Women and Children First (5 page)

After breakfast Margaret Grayling found a deckchair on the promenade and sat staring out at the ocean with a huge lump in her throat, her eyes watering in the salt breeze. George, her husband, had been more than usually difficult during this voyage. He’d always been a cold man but his rudeness to her had previously been confined to their moments alone. He would never have spoken discourteously to her in front of the servants at their Madison Avenue home, yet he was prepared to do so in front of a steward on the
Titanic
, when all around them sat the cream of New York high society, no doubt listening in.

In private, George had renewed his demands that she should divorce him, but the idea was anathema to her. It was against every religious principle she held dear. They had been married in the sight of God and the minister had clearly said, ‘What God hath joined together, let no man cast asunder.’ How could she go against God’s commandment?

George didn’t share her religious beliefs and seemed to think she was merely worried about what society might say. In 1912, divorce caused a scandal and there was no question that both parties were stigmatised by it, even when one was blameless. But Margaret had never given much weight to the opinions of society. She didn’t engage in the complex sets of social rules that dictated the parties and dinners to which you were invited, the box in which you appeared at the opera, or which ladies left visiting cards at your door. She had more or less stopped appearing in society seven years earlier, after great tragedy had rent her life apart.

Theirs had never been a passionate marriage but it had produced a daughter, a gentle, artistic girl called Alice, who was the sun around which they both revolved and the cement that kept their marriage civil and sometimes even happy throughout the seventeen years of her life. When Alice died of scarlet fever in February 1905, everything had collapsed inwards. In the cruellest of all the cruel things George had ever hurled at her, he screamed that it was her fault, that she had been responsible for killing their daughter, and from that fatal wound their marriage had never recovered.

Rationally, Margaret knew it was simply not true. She and Alice had visited friends of hers and two days after the visit, it transpired that one of the friends had succumbed to scarlet fever, despite showing no signs of it when they were there. And then Alice developed a sore throat and pink cheeks and a sand-papery rash on her chest and neck. Her friend recovered within a week but Alice’s condition had continued to deteriorate. She struggled for breath and was rarely fully conscious during her last days. George paid for the advice of every specialist in New York and beyond, throwing money at the problem, but to no avail. In the small hours of the night, Alice’s breathing became fainter and fainter, then stopped altogether.

A solitary tear trickled down Margaret’s cheek. Grief like that never left you. It abated sometimes, just for a while, then returned to thump you in the gut and knock you backwards when you least expected it. It was something she would always live with. But George turned all his grief into anger directed towards his wife. All the intimacy of their marriage, such as there had been, mutated into cold silence or bitter recrimination. She missed the days when they used to be a team, lying in bed together discussing Alice’s small triumphs. She missed the occasional gesture of physical affection. Even a simple peck on the cheek would mean so much now but there was no chance of that. Never again.

She’d hoped this trip to Europe could achieve some kind of rapprochement. She’d begged him to bring her along, hoping that the unfamiliar surroundings might re-ignite some companionship at least, but to no avail. He had left her on her own for several weeks in a hotel in Bologna, claiming that he had business to conduct, then insisted on cutting short the vacation and rushing to catch
Titanic
’s maiden voyage. Nothing had been gained by the trip. They were returning to the aching loneliness of the mansion where they lived separate lives under the same roof.

Should she go against God’s will and give George his divorce so that each had a chance of happiness in the future? The more she observed other marriages, the more she believed that women seemed most content who lived on their own.

There was a Canadian couple in the dining saloon, the Howsons, who were a terrible advertisement for the institution. Married less than a year, they were already disappointed in each other. Neither had fulfilled the other’s expectations. Margaret knew them slightly and could see where the fault lines lay. She hated that he gambled or, more particularly, that he gambled and lost. He hated the money she spent on clothes and fripperies. He’d been a bachelor throughout his twenties and had never realised quite how much a new gown cost, nor how many were required to see a fashionable woman through the season. On the
Titanic
, first-class women would never dare turn up to dinner in a gown they had worn before. Each evening required a lavish new creation.

There was something more, Margaret mused. They had moved to New York after their marriage and he had hoped to gain immediate acceptance in high society through his wife, who came from a better family. He had no concept that to reach the inner circle of the kind of high-society grandees travelling on the ship would take careful calculation and manoeuvring over at least a year, and even then they might never get there since he worked in property. Being Canadian stood against them as well. They might be endured for the course of the voyage but no new invitations would be delivered to their butler on their return.

Margaret could view all this from a distance and see the futility of their ambitions and desires in the context of a life. So many other things were more important, but the young could never understand that. To them social position was everything, since a wag had said back in the 1880s that there were only four hundred fashionable people in New York (the exact number that would fit in Mrs William Astor’s ballroom). The term ‘The Four Hundred’ had been coined and instantly everyone began scrabbling for their place in the hallowed ranks. The irony was that the harder you tried, the less eligible you appeared, and she knew the Howsons would never get there. Would that prove a rupture that would tear their marriage apart?

Mrs Howson’s flirtatiousness with Reg was awkward for the boy. He dealt with it professionally, but it couldn’t be easy when you are trained to be polite to all passengers. You can’t take sides between husband and wife.

She wondered if marriage would be easier when you came from Reg’s class. Surely things would be simpler without all the rules about status that bedevilled her own class? His girl, Florence, sounded like a sweetheart, but Reg had intimated that he was hesitating about taking the step of getting engaged. Maybe it was hardly surprising given all the bickering couples he saw on the ships where he worked. He didn’t want to make a mistake. He was a good person, and wouldn’t have led her on for – what was it? – two years now if he didn’t genuinely love her.

Margaret had taken a liking to Reg. He had the looks of a moving picture star but seemed unaware of it. There was no trace of the vanity that afflicted many handsome men she had met, who checked their appearance in every reflective surface and strutted arrogantly into rooms, watching for a reaction. Reg seemed modest and introspective, and an all-round good sort.

During the Mediterranean voyage, she had witnessed an incident that he didn’t know she had seen. His friend John had been looking very queasy during breakfast service one morning, as if he had a stomach upset, and he had suddenly rushed off, leaving a pile of soiled plates on a table near the entrance, where arriving guests would see them. The chief steward noticed them and became instantly enraged. His eyes swept the room looking for someone to blame, and in an instant Reg was by his side. Margaret was close enough to overhear their exchange.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I only put them down for a moment. It won’t happen again,’ Reg said, and relayed them quickly to the pantry, letting John off the hook.

That’s one of the reasons he was Margaret’s favourite steward, but she also liked a sense that he had hidden depths. He was a sensitive person, who thought about the world and all that he saw of it. When they talked, he really looked at her and seemed to see beneath the surface.

There was something else, as well. Reg was an independent type. Deep down, despite his bosom friendship with John, she sensed a loneliness in him, and that’s what attracted her. They were alike in that, for she was herself perhaps the loneliest woman in the world.

At luncheon, first-class passengers could choose from a set menu with soup, fish, chicken, eggs or beef; they could have items from the grill, such as mutton chops or sirloin steak; or they could select from a buffet with salad, cold cuts and seafood dishes, such as salmon mayonnaise, Norwegian anchovies or potted shrimp. Reg hovered near the buffet to help serve passengers when they’d made their decision, or to retrieve the food they dropped while serving themselves.

Most of the ladies had changed since breakfast. First thing in the morning they wore skirts and blouses but for lunch they wore suits with long jackets – some of them caught at the back like a bustle, others slim and fitting on the hips – and all topped with the obligatory hat. Personally, Reg thought it was silly wearing a hat to eat a meal because they kept having to flick back those long floaty feathers and ribbons to stop them dipping in the food.

The Howsons sat down at their table and Reg spread the napkin on Mrs Howson’s lap in a swift fluttering motion, without touching her or encroaching on her line of sight, just as he’d been taught. Straight away she began bothering him with her dozens of inane questions.

‘Have you ever been skiing, Reg? You’d love it. You should visit Calgary some time and we’ll take you out on the slopes.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, but my work keeps me too busy.’

‘You’ve got such a good figure, you must play some sports. What do you play, Reg?’

‘I like a bit of football when I’m back home.’

‘What in God’s name is football?’

‘It’s a game with two teams where you kick a ball into a goal, ma’am.’

The husband sat scowling throughout their exchange; then as soon as Reg left the table, he heard the hiss of their argument.

‘It’s vulgar to talk to the staff like that. You shouldn’t be overfamiliar. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?’

‘You’re such a snob.’

‘You’re so common.’

The tension grew as they ate, and Reg tried to keep himself well clear of them. When he came to collect their plates, Mrs Howson’s face was pink with fury.

‘My husband thinks I shouldn’t fraternise with you, Reg. What do you think?’

‘Oh shut up,’ her husband snapped. ‘Leave the poor boy alone.’

Reg was balancing their plates and a serving dish on one arm as he scooped a stray piece of cauliflower from the tablecloth. Mrs Howson turned and yanked the pocket of his jacket just at a moment when he was twisted at an awkward angle, leaning sideways towards the table.

‘I’ll talk to him if I feel like it,’ he heard her saying as he struggled to regain his balance, but it was no use. He managed to twirl at the last moment so that the dishes fell to the floor behind rather than into her lap, but the dining salon fell silent at the resounding crash of breaking crockery. It echoed round the Jacobean carved ceiling then died away to an expectant silence.

Instantly Reg spun into action, crouching down and picking up the jagged pieces in his hands. John appeared by his side with a dustpan and brush and between them they had the floor spotless again in less than a minute. But the chief steward, old Latimer, was watching and as Reg scurried past, he said in a cold voice, ‘Wait behind after service.’

Reg was glad to see that the Howsons had left when he emerged from the galley. Mr Grayling had gone as well, but Mrs Grayling sat alone at their table, so he approached to ask if he could fetch anything for her.

‘I saw what happened with those plates,’ she told him. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Will you get into trouble?’

‘Please don’t worry on my behalf, ma’am.’

‘I could explain to the chief steward what I saw, if that would help.’

‘Thank you,’ Reg said. ‘But I simply lost my balance. I’m sorry if the noise disturbed you.’

She looked at him with her kind eyes. ‘They’ll make you pay for the breakages out of your salary, won’t they? I know how these liners operate. And I’m sure this porcelain is expensive. Please will you at least let me give you the money?’

‘We’re not supposed to accept money from passengers, but thank you very much for the offer.’ For a moment, he felt like crying under her maternal gaze. She was much nicer than his own mum, who’d never had any time for him. She couldn’t wait to send him out to work so he could contribute to the household coffers, which seemed to be his only value to her.

‘Nonsense. Plenty of the other staff members accept tips, and you will accept one from me. I insist. I will slip it to you quietly, when no one else is looking, some time before we reach New York, but for now I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ She stood up to bring an end to the conversation. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Reg pulled back her chair for her, wrestling with a powerful wave of embarrassment mixed with gratitude.

He would accept the money, he decided, after Old Latimer told him that the three porcelain plates he had broken cost two and six each. Reg’s wages were only two shillings and four-pence per day, so that breakage would cost him more than three days’ wages – in other words half of what he would make on that crossing.

‘Worse than that,’ he told John later, ‘it’s going on my report. I explained what happened but he wasn’t having it. It’s one law for them and another for us and I’m fed up to the back teeth with it.’

‘It’s just the way it is. No point fighting the system.’ John never got into trouble, never got caught on the rare occasions when he did transgress the rules.

‘It’s all right for you with your squeaky clean record. I’m trying to better myself and all I get are setbacks.’

‘It’ll be fine so long as you keep your nose clean from now on. They won’t do anything about one misdemeanour. Anyway, I wish I had your problems with all the lasses fancying me.’ John grinned at him. ‘You’ve always got lasses chasing after you. Remember those ones at the fairground last week? It must be your dark, brooding looks.’

‘What a load of rot!’ Reg punched his arm. It was true that two girls had latched onto them at the fair and wouldn’t leave them alone even after he mentioned he was stepping out with someone. They hadn’t been interested in John, just him. That kind of attention was discomfiting. He hated it.

‘Did you see your lass at lunch?’ John continued. ‘The one from the boat deck?’

‘She never turned up. She must take her meals elsewhere.’ Reg had forgotten about her till John brought it up but suddenly he recalled the vision of the silvery-white dress silhouetted against the dark ocean, and the fur coat flapping as it fell through the air.

‘Way you described her, I think you’ve got the hots for her,’ John teased. ‘You like the lasses with a bit of class.’

‘I wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole,’ Reg exclaimed. ‘I don’t like girls who mess around with other women’s husbands.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be heartbroken to hear it.’ John imitated a lady sobbing into her sleeve.

Reg laughed, but he meant it. He felt contempt for women who did that. He bet they never thought of all the people their affairs affected, and the repercussions it could have. They were selfish creatures, only in it for what they could get.

Back home in Southampton, when Reg was a young boy, he used to lie crushed up in bed with his three younger brothers, hearing sounds from the next room of his dad groaning and the bedsprings creaking and then a woman uttering little sighs. Reg knew that his mum was at work – she worked nights at a laundry – and his dad was in there with someone else. He was too young to know exactly what sex was, but old enough to know that shouldn’t be happening. ‘Keep yer mouth shut or I’ll clip yer ear for ye,’ his dad snapped in response to Reg’s reproachful stare over breakfast.

He wanted to tell his mum what he’d seen, because he was young enough that he still felt he ought to tell her everything, but he didn’t because she always looked so sad. When she was at home she often sat at the kitchen table and wept and Reg didn’t want to be the one to make her any sadder. Then his dad left home when he was eight and he heard his mum saying it was all because of ‘that floozy’. She took longer shifts at the laundry and drank gin and got sadder, and it was up to Reg to look after his younger brothers, scraping together haphazard meals and forcing them to wash every now and again.

Reg went to sea when he was fourteen. It’s what you did when you came from the Northam district of Southampton. All his mates were doing the same. Some became firemen or trimmers, electricians or greasers, but Reg always wanted to be out front meeting the wealthy passengers, so he trained as a saloon steward and worked his way up from third class to first. He had to learn silver service, and be able to explain all the dishes on the menu, and most of all he had to become adept at gliding in beside the diners without them feeling as though he were in their space. He must never touch or lean over them. His exhalations of air should not brush their cheeks. He should be in and out before they even noticed he was there. It was an art, and he reckoned he was pretty good at it.

He started out working on Mediterranean cruise ships, and when they were given shore leave in Gibraltar or Genoa, Nice or Naples, the other lads would go to a local knocking shop, but Reg never joined them. He and John discovered a mutual love of swimming, so whenever there was time they’d go for a good splash-around in the clear blue-green waters. If it was too cold, or it wasn’t a good spot for swimming, Reg would go for a long walk, getting his bearings in the town and watching the people who lived there. He liked imagining what their lives were like: what they ate for dinner, what they did in their spare time, whether they loved their families.

‘He’s an odd fellow,’ the lads said about him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even care when they hinted he might be homosexual. Let them say what they liked, he’d decided to wait until he fell in love before having sexual relations. He wanted it to be nice, not sordid. He wanted to find someone he loved and stay with that person for the rest of his life. When he worked in steerage on transatlantic ships, there were women who’d offer themselves to him in the corridors: earthy-smelling, dark women with huge soft bosoms and missing teeth. One had lifted her skirt and pressed his hand against her mound.

‘Get me a souvenir from first class, love? An ashtray, or a cup and saucer? I’ll make it worth your while.’

He grabbed his hand back. ‘Sorry, ma’am. We’re not allowed.’

The other lads did it, though. He’d come upon them in storerooms, trousers round their knees, panting as they thrust into some fleshy creature who was pinned against the wall. It disgusted Reg. He didn’t like to mix with those sorts.

When he met Florence, he knew straight away she was different. She didn’t flirt with other men. When he kissed her it felt nice, not sordid. He couldn’t imagine swapping her for anyone else, especially not these first-class ladies with their airs and graces, who flirted with him as though he was their personal plaything. It was no way to treat another human being. There was a term for it nowadays. They called them flappers: young, mischievous, impetuous types who flirted with anyone who took their fancy. The girl on the boat deck was a flapper. So was Mrs Howson. Reg didn’t like either of them. They were dangerous. If you knew what was good for you, you’d keep out of their way.