Titanic Read online

  At the railway station a slew of porters appeared to whisk the trunks off. Mr Carstairs arranged for our tickets and went ahead to see if our seats met with his approval. Mrs Carstairs kept daubing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and sensing the unhappy possibility of a noisy parting, I elected to take Florence for a walk along the platform. I had thought that there would be a large crowd of passengers, but Mr Carstairs said that no, most people would be on the official Boat Train the next morning.

  Mrs Carstairs was still weeping a little when we pulled out of the station, and she waved Florence’s paw at her husband, who was still standing on the platform below. Out of respect, I hid my excitement about leaving London for the first time in my life. Actually, I had never even been on a train before, and found its chugs and whistles exhilarating.

  It would be too overwhelming to think about whether I would ever return to the city of my birth, so I concentrated on looking out of the slightly sooty window. My seat was very comfortable, and I sank back into the blue cushions. The window felt cool against my fingers, and the panelling below it was a dark, polished wood. Worried that I might have smeared the polish, I lightly rubbed the spot I had touched with my sleeve.

  To my great surprise, both Mrs Carstairs and Florence fell asleep almost before we had even left the city. They also both wheezed noticeably.

  We were passing small houses now, lined up in neat, redbrick rows. The train seemed to be moving so rapidly that I felt just a bit queasy and was glad to have neglected my breakfast.

  Once in a while, we came to a slow, shrieking stop, and the conductor would shout, “Surbiton!” or, “Woking!” or the name of some other place with which I was unfamiliar. “Passengers only, please,” he would say, “Step lively!” Then, after a brief idling pause, we would chug on our way again.

  Gradually, we left the towns behind, and forged into the countryside. How often I had heard about the great beauty of the English countryside! Now, finally, I was getting an opportunity to see it for myself. Green, rolling fields, spring flowers, and here and there, a quaint cottage or sprawling mansion. The roofs of the cottages seemed to be made of thatch, and I wondered if they would leak in the rain. My grey, cluttered, foggy city seemed a thousand miles away. If we had had the time, I would have loved to spend the day in one of those fields, lying in the grass, with nothing but a book, and perhaps some bread and cheese, to keep me company. I think I would stay there all night, watching the stars and waiting for the moon to rise.

  Our journey was only about 80 miles and all too soon the conductor was announcing, “Southampton!” Mrs Carstairs’s eyes fluttered open, and she yawned widely.

  “What an exhausting trip,” she said.

  Yes, having a bit of a lie-down was always quite a tiring activity.

  The conductor helped us off the train, and two red-uniformed porters hurried over to greet us. Once all of the luggage had been collected, they trundled us through a passageway towards the South Western Hotel where we would be staying. I could smell the water, but from where we were I could scarcely see the quays, let alone the ships in the harbour beyond.

  We were taken up to the third floor in a sparkling clean lift, although I swallowed hard to think of being wafted off the ground like that, held by thin cables. Still, our ride was steady and in less than a moment there we were. It transpired that one of the trunks was mine, filled with my new “appropriate clothing”.

  When I opened it to peek inside, I discovered petticoats, stockings, a pair of shiny black shoes, three dresses, a skirt, two high-necked blouses, two hats, and a pink wool coat! Pink. I should certainly have chosen another shade, but it was very pretty. One of the hats was decorated with ribbons and flowers, and looked altogether garish. That one, Mrs Carstairs explained, was to be worn with the green silk dress on fancy occasions aboard the ship. I thanked her, and complimented her impeccable taste. Or had it, perhaps, been Mabel and Hortense’s taste? Regardless, looking at these clothes, I felt sadly removed from St Abernathy’s and our faded, patched near-rags.

  After an early supper in the hotel dining room – I had the most delicious mutton chops – I took Florence out for a walk. There was still enough daylight for me to explore a little, and I headed directly for the docks. Railway lines cut across the street in unexpected places, and I made my way cautiously. Florence found the rumbling of a passing lorry offensive, and barked aggressively at it for quite some time.

  Just ahead, there were masts and funnels and metal cranes to be seen in every direction. It was impossible to get a good view of any one ship because there were so many berthed in the harbour. Also, the railway station and other surrounding buildings obscured my view.

  I asked a passing workman which one was the Titanic, and he stopped to point her out with great pride.

  “There she is, miss,” he said, beaming. “Wit’ the four funnels. The grandest ship you could ever hope to see!”

  I began counting funnels, trying to locate her, but still was not sure that I was looking in the right place. There was a great deal of activity on the quays, and a fair number of gawking passers-by, too. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to catch a glimpse of the new ship before her maiden voyage.

  Then, all of a sudden, there was a great black hull, stretching farther than my eye could see. I tilted my head back, and the ship loomed above me, looking taller than most of the buildings I have ever seen. Never could I have imagined such a mammoth structure. I noticed now that the railway station connected directly to the ship, and that men were loading all sorts of cargo down the gangways, or with towering cranes. There was a feeling of excitement around me, as workers jostled each other and shouted orders, and onlookers pointed out what little they could see from their various positions.

  The Titanic was bigger than seemed humanly possible, bright and shiny and smelling of fresh paint. I do not know what I had expected, but the sight of her took my breath away. Florence seemed dismayed by it all and lay down, resting her head on her forepaws. I patted her, but kept craning my neck in an attempt to take in as much of the ship as I could.

  It is hard to believe something so gigantic can float – and yet there she sits, peacefully atop the water. She looks sturdy; she looks proud. Were you to pick her up, with a great Godly hand, and drop her in the midst of Whitechapel, I do believe she would smother my entire neighbourhood. She was built in Ireland – by fine, strong men like my father and William – and I am filled with admiration at the thought of mere mortals creating something so stupendous.

  Florence grew restless, and so, reluctantly, I took her back to the hotel. It would soon be dark anyway.

  “I was afraid you had toppled into the water,” Mrs Carstairs said apprehensively, upon my return.

  Well, that would be unfortunate, as I do not know how to swim. “Florence wanted to linger,” I said.

  Mrs Carstairs decided that it would be fun to play cards before bedtime – and was dismayed to find out that I know very few games. She pronounced that bridge would simply be out of the question, but quickly taught me how to play hearts. We did this for an hour or so – by which point I was winning more often than she might have liked. So she told me that it was time to retire, and I did not disagree, as I was eager to come in here and write down my thoughts.

  But the hour is very late now, so I believe I will stop for the night.

  Wednesday, 10th April 1912

  RMS Titanic

  So much has happened today that I scarcely know where to begin. The Titanic is, to put it bluntly, the most magical and astounding place in the world. Bigger, grander, and more exotic than I could possibly have predicted. She is awe-inspiring, and yet, comfortable. Right now, I am sitting in a deck chair on what they call the Promenade. I was up on the Boat Deck for a while, but the wind grew too cold for me, so I moved down to the more enclosed Promenade. Mrs Carstairs is off in her cabin, having a rest before supper, and Florence is curled up o
n my lap, snoring.

  I guess I should start with this morning, and our final hours at the South Western Hotel. I had thought I would never be able to fall asleep, but awoke to find sunshine filling my room. A steward brought tea and toast right to my bedside, without my even asking, which pleased me a great deal. I fear that I could grow accustomed to this special treatment! I took another bath – simply because the shiny white tub was there – and then put on one of my new dresses. Mrs Carstairs has made it clear that she does not want to see me in any more “hideous convent discards”, and I suspect it is not worth the breath it would take to argue. Anyway, this dress is golden yellow, made of a material I cannot identify, but the cloth feels very soft. The fancy petticoat makes the skirt billow out amusingly. My new shoes seemed slippery against the floor, so I put on my dependable old boots instead. The dress is long enough so that no one will be able to tell anyway.

  I brushed my hair, then pinned it back as well as I could so that it would not fly about. In the trunk, I even found a pair of white gloves, so I wore them too, just for amusement.

  When I appeared at Mrs Carstairs’s door, she squinted through her glasses and then nodded in approval.

  “Much, better,” she said, “but do not neglect your hat.”

  I assured her that I would not dream of doing so, and went back to get the plainer of the two. I dread having to wear the gaudy one, as I am sure I will look quite the imbecile.

  We had a most leisurely breakfast. I ordered poached eggs, along with sausage, kippers and a jacket potato. At St Abernathy’s, eggs were always a special treat and you would receive a soft-boiled one only at Christmas, Easter and on your birthday. I was surprised that Mrs Carstairs, like her husband, preferred coffee to tea, but that must be the way Americans do things. She did not seem to fancy kippers, either. In both cases, I felt that it was a wretched mistake on her part. Florence enjoyed a small plate of chopped ham and the crusts from Mrs Carstairs’s toast. Early on, I spilled a tiny bit of marmalade on my sleeve and quickly blotted it away with a damp napkin, hoping that no one would notice.

  Many of the other people in the hotel dining room also appeared to be Titanic passengers, as they would look eagerly in the direction of the docks whenever the great steam whistles blasted away. There were even a few children, who sat in their fine clothes much less self-consciously than I did. The boat whistles had been blaring all morning, announcing to all of Southampton that it was Sailing Day. As the town was a bustling seaport, I suspected that they heard these ship whistles on a regular basis, and grew weary of them.

  After our meal, it was time to go upstairs and prepare for our leave-taking. Apparently, passengers from the Boat Train were already boarding the ship. Porters arrived with wheeled carts to take our luggage away, and Mrs Carstairs handed out folded wads of banknotes with a casual air. The porters were elated to accept them.

  As we crossed Canute Road and approached the quay, it became more difficult to navigate through the crowds. Trunks and bags and overstuffed boxes were piled everywhere, and I wondered how the porters could possibly keep track of them all. People crowded every possible space, and it was hard to separate the passengers from the onlookers. Only the various workmen, with their confident movements and expressions of tense concentration, stood out to me.

  The side of the ship seemed to have openings all over the place, and gangways stretched out to meet them from the railway platform and the quay itself. The gangways looked rather like wooden bridges, with waist-high railings. Men and women in plain, sensible outfits were boarding on the lower decks, while the gangways above were packed with people arrayed in the grandest fashions. By virtue of clothing alone it was not at all difficult to tell which passengers were steerage, and which were first class. Presumably, the second-class passengers were the ones boarding somewhere in the middle.

  I saw a thin girl in a kerchief and grey wool dress who seemed to be watching me somewhat enviously from farther down the quay. I realized then, with a start, that my appearance made her think that I was a young lady of privilege. The thought struck me as funny, and I was tempted to raise my skirt enough to show her my worn old boots. But she was already gone, and I was following Mrs Carstairs up a flight of stairs towards one of the first-class gangways.

  I had never seen such a crowd in my life, and could not quite picture how many of us could fit inside the ship. Enough, I assumed, so that you might never see the same person twice. But I suppose some of the people were only here to see others off – or had only come down to stand nearby and vicariously enjoy the excitement of the day.

  Walking across the gangway, I had a moment’s unease, wondering if I really wanted to get on such a gargantuan ship and float off into the middle of the ocean. Dry land seemed so much more familiar and safe. In truth, I have not even sailed in a dinghy. For that matter, I have never even floated on a raft.

  “Please do not dawdle, Margie-Jane,” Mrs Carstairs said sharply, as a rather handsome ship’s officer waited to greet us at the end of the gangway.

  I nodded, and quickened my pace. To my surprise, seen up close, the side of the ship was pieces of metal welded and riveted together. I do not know what I had expected – not wood, obviously – but the bumpy appearance caught me off guard. I guess I thought it would be smooth and seamless, which only goes to show you how little I know about boats. I reached out to touch the metal, finding it – quite predictably – cold and solid. Nearby passengers looked disapprovingly at me, so I yanked my hand away.

  We stepped inside the ship into a thickly carpeted hallway. I had not expected carpeting, either. A uniformed man just inside the entrance handed us each a small nosegay of flowers from a large wicker basket next to him. No one had ever given me flowers before, so even though it was probably routine on occasions like this, I felt flattered.

  From there, we went to the Purser’s Office. Mrs Carstairs handed our tickets and other necessary paperwork to Chief Purser McElroy, and made arrangements to come back later to deposit her valuables in the ship’s safe. Once we were back in the corridor another smiling dark-haired young man stepped forward. He was wearing a white uniform, and introduced himself as our bedroom steward, Robert Merton. Our staterooms were down on C Deck, and he would be escorting us there, and then be at our service throughout the voyage.

  Mrs Carstairs told him that she had sailed the White Star Line many times before, and began to give him a long list of instructions about exactly when and how she wanted things done. He nodded solemnly at each request, and then smiled at me.

  “You would be Mrs Carstairs’s daughter?” he asked, as he led us through a maze of carpeted corridors.

  Mrs Carstairs gasped; I grinned. He might be the first, but he would probably not be the only one on the ship who would jump to that mistaken conclusion.

  “No, I am her staunch companion,” I answered.

  “Yes, this is Margaret Jane Brady,” Mrs Carstairs said, recovering her composure. “You may feel free to treat her as you treat me.”

  Robert nodded, very solemn, although I could see amusement in his eyes.

  “You would want to treat Florence just that much better,” I said, indicating the dog in Mrs Carstairs’s arms.

  Robert nodded again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That goes without saying, Miss Brady.”

  So far, I was quite taken by Robert. He looked to be in his late teens, and seemed the sort to be one of William’s friends. Mrs Carstairs ignored this entire exchange, enquiring as to the whereabouts and general safety of her luggage, and whether it would be unpacked for her, or if she would be required to do this herself, a concept she found disagreeable. I was so busy looking around that I missed Robert’s answer.

  People were milling about, nearly surrounding us, either trying to find their cabins, or exploring the ship and making admiring remarks. I noticed that I was not the only one who could not resist reaching out to touch thin
gs. Robert steered us expertly along to a set of three lifts, and we crowded into the first one that opened. Every woman crammed inside seemed to be wearing a different scent, and I found it a little difficult to breathe through the confusion of strong perfumes. We rode down one deck, and then walked through another corridor. The walls were a pristine white, and the floors still carpeted. It felt as though we were inside a hotel like Claridge’s, rather than on a ship. Somehow, I had imagined that a sailing vessel would be much less – substantial.

  “You will be right up here, Mrs Carstairs,” Robert said, pointing, “while Miss Brady is just across the way.” He opened her stateroom first, and I could see that our luggage had arrived ahead of us.

  There were several boxes of fresh flowers piled up on a low mahogany table near a settee, and Mrs Carstairs immediately asked to have them arranged in vases at the first possible opportunity. She said proudly that most of them were probably from her dear Frederick, and was he not a thoughtful husband? She also asked that a bowl of fresh water be brought for Florence right away. Robert nodded, and smiled, and nodded some more.

  I waited outside in the corridor, watching other patient stewards ushering other demanding passengers to their cabins, each receiving a bewildering litany of instructions and complaints.

  “Come knock on my door as soon as you get settled,” Mrs Carstairs said to me. “We will want to be up on the Boat Deck when we cast off.”

  I nodded, and followed Robert to my stateroom. He had an interesting accent, which I could not quite place. South London, maybe? Manchester? When I asked, he said he was a Liverpudlian – in other words, from Liverpool. Just for fun, I responded with some Cockney, saying that me being a Londoner, that practically made him a “bleetin’ fawrner” but still and all, he seemed like a “right stiddy gint who acted proper”. He laughed, and instinctively glanced in the direction of Mrs Carstairs’s door to see if she had overheard.