Women and Children First (24 page)

On Sundays, when Reg wasn’t working, he explored the city street by street, each week choosing a new area and learning it off by heart. He rode on the ‘El’, the elevated railway on which steam engines puffed all the way up the east side of Manhattan Island, blowing hot cinders into the carriages if you opened the windows. He went to watch the construction of the Woolworth Building, a vast cathedral complete with gargoyles, which someone told him would be the tallest building in the world when it was finished. He could see workmen balancing on narrow girders hundreds of feet above ground, and shuddered at the thought of what would happen if they slipped.

He noticed that immigrants stuck together in their own communities where shops sold the foods they liked: Eastern European Jews were on the Lower East Side, Italians a few streets up in ‘Little Italy’ and Greeks in Astoria. When you walked in those areas, you barely heard English spoken and the Mediterranean smells of garlic and olive oil permeated the air, making him feel a little closer to home.

It was lonely spending so much time on his own, but he didn’t want to stay at the rooming house, where Tony and the other waiters would be playing cards and drinking beer or whisky. He resisted their attempts at friendship and sank deeper inside himself, constantly mulling over what had happened on the
Titanic
. He started reading newspaper reports from the American Senate Inquiry, and once he picked up the first paper he couldn’t stop. It was like an addiction. He needed to know it all. He needed an answer to the big question:
Why? Why did all these people die? Why did John die?

There were several articles about prejudice against the third-class passengers and Reg was ashamed to discover how few of them had made it to the boat deck. There were fewer stewards per passenger down there, and they had been slower to respond. Some third-class passengers claimed the gates allowing them to ascend had been locked, but it was probably more likely that they didn’t know the way. The only locked gate he had come across was the one Finbarr was stuck behind and that hadn’t led from a passenger area. It’s true that some of the catches on these gates could be tricky, though. Why hadn’t he gone down to help third-class passengers instead of wandering around aimlessly during the first hour after the collision?

He read Second Officer Lightoller’s account of loading the lifeboats, and then the way he had organised the men on the collapsible to prevent it sinking. To Reg, he was a god among men, one of the true heroes of the night. He wished he could somehow get in touch with Lightoller and ask his advice about what he should do with the rest of his life. He couldn’t risk it, though, because it would mean owning up to taking a false name. Surely that must be against the law? He would probably be sent to jail if it came out. He had no idea what American jails were like but pictured some grim Dickensian cell where he’d be shackled to the other prisoners and fed only bread and water.

As far as White Star Line was concerned, John Hitchens had survived and Reg Parton had perished. They’d sent official documents in John’s name to Sherry’s, along with a month’s salary of three pounds, ten shillings as severance pay. Reg glanced at the papers, and there was John’s date of birth, crew number and the address of the lodgings in which he used to stay in Southampton. Would White Star send Reg’s final salary to his mother? He hoped so. She would be very hard up without his contribution to the household expenses.

How would Florence be coping? He knew he must write to her soon – it burned his conscience – but what would he say? He couldn’t ask her to come out and join him in New York, much as he would like to, because he had nothing to offer: there was nowhere she could stay and he didn’t make enough money to support her. He felt like a burnt-out shell of the person he had once been. How could she love a man who only saved himself and failed to save Finbarr? Her feelings for him would surely change when she heard about that.

One day, Reg walked down to Battery Park, right at the very tip of Manhattan. He sat on a bench and looked across the water towards the Statue of Liberty and the hazy Atlantic beyond. Even being that close to the ocean made him shiver. Someone had told him that you could take the ferry out to the Statue and climb the stairs inside her right up to the observation point in her crown. He quite liked the idea of looking out from that lofty viewpoint, but he couldn’t face the idea of the ferry trip across the bay. He never wanted to have water beneath his feet again. The very thought made him feel as though he was drowning. He could actually hear a rushing sound in his ears. It looked as though he would have to make America his permanent home. At the moment, nothing about it felt like home. The food was unfamiliar, with some revolting dishes such as grits, a hot cereal that got stuck between your teeth. The tobacco was strong and harsh, and he couldn’t seem to find a brand he liked. And they used words he didn’t recognise. ‘You got the blues, Reg?’ Tony asked one day, and Reg thought it must be some kind of kitchen implement he hadn’t been told about; ‘I bumped my noodle on the closet door,’ Paul told him and it was only because he was rubbing his head that Reg finally understood. Everything felt unreal and temporary.
It will get easier in time
, he told himself.
It has to.

One Monday, when he reported back for work, he was handed a note addressed to John Hitchens, which had been pushed through the restaurant’s letter box. He opened it with shaking hands.

‘
Dear John
,’ it read, ‘
I heard from someone in the White Star Office that you are working here and didn’t go back to England. I didn’t go back either. I’m working at Childs Restaurant on Beaver Street in the Lower East Side and living just round the corner.
’ It gave an address. ‘
We should meet for a chinwag. I’m working Monday to Saturday and I expect you are as well but I’ll wait in for you next Sunday. See you then. Danny O’Brien.
’

Reg’s face burned. Danny was a room steward with whom John had been friendly. John had been friendly with everyone; he was that kind of a person. Thank goodness Danny hadn’t turned up at Sherry’s while Reg was there or the story of his assumed identity would have come out. His whole existence was precarious. He was only a hair’s breadth away from discovery. At any moment, some old friend of John’s might walk through the doors during working hours and, when pointed in his direction, they’d blurt out, ‘But that’s not John!’

He considered going to see Danny, explaining that he’d taken John’s name and asking him for his discretion. They’d never been close, but it would be good to talk to someone from the ship, someone from back home. When he thought about it, though, he knew his story sounded too outlandish. Danny would think he’d gone mad to use a dead man’s identity. In the worst case, he might even report him to White Star. It was better not to take the risk. He couldn’t go.

The following Sunday, Reg felt a deep sense of regret. He imagined Danny sitting by the window, waiting for John’s friendly face to appear round the corner, and then feeling upset that his invitation had been snubbed. If Reg had gone, they could have compared notes about friends on board. They could have discussed the Inquiry findings. They could have talked about the strangeness of this city where people spoke the same basic language yet everything still felt foreign. Not going made him feel even more alone than he had before.

His hours at the restaurant were eleven in the morning till midnight, with just a couple of hours’ break between lunch and dinner service, when the waiters could eat a meal and congregate in the back alley for a smoke and a gossip. Reg liked the routine, liked being busy, and when he first heard from the other staff about a possible strike among New York waiters, he paid no attention. One day, Tony spelled it out for him, though.

‘We want to join the International Hotel Workers’ Union so they can protect our rights, but management are against it. Without them, we’ve got no guarantees that Mr Sherry won’t slash our pay and make us work even longer hours, then fire us at a moment’s notice. Unions are important for workers like us. Don’t you have them in England?’

‘Yes, of course.’ In fact, the coal workers had been on strike in England just before
Titanic
sailed, meaning that a number of other crossings had been cancelled and some people had ended up on the doomed ship who might not otherwise have been. Reg was a union member there because you had to be. The union looked after you if you were sick long term and unable to work, or if you had an accident at work. He wondered if the union would be negotiating on behalf of the families of those lost in the sinking? Perhaps they might get a compensation payment for his mum?

‘The point is,’ Tony continued, ‘that the Negroes are coming up to New York from the South and taking our jobs for a whole lot less pay. It’s happening all over the city and if we don’t stand up for ourselves we won’t have jobs to come back to. But if we stick together by joining this union, they won’t be able to fire all of us.’

‘What are you planning to do?’

‘Well, we’re threatening an all-out strike. It would hit the restaurant trade so bad I bet they’d cave in before a week’s out. It wouldn’t last too long.’

That wasn’t Reg’s experience, though. Back in England, the coal strike had lasted right through March and had still been rumbling on in places when he’d left. He knew that strikers didn’t get paid, and although he had some savings put by they wouldn’t last indefinitely. So far he had eight pounds, ten shillings in English money, and a few dollars in American currency, but he was hoping to use it to better himself somehow. When he had a decent lump sum, he would be more in control of his circumstances.

In the back of his mind, he had an idea that he might start his own small restaurant one day. Maybe he could specialise in English dishes, like tripe or steak and kidney pudding. The Americans seemed fascinated by all things English. Mr Sherry had started as a waiter after all so it wasn’t entirely far-fetched. If he was able to save up enough to take a lease on a property, he could do all the work himself at the beginning. He didn’t want to blow his savings having to support himself during a strike or he’d never get there.

Also, Reg was reluctant to get into a dispute with his new employer, Mr Sherry, and the restaurant manager, Mr Timothy, who without fail had been kind and understanding towards him. Mr Timothy had chased White Star for those crucial immigration papers, and had found a doctor to change the dressings on Reg’s feet once a week, for which the restaurant paid the fee. How could he reward them by joining a union and going out on strike? He decided to keep his head down and hope it all blew over before long.

Far from blowing over, the talk of a strike got louder and more strident until, towards the end of May, the staff of seventeen New York restaurants, including Sherry’s, told their managers that they would walk out within two weeks if their demands weren’t met. Reg was distraught, but how could he let his co-workers down?

‘You
are
in this with us, aren’t you, John?’ they asked, and he mumbled, ‘Yes. Of course.’

In private moments, he felt an overwhelming sense of panic. What could he do? How could he survive? He had no one to fall back on. He couldn’t be the scab who broke the strike and came in to work, but how would he fill the empty days? How would he manage? He’d starve in this foreign country, where he had no family or old friends, no one to invite him for a bowl of soup or let him sleep on their floor. His connections in New York were fragile and tentative.
I need someone to look after me,
he thought.
If only I could speak to Lightoller
.
If only I could talk it through with John.
He woke at night in a cold sweat, then dozed off into fitful sleep, only to waken with a sense of dread already upon him.

The strike date approached and the atmosphere in Sherry’s became tense. Mr Sherry slammed doors and wouldn’t speak to any of his staff. Mr Timothy did his best to negotiate with the hardliners, but to no avail. Reg’s anxiety grew with each day that passed.

And then one evening, he was asked to wait on a couple who were eating in a private dining room upstairs.

‘Be discreet,’ the manager instructed him. ‘Just take the order and don’t stop to talk.’

That suited Reg fine because he felt shy when diners tried to make conversation with him. He picked up two of the day’s menus, climbed the stairs to the private room, opened the door and stopped dead in his tracks. Inside, holding hands across the table, were Mr Grayling and the beautiful girl from the boat deck.

‘My goodness! What brings you here?’ Mr Grayling looked startled and quickly pulled his hand away from the girl’s.

‘I work here, sir. I decided I couldn’t face another Atlantic crossing so soon after the
Titanic
, so I found a job on dry land.’ He placed a menu in front of the girl, and caught a strange expression on her face as he did so.

‘You were on the
Titanic
?’ she said. ‘So were we. Aren’t we all the lucky ones to have survived! It was such an adventure.’

Close up she was even more stunning than he remembered: her chin a perfect little curve, her eyes an intense blue and sparkling like sapphires, her hair a deep copper colour, her lips painted in a Cupid’s bow. But how could she be so vacuous as to describe the sinking of the
Titanic
and the loss of all those lives as ‘an adventure’?

Reg moved round the table to give Mr Grayling a menu, wondering whether to offer commiserations about his wife or not.
Better not,
he decided.

‘This is Miss Hamilton,’ he told Reg. ‘We met on the
Carpathia
and are just catching up … I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.’

Reg hesitated, thrown by the lie, and unsure whether Mr Grayling might have known his real name. His wife had used it often enough, but had he paid any attention?

‘John Hitchens,’ he told him and tensed for the reaction.

‘Of course! I remember now.’ He turned to Miss Hamilton. ‘John was our dining saloon steward. It’s a small world, isn’t it?’

He’d got away with it, thank goodness. ‘I hope you didn’t lose any loved ones on the ship, ma’am?’ Reg asked politely.

‘No, thank God!’ She gave a tinkle of a laugh and some ostrich feathers in her headdress swayed. ‘We were very lucky.’

‘I’ll give you both a moment to decide on your order,’ Reg told them and backed out of the room. His brow was damp with sweat and his hands shook. He leant against the wall in the corridor to catch his breath. It was bizarre to bump into someone from his old life, and it took him right back to the
Titanic
’s grand dining saloon. He could almost feel Latimer’s eyes on him and hear the gay chatter of the first-class passengers. Would Mr Grayling suddenly remember that his name was in fact Reg? Would he report him to the restaurant manager for passing himself off under a false identity? He would be out on his ear if that happened, and Reg Parton didn’t have immigration papers. Reg Parton had no rights now.

And then he became angry. It was only six weeks since the
Titanic
sank. What was Mr Grayling doing dining out with another woman? Mourning for a spouse should last a year at least, should it not? Perhaps that was why they were in a private room. Reg wasn’t surprised that they didn’t want to be seen together. There had been some stories in the press castigating Mr Grayling for surviving while his wife did not, so the last thing he’d want would be to be caught courting a girl less than half his age. The scandal would finish him off in the city.

When he went back in to take their order, he could tell they had been talking about him. Miss Hamilton’s eyes looked him up and down with something like amusement, but he remained strictly businesslike and didn’t linger. He tried to seem as though he was in a hurry as he brought in their entrées, placed them carefully so as not to disturb the intricate table decoration, then turned immediately to head back to the kitchen.

When he brought their main courses, though, Mr Grayling stopped him and asked whether he was going to go on strike with the other waiters. Reg answered honestly.

‘I don’t rightly know, sir. I can’t afford to live without any wages coming in, but I don’t want to let my fellow workers down either. I’m hoping it will be resolved before it comes to that.’

‘I can’t see any sign of a resolution, frankly. Mr Ettor is not in any mood for negotiation.’ Mr Grayling was referring to the Italian-American spokesman for the Industrial Workers of the World, which was behind the strike call. ‘He’ll have all of us forced to turn Socialist if he gets his way.’

‘I hope not, sir,’ Reg replied. ‘Can I order any more wine for you?’

‘Yes, why not? Ask the sommelier to bring the list and I’ll choose something different to go with our beef.’

Miss Hamilton giggled and rolled her eyes. ‘What are you trying to do to me, George? You are a very naughty man.’

Was he drowning his sorrows?
Reg wondered.
Or trying to compromise the lady’s honour by making her inebriated?
The latter seemed to be more the case, because Reg couldn’t detect any evidence of sorrow.

At the end of the meal, when Reg brought the check, Miss Hamilton excused herself to go to the powder room and Mr Grayling seemed stone cold sober when he spoke his next words.

‘I have an offer for you, John, that might help you out of your present difficulty. You seem a very dedicated worker and I would be delighted to offer you a job at my own establishment in Madison Avenue. I don’t keep a large staff but there’s only me to look after so you would have plenty of free time. I see from the newspapers that waiters at top establishments earn about five dollars a week. Well, I would give you ten. What do you say to that?’

Reg was astonished. He hadn’t expected that at all. ‘Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.’

‘I run a very happy household and I’m sure they would be pleased to welcome you. You’d have your own room, of course. We’re close to Central Park, and you would eat well because I have a French chef. But from your point of view, I imagine it could see you through the strike and perhaps help you to build up a nest egg.’

‘Really, you are too kind.’

‘I’d like to help you, John. I know my wife was fond of you, and I believe I should support you in her memory. She would want me to. I’m sure she would want you to accept the help as well.’

Reg wanted to refuse, but couldn’t think of a way to do so politely, so he hesitated. ‘I’ve never worked in service before, sir,’ he said eventually.

‘I assume Sunday is your day off. Why don’t you come over at three and look around? You could let me know your answer after that.’

Miss Hamilton re-entered the room in a cloud of freshly applied scent, her eyes questioning Mr Grayling.
She knew he was going to ask me,
Reg guessed.
They’d discussed it. She left the room on purpose to give him the opportunity to talk to me.

‘Here’s my card, John.’ Mr Grayling handed it to him. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday.’

Reg nodded and held the door for them then watched as they walked down the staircase arm in arm and out to a waiting automobile.