally, I gave Florence a pat and headed off. Then I paused by the door.

  “So, I am to return on – Wednesday evening?” I said, just for fun.

  Mrs Carstairs’s face went so pale that I suddenly felt a bit alarmed. But all she said was, “You are a very impudent girl, Margie.”

  I graciously agreed with this observation – and left.

  Thursday, 4th April 1912

  St Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls,

  Whitechapel

  At breakfast today, Bridget Murphy told me I was hoity-toity, sailing off to America with a rich lady. I nodded, and said that I was, indeed, a right swanker, and Sister Eulalia spoke to me sharply about being proud. I could hardly disagree – but did so anyway out of devilment. Sister Eulalia failed to find any humour in this.

  My mind wandered during arithmetic, and I could not even pay attention when we turned to literature. I was thinking about many things, but mainly I was wondering what it will be like to spend so many days travelling across the sea, surrounded by rich ladies and gentlemen. Apparently, many of them are among the wealthiest people in the world! I hope I will not seem too out of place. Surely my humble station will be obvious to one and all – especially those of English extraction. I hope Sister Catherine is right that one can hardly run into problems by simply keeping one’s own counsel, and smiling every so often. I will just always have to remember to think before speaking. I want to be a credit to the Sisters, and to the memory of my dear parents, and so will have to rise above my natural tendency to misbehave.

  Here in Whitechapel, it is hardly unusual to be poor. In fact, it is not even interesting. But I admit that I still find it hard to understand why most of the girls at the orphanage will be perfectly happy if they get a factory job, marry some nice bloke, and pass the rest of their days within a street or two of here. Most, I think, will be quite content simply to live a life without surprises. I am not sure what it is that I want, but I know that it is something more than that which I see every day. I expect to learn a great deal from my journey, and hope I can put it to some good use in my life. The girls would call this cheeky, and I suppose it is. But America is supposed to be the land of endless opportunities, and I see no reason not to try to better myself.

  Oh dear. I believe Sister Eulalia has just caught on that I am writing something of my own, rather than methodically working on my declensions. She looks very indignant, so I believe I will now set this diary aside.

  Quickly.

  Sunday, 7th April 1912

  St Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls,

  Whitechapel

  This morning Sister Catherine took me over to the St Botolph parish for Easter mass. She explained that he is the patron saint of travellers, and she wants to be sure that I leave with his blessings. Our fellow worshippers were a bizarre group – ranging from prostitutes to the very flagrantly pious – and it was quite different from my usual experience of mass. But, because it was Easter, they were all unusually well turned-out. I rather enjoyed it.

  On the way home Sister Catherine stopped at a small shop and bought us two lemonades and some toffee. We sat on an old wooden bench to enjoy our snack, and made almost no conversation. Her face was pensive, and I could tell that she was very sad today.

  “We never have favourites, you understand,” she said suddenly. “It would not be proper.”

  I nodded; she nodded; and we sat in the sun and finished our toffee.

  Monday, 8th April 1912

  St Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls,

  Whitechapel

  It is my last night here, and I suddenly feel quite tearful, sitting up in my usual window. Earlier, I packed a musty old carpetbag Sister Judith found with some underclothing and stockings, a nightdress, a brown pullover, my plaid dress, Father’s old wool coat, and Mummy’s chipped china cat. On further reflection, I took out the cat, for I will give it to Nora to remember me by. I know Mummy would not mind – and besides, I still have her beautiful silver locket, which I wear night and day, close to my heart. The locket may be somewhat battered and tarnished, but that does not diminish its value to me in any way. I will keep Father’s copy of Hamlet, but will sign my name under his in the volume of sonnets and present it to Sister Catherine in the morning. I hope she likes it.

  I wonder if William has received my letter yet. I suspect not. Still, it would be nice to know that he was expecting me. But I do not think he will mind being surprised, either. And now he will not have to worry about spending the money he has been laboriously saving for my passage.

  On the whole, I think Mrs Carstairs makes me almost as nervous as I make her, so thank goodness for Florence. At least I know I will have one friend on the ship. When I get to Boston, I hope William will not mind our getting a cat or two – and maybe a dog as well. I have always wanted to have pets of my own.

  At supper tonight the Sisters brought out a pound cake with white frosting as a farewell celebration, and everyone clapped. Perhaps they are just pleased to see me go. Except, of course, for Nora, who wept. I gave her my share of cake, which helped a little. I also stopped Shirley Hallowell – a nice girl, just turned twelve – in the corridor later and asked her to promise to watch out for Nora after I leave. Shirley was quick to agree, which relieved my guilt a little.

  It is hard to believe that by this time tomorrow I will be in another part of England altogether – and on my way to begin a whole new life!

  Tuesday, 9th April 1912

  The South Western Hotel,

  Southampton, England

  Here I am, in a lovely hotel room, with my own bathroom. I have never experienced such incredible luxury. I just took a long, hot bath, complete with a thick blanket of fragrant soap bubbles. Hot water, as much as I wanted! Then I dried off with a warm, fluffy towel, feeling like the very Queen herself. The pillows on my bed are fat with feathers, and my mattress is as soft as a cloud. Mrs Carstairs is in the room next door, getting what she described to me as “beauty sleep”. I can only imagine that anyone who slept on one of these delightful beds would wake up looking beautiful.

  Before I left this morning, everyone gave me good wishes at breakfast. For once, I had no appetite at all, and merely sipped some tea. Then, I went back to the dormitory and checked my carpetbag one last time. Sister Judith brought Nora in, and the two of us sat together on her bunk for a time. I gave her Mummy’s china cat, and did my best to soothe her tears.

  “You goin’ down the big ship now?” she asked finally.

  I nodded, feeling some tears of my own. I promised to draw her a picture of the Titanic and post it right away, so that she could look at it whenever she wanted.

  “Draw you in the picture,” she insisted. “And Florence.”

  I gave her a big hug, until Sister Judith said that it was time for me to go, since it “wouldn’t do” for me to be late. The last thing I saw, when I looked back, was Nora crying and holding the china cat, her feet dangling helplessly over the side of the bed since she is so small. The sight made something inside my chest hurt, and I had to look away.

  My farewell to most of the Sisters was quite formal. Sister Mary Gregoria gave me enough money for my motor bus fare, and two pounds “for emergencies”. I was very grateful for this, and tucked the money away in a safe pocket.

  Then Sister Catherine walked me out to the square, where I would board the motor bus. While we were waiting, she gave me another two pounds, and several shillings. I have no idea how she managed to gather up such a sum, but I was sure it would be disrespectful to refuse to accept it. So I did so, thanking her profusely
.

  “If you ever need—” She stopped. “Well.”

  I nodded. Then I took out Father’s sonnets and handed the book to her. “Thank you for everything,” I said. “I have depended on you greatly.”

  The conductor seemed impatient, and it really was time to go. At Claridge’s, Mrs Carstairs was probably impatient, too.

  “No favourites,” I said.

  Sister Catherine smiled. “No. Never.”

  When the bus pulled away, I stared out of the window until she faded from sight. I know that I will always miss her. I must keep a very careful record of my journey so that one day I can share it with her.

  I was nearly twenty minutes early when I arrived at the hotel, but Mrs Carstairs was still very anxious. She surveyed my travelling outfit – the same dark blue dress I had worn the first time we met – and sighed a little. Mr Carstairs was occupied by his newspaper and coffee, although he nodded pleasantly when he saw me.

  There were a great many suitcases and trunks piled up by the door – eight or ten, I should say. My lumpy little carpetbag looked very inferior next to them. Meanwhile, Mrs Carstairs twittered about, fussing with her hair, checking for misplaced belongings, and otherwise making me feel fidgety. Florence pranced behind her, fully enjoying all of the activity.

  “Mr Carstairs, sir?” I asked hesitantly, when his wife seemed to be occupied for the moment in her dressing room. “How are we going to get all of that luggage on to the motor bus?” More to the point, was I supposed to carry it?

  He laughed heartily, shook his head, and returned to his newspaper.

  As it turned out, a hotel porter arrived shortly to cart the many trunks away. We were to be driven to Waterloo Station, and then we would take the train to Southampton, by the sea. To my amazement, we rode in one big black carriage, and the luggage followed by itself in a second carriage.