Voyage on the Great Titanic Read online

  Back on the Boat Deck, I was pleased to discover that we were sailing along the coast, rather than heading straight out to sea. A great flock of screeching seagulls was following us, swooping, and diving, and otherwise enjoying the day. I leaned on the railing until well past teatime, watching the beautiful scenery pass by. We passed islands, and lighthouses, and austere, craggy cliffs. The rock formations were fascinating in their variety, and I do not think I could ever get tired of those glorious shades of green in the landscape beyond. Of course, I will always love London, but my father must never have stopped regretting leaving this splendid country behind.

  Someday, I must come back to Ireland and see all of that beauty up close.

  After dinner tonight—the meal as lavish as ever, I might add—we went up to A Deck to listen to a concert by the five-man orchestra. I was not familiar with many of the tunes, but they were all gay and cheerful, and it was an enjoyable evening. People applauded each effort enthusiastically, and sometimes shouted out requests. The band would respond right away, never once stymied. I found the ragtime particularly engaging. Mrs. Carstairs says it is very popular in the States, and was pleased to answer the many questions I had about American music in general.

  I realize that I have yet to do my stateroom justice on paper. Right now, I am reclining on my bed, which has thick blue curtains I can draw around it for privacy, if I so choose. My entire room has been decorated in shades of blue, from the flocked wallpaper to the bedspread to the thick carpet. I even have my own writing desk and dressing table, the latter with a large antique mirror mounted above it. There is also a small sitting area, with a shiny square table and two comfortable armchairs. I have a bedside heater, as well as a ceiling fan. My washstand — with two sinks! — is against the far wall. The paneling is a glossy dark chestnut shade that matches the wardrobe exactly.

  I have the porthole opened slightly, to get the air. It is dark, so there is nothing to see, but the breeze is welcome. Otherwise, it feels a little stuffy to me. There are numerous small lamps on the walls and tables, but I like keeping the room somewhat dim and mysterious.

  Someone is knocking on my door — I wonder why? I have only just returned from walking Florence, so surely it is not Mrs. Carstairs telling me she needs to go again.

  It was Robert, with hot chocolate, some biscuits, and a bright red apple.

  “I thought you might want a snack before retiring, Miss Brady,” he said. “Most of my passengers do.”

  I realized that a snack would, in fact, be a welcome treat. “Thank you very much for thinking of me,” I said. “It should never have occurred to me to bother you.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I must say, you are not my most difficult passenger, Miss Brady.”

  I imagined not, since I heard bells in all of the nearby cabins summoning him constantly. “I would be very pleased if you would call me Margaret,” I said.

  He hesitated. “We are supposed to treat our passengers with the utmost respect at all times.”

  “I will keep your disgraceful breach of protocol to myself,” I said.

  He laughed, and then looked a little tired as two bells chimed simultaneously out in the corridor. “I must bid you good night then, Margaret,” he said, and left the room, still smiling.

  I finished every bite of the apple and all three biscuits, making my hot chocolate last the entire time. While I ate, I read the Henry James novel I had borrowed from the ship’s huge library after breakfast this morning. I also have some Ralph Waldo Emerson essays, and a collection of Emily Dickinson poems, waiting by my bed.

  Frankly, I never want to leave this ship; it is the most wonderful place on Earth.

  Friday, 12 April 1912

  RMS Titanic

  Somewhere at Sea

  I have now discovered that when one is aboard ship, there is a whole new vocabulary to learn. I got Robert to explain some of it to me this morning, when he arrived with tea, toast, and jam. “Port” is left, and “starboard” is right. I think. It is hard to keep all of these new words straight in my mind. The “bow” is in the front of the ship, and the “stern” is in the rear. When people say “amidships,” they seem to mean the middle. “Aft” is someplace behind you. Corridors are “alleyways,” the kitchen is a “galley,” and walls are “bulkheads.” And never, ever, ever would you call the Titanic a “boat.” She is a “ship.” Why ships are called “she,” rather than “he,” has not yet been satisfactorily explained to me. Tradition, perhaps.

  Mrs. Carstairs has found a group of avid bridge players, and they spent most of today playing in the lounge. I watched for a while, but found the intricacies of the game quite dreary.

  With Mrs. Carstairs thusly occupied, I had plenty of time to explore today. Her only firm request was that I be certain to come to her stateroom before meals to help her dress. That sounds foolish, but with all of her corsets and petticoats and elaborate dresses, she seems to need an extra pair of hands. She changes before every single meal, and I have yet to see her wear the same outfit twice. This variety seems to be very important to the women on the ship, although for the life of me, I am not sure why. It seems a great waste of time to worry so about fashion. I even grow impatient during the time it takes to comb my hair. Mrs. Carstairs is disturbed that a young man is serving as our cabin steward, and says she is tempted to request a stewardess, instead. I quickly promised that she could depend on me to assist in any way she desires, and reminded her of the lovely job Robert had done arranging her flowers. She seemed dubious, but finally nodded reluctantly and waved me away.

  I went all the way down (G Deck? F Deck? I lost count) to the swimming pool and squash court this morning, and peeked inside the rooms. I had no urge to engage in either of these activities, but it was entertaining to watch others do so. Later, I examined the Turkish baths, the postal office, and the first-class maids’ and valets’ dining saloon. I have not run across many of the maids and valets, and rarely even see the young woman who shares my lavatory. Her name is Josephine, and her employer is a crotchety and demanding elderly woman who keeps her so busy that she scarcely has a moment to herself. I am fortunate that Mrs. Carstairs is far more reasonable about such things. We are, perhaps, not an ideal pair, but even my brief glimpses of Josephine’s harried face rushing by make me count my blessings.

  For amusement, I rode the lifts for a while, and had a nice chat with a boy named Stephen who operates one of them. He is from Southampton, and overjoyed to have found employment on such a fine ship. It is funny — I am really only comfortable here when I am speaking to members of the crew. I am sure I would also feel at ease if I were traveling in steerage, since I would no longer feel like such a fraud. I know how lucky I am, but still, it would have been nice if I had earned my passage on this ship.

  Later on, I wandered into the gymnasium, and the very fit Mr. McCawley, who oversees the room, demonstrated the various machines for me. In the East End, people are too busy working to exercise, but it seems to be different for the leisure class. I did not care for the mechanical horse or camel — far too jouncy and erratic — but I pedaled quite effectively on a stationary bicycle. It is queer to ride and ride and not go anywhere, but there is a clock on the wall with small pointers that move to show how far you have traveled. I also tried the rowing machine, but did not find myself to be very adept at this.

  First-class passengers can go anywhere they choose, but the second-class and most especially the third-class passengers are restricted to certain parts of the ship. There are actually locked gates and other barriers to keep the steerage passengers segregated from everyone else. The only time I have seen anyone from steerage is from the end of the Promenade, looking down at the deck by the ship’s stern. That particular deck is known — here I share some more of my new vernacular, courtesy of Robert — as the “poop deck.” There is almost always a great laughing crowd gathered there, and some man keeps playing the bagpipes. I have also heard a fiddler. It reminds me, fondly, of Whitechapel. First-
class passengers tend to frown down at the steerage passengers, pointing and making comments as though they were at the zoological gardens in Regent’s Park. This makes me so uncomfortable that I have decided I will stay to the bow end of the ship as much as possible.

  I have no sense of what the conditions are like down in steerage, and hope it is not too dreadful. William’s stories of his transatlantic voyage were horrid — and haunting. I have little sense of what is happening anywhere other than the first-class areas. Part of me would like to go down and see steerage for myself, but the idea of being able to pass through the locked gates at will, while others cannot, is terribly offensive to me. I think it would be very contemptuous. In the lift, Stephen told me that a number of first-class passengers have done just that, laughing when they returned and talking about how much fun it was to go “slumming.” So, despite my curiosity, I have no intention of doing that myself.

  The ship is so big that you can actually get tired walking around it. When I bring Florence, I always have to carry her part of the way. She can be fierce, but she is not very hardy. Because it is so cold, Mrs. Carstairs has been making me put a tiny handmade sweater on Florence before taking her out. This seems whimsical to me, but I am not about to argue. Besides, Florence enjoys preening.

  On more than one occasion, I have passed a remarkably tall, mustached man walking his Airedale on the Boat Deck. He has been pointed out to me as Colonel Astor, and Mrs. Carstairs says that he is one of the richest men in the entire world. He never seems to look cheerful, except when he is walking his dog. People are always gossiping about his wife, because she is much younger than he is and, “in the family way.” There is so much gossip during meals — about everyone and everything — that I am very glad to be such an anonymous figure. Once people find out that I am only a companion, most of them promptly lose interest in me, and begin to talk to someone else. I am not easily offended, so this bothers me not a twit. Besides, the marvelous meals themselves continue to offer me plenty of distraction.

  A man named Mr. Hollings has attached himself to us because we are unescorted. Apparently, gentlemen aboard ship feel a duty to look after women traveling alone. Mrs. Carstairs says her Frederick would be very pleased to know that we are so well protected. His guardianship seems mostly demonstrated by his taking Mrs. Carstairs by one elbow and leading us to our table at mealtimes. If Mrs. Carstairs is out on the deck — a fairly rare event, as she continues to be occupied by marathon card games — Mr. Hollings makes certain that the ever-responsive stewards are paying her what he feels is sufficient attention. Often now, during meals, he joins us, along with a rather weedy young man named Ralph Kittery, whose sole pursuits appear to be polo and the American stock market. Mrs. Carstairs is much better about feigning interest in these subjects than I am. I can manage nothing better than a vague, impersonal smile, and maybe a nod or two.

  What an unusual situation, to be seated at tables full of Americans, meal after meal. They are lively people, but almost childishly gullible. Any Englishman or woman would instantly see through my accent, which is, at best, of the light Oxford variety. I have been introduced to some of the British passengers, in the Reception Room before dinner and so forth, and once I speak, they almost always give me a smile that looks more like a wry wink. But the Americans all seem to think that I sound terribly clever. When I do speak, Mrs. Carstairs appears to hold her breath. I am not exactly sure what she fears I will say, but it seems as good a reason as any to remain reserved.

  A Mrs. Janson from Philadelphia was included in our dinner group this evening. She is blond and willowy and prone to blinking constantly. She asked where I was from, and when I said Whitechapel, by way of Wapping, she commented upon the beauty of the names. Insofar as Whitechapel is concerned, I wanted to say that yes, Jack the Ripper had apparently shared her affection for this area—but I held my tongue. Rarely do these Americans seem to enjoy my humor. But sometimes, I admit, I cannot resist.

  “I met the most remarkable Parisian child on the Boat Deck today,” I remarked, during a lull in the conversation tonight. “Scarcely four years old, and already speaking French!”

  A puzzled silence fell over the table. Then, to my surprise, Horace, the wine steward, laughed. He was not joined by anyone else, quickly changed the laugh into a cough, and began to refill everyone’s glasses.

  In the meantime, I returned to my haddock. And soon, the conversation shifted, once again, to the many joys of the summer season in Newport.

  Such are the social interactions I have been experiencing. I must be a terrible disappointment as a companion, since Mrs. Carstairs and I are able to find little common conversational ground. But I am continuing to assume a number of mundane housekeeping chores for her, so I guess I am fulfilling the requirements of a maid. These tasks include sending her clothes out daily to be sponged and pressed, changing the water in her flower vases, ordering trays for her, and of course, taking very good care of Florence. Devoted as Mrs. Carstairs is to her dog, she does not seem to enjoy walking her — or, more crucially, cleaning up after her. Yesterday, Florence caught me off guard right at the end of a row of covered lifeboats, and a passing ship’s officer gallantly contributed his handkerchief to the cause.

  I was happy to retire somewhat earlier than usual tonight; my day of exploring fatigued me. The sound of those steadily throbbing engines below is very soothing, and also helps lull one to sleep. With all of the many sights on the ship, I still think that I like the reading and writing room best of all. I could easily spend the full day there, and never grow restless.

  Between that room, and the library, I would have no trouble finding activities to amuse myself.

  The weather was so lovely today. I hope tomorrow is just as nice!

  Saturday, 13 April 1912

  RMS Titanic

  I really enjoy the morning ritual of having tea and scones in my room — and as much conversation as we can manage before the peal of a bell calls Robert away. He has taken to bringing an extra scone or two, and joining me in my meal.

  “How is it down in steerage?” I asked him today.

  “Oh, quite comfortable,” he assured me. “I would be right pleased to journey that way myself. I’ve seen ships where second class is not so nice as our third.”

  I gave that some thought. “How are your cabins, then?”

  “Well, we have very little time to spend there,” he said, after a pause. “And it was a great piece of luck, my catching on with this crew. Many’s the week I could find no work, and my mum sore needs the money.”

  “My brother made his passage as a cabin boy on a fair rotter of a steamer,” I said. “I never thought I would be anywhere but steerage.”

  He winked at me. “So, we’ve both had a bit of luck, then.”

  As always, bells began to chime, and he was off. Each morning, he includes the Titanic’s small newspaper on my tray, the Atlantic Daily Bulletin, and I picked it up to read. The stories are more chatty than informational, and report items such as the number of miles we have cruised during any given twenty-four-hour period. As the weather has been no handicap, the ship seems to do better and better, and there is a daily contest for passengers to predict the actual figure. We are expected to arrive in New York on Wednesday morning. Oh, I hope William is standing there on the dock waiting for me!

  Later

  This afternoon while I was on the starboard-side Promenade, Colonel Astor stopped to pat and admire Florence. He had his own dog in tow, and I asked him what the dog’s name was. When he said, “Kitty,” I laughed, which clearly pleased him. He may be an imposing figure, but how could you dislike a man who named his dog “Kitty”?

  Mrs. Carstairs and I took tea in the Café Parisien, instead of the lounge. The atmosphere is much less formal than the dining saloon, and we had a harmonious time. There is a light, airy feel to the room, complemented by numerous plants and wicker chairs. Trains of ivy actually climb the walls! We were joined by several other ladies, one of whom
had a great booming laugh, which she employed regularly. Her name is Mrs. Brown, and people seem to think her amusing, but boorish. Since she sat down right next to me, and plied me with friendly questions, I liked her at once. If anything, discovering that I was a mere companion only increased her attention. She feels that I will find America smashing, and that Boston will suit me well, as the area is famous for its educational institutions. I was encouraged by this information, and hope that her predictions are accurate.

  For some reason, Mrs. Carstairs is tired of bridge today, so I played hearts with her — still the only game I know—until it was time to help her dress for dinner. She instructed me to wear my paisley dress, and to save the green silk for tomorrow. I did as I was told, and she surveyed me critically before asking me to take off what she described as “that dreadful locket.” This stung me, but I only said mildly that it had belonged to my beloved mother and there were no circumstances under which I would ever take it off. None whatsoever.

  “All right, then,” she said, studying my neckline, and finally sighed. “I will lend you a scarf.”

  It was not until we were waiting for a lift that she remembered to apologize for offending my mother’s memory. I accepted this graciously, but touched the locket protectively. All it contains are tiny dark locks of hair from when William and I were babies — I should rather have photographs of my parents — but I treasure it, regardless.

  We were heading for the à la carte restaurant, which everyone calls “The Ritz,” after a famous hotel. I may not appreciate the connection, but I am sure there is one. “The Ritz” is smaller, and more elegant than the dining saloon. The chairs are upholstered in a floral pattern, and the groupings are less linear. The walls are paneled with an almost golden shade of wood, and there are many inset mirrors. Mr. Hollings, who is dining with us again, says that the mirrors give the room the illusion of space. I took him at his word.