Читать книгу Women and Children First: Bravery, love and fate: the untold story of the doomed Titanic - Gill Paul, Gill Paul - Страница 17

Most tables in the first-class dining saloon seated eight people. If a party was travelling together they were naturally seated together and you could put in a request to be placed near your friends, but otherwise the chief steward designed the seating arrangements. Reg had watched with secret amusement the shuffling around that had taken place after the first dinners on Wednesday and Thursday evenings. Some people asked to be moved if there were Jewish passengers at their table. Others asked the chief steward to seat them further away from the Astors, who were still being ostracised by New York society after the scandal of his remarriage. And yet more were simply bored to tears by the dining companions allocated to them.

It was all done with outward shows of politeness: ‘Oh goodness, they seem to have moved us to another table. I can’t think why!’ But there was a playground ruthlessness about it. ‘You’re not good enough to sit with us,’ they were saying. ‘I’d rather be with the Wideners or the Cardezas, thank you very much.’ Reg found it fascinating that in a society that already had so many stratifications, yet more were designed by the top stratum to further segregate themselves.

The Graylings’ table companions had been different for each of the four nights of the voyage so far. Reg doubted that she would have requested any change and he could only assume that other people wanted to get away from them because they felt uncomfortable around the obvious tensions in the marriage. He eavesdropped on a lot of the conversations as he made his way round, holding out silver platters from which diners could help themselves to appetisers, entrées and vegetables, and he thought Mrs Grayling was uncommonly polite and well-bred. She asked about other people rather than going on about herself, and she made everyone she spoke to feel good about themselves.

On Saturday evening, Mrs Grayling spent much time whispering to another woman, a titled English lady, while her daughter talked to the Howsons about Canada. Reg was more interested when the discussion turned to the speed of the ship. He’d felt himself that they were pushing along at a rate of knots. They seemed to be testing her, and she was running beautifully, all those pistons and cylinders and propellers doing exactly what they were designed to do.

As he moved round the table collecting plates, he heard them discussing the probability that one day telephone calls could be made from America to England. Reg had never made a telephone call. He’d only ever seen a telephone in the White Star Line offices and when it rang, it was so loud and insistent he’d almost jumped out of his skin.

He took the plates back to the pantry, as the wine waiter circled the table topping up glasses. Why didn’t the Graylings get divorced, he wondered? It happened more often these days and although there might be a brouhaha for a year or so, at least you could move on. Perhaps they were religious. Or maybe money was the tie. He supposed Mr Grayling would have to give her a large settlement from his multi-million-dollar fortune if they divorced. Having said that, he’d heard that the first Mrs Astor only got a small stipend from the vast family fortune because of some legal agreement she had signed before they married.

As he walked back out into the saloon to see to his other tables, Reg scanned the room for the boat deck girl, as he now thought of her, but yet again she wasn’t there. It was a spacious room with upwards of fifty tables, but he was convinced he would have spotted her. He’d always had a good memory for a face, especially one as remarkable as hers.

The Howsons were arguing again, and it transpired that Mr Howson had lost some money gambling that afternoon. As Reg approached to take their dessert order, their voices rose and she pushed her chair back and stood up. Reg kept well back so she couldn’t grab hold of his jacket this time.

‘I didn’t realise when I walked down the aisle that I was marrying a loser,’ she spat.

‘Well, I didn’t realise I was marrying a spoiled child,’ he drawled.

She threw her napkin on the floor and flounced over to Reg. ‘Will you bring some dessert down to my room?’ she asked in a cloying voice, deliberately loud enough for her husband to overhear. ‘You choose. Whatever you think I’ll enjoy.’ It was such blatant flirtation that Reg didn’t know where to look.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not allowed to leave my post.’

‘I insist!’ she demanded and stamped her foot. ‘I absolutely insist.’

‘In that case, I’ll see to it,’ Reg promised with a nod, and she smiled coyly. As soon as she had left the dining salon, Reg spoke quietly to Mr Howson. ‘I’ll have your room steward take something to your wife,’ he said, anxious there should be no misunderstanding between them.

‘Make it arsenic,’ the man muttered under his breath.

What was it about his tables that attracted the unhappily married, Reg wondered. Was it him? There were dozens of happy couples on the ship. He’d seen the Strauses, a couple in their sixties, holding hands as they sat on the promenade watching the sunset over the ocean. There was a young Spanish couple who were always laughing together, like a pair of little songbirds. Loads of couples seemed very much in love, but it was the ones who weren’t that gave you pause for thought. If he married Florence, would they end up bickering like that one day? He couldn’t bear to live that way.

Towards nine o’clock, the dining room was thinning out and Reg noticed that Mrs Grayling was once again sitting on her own at the table. He assumed Mr Grayling had gone to the smoking room for a brandy.

‘Would you like me to bring you something else, ma’am?’

She smiled. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ve been watching you and it makes me quite exhausted to see how hard you work. You don’t stop for a second, do you? And you’re so graceful as you weave your way around us all. It’s almost like a dance.’

Reg wondered if she had drunk too much wine at dinner, and coloured slightly, unsure what to say.

‘Goodness, listen to me going on. I was hoping to catch you.’ She glanced over to where the chief steward stood at the entrance. He wasn’t looking their way. ‘Hold out your hand.’

Reg did as she asked, holding it out flat. Her gloved hand came down on top of his and she placed something there then bent his fingers over so that it wouldn’t show.

‘This is from me, not my husband. It’s to say that I’m grateful for the way you’ve been looking after us. I don’t want to hear any more about it, though. I’m going down to my room now and we won’t mention it again.’

Reg pulled back her chair. ‘Thank you very much, ma’am,’ he said quietly. ‘It means a lot to me.’

‘You’re very welcome, Reg. I’ll see you at breakfast.’

Reg could feel that there was some kind of banknote in his palm but he didn’t dare check which denomination, so he put it directly into his trouser pocket and finished clearing his tables, then set them for breakfast. It was only later when he went to the lav that he fished it out and nearly fell backwards with shock. It was a five-pound note. He whistled out loud. He’d never even held one of these in his hands before, never mind one that was his to keep. It was green, with a picture of King George on it. Straight away, he decided not to tell anyone, not even John, because it would make the others jealous. They might even report him and he’d be forced to hand it back. He would keep it in his trouser pocket and never be separated from it. There was too much chance of pilfering if he left it unsupervised with his few possessions in the dorm for even five minutes.

Good old Mrs Grayling. What on earth would he say when he saw her the next morning? How could he ever thank her? Did she have any idea that it represented more than a month’s wages to him? Reg felt his cheeks grow hot with excitement. With money like this, maybe he could get a stall and sell meat pies to the seamen who came ashore at Southampton. The Seaview Café wouldn’t be happy about the competition, but all was fair in love and business. Where would he make his pies, though? His mum would never let him use her kitchen and he’d have no income to pay rent on a place of his own. Was there anything else he could do?

He wished he could ask advice from some of the millionaires on board. What gave Mr Straus the idea of setting up Macy’s department store in New York? Why did Mr Cardeza decide to get into manufacturing blue jeans? How had Mr Grayling raised the money to invest in South American copper mines?

But then none of them had been born in a two-bed terrace in Albert Street, Northam, with no father to look after them and no money. Someone had surely helped them take the first step up the ladder. The likes of the Astors and Guggenheims and Vanderbilts were a different kettle of fish because they had inherited their wealth, but how could you leap from poverty to business success? He needed to have a good idea, and save money until he had enough to start up. Think about what people need and don’t yet have, he urged himself, but no matter how hard he concentrated, that crucial bright idea wouldn’t come. He didn’t have the technical know-how to invent a way of transmitting telephone calls from New York to London. All he knew was the restaurant trade.

He lay on top of his bunk fully dressed, listening to the sounds of all the other stewards in the dorm chatting quietly to each other, their voices disappearing one by one as they drifted off to sleep. Reg knew he wouldn’t sleep for ages because he had too much on his mind. He felt restless and unsettled. He was twenty-one years old and still waiting for his life to begin, but he didn’t know how to get started, didn’t even know what it was he really wanted. John wasn’t ambitious like him, and he was probably a much happier person as a result. All John wanted was to find a good woman to marry, and maybe to make it up the ranks to be a sommelier or chief steward one day – although privately Reg couldn’t see that happening because he was too broad in his accent, too coarse in his looks. They liked their head waiting staff to be easier on the eye. Reg could have done it, but he was insubordinate at heart. He followed the White Star Line rules but sometimes felt as though his head might explode. He’d rather be his own boss one day.

Maybe too much contact with the rich had spoiled him, giving him airs above his station. Face facts: the only thing he was good at was waiting on table; the only money he had was a five-pound note. He should accept his lot, go home and put down a deposit on a nice engagement ring for Florence. Mrs Grayling would probably be delighted if he told her that was the way he planned on spending her money.

But he knew he wasn’t going to do that. That’s not what it had come to him for. It was his chance to do something that would change his life once and for all. He got fed up lying there with his thoughts swirling round and decided to get up. He jumped lightly to the floor, pulled on his shoes and wandered out into Scotland Road. He hadn’t consciously chosen a destination but his feet led him, almost without thinking, up the five flights of staff stairs to the boat deck

It was peaceful up there. The ocean was like a millpond. No wonder there was no swell on the ship because there was none on the ocean either. The stars seemed a little brighter than the night before, which meant there was less cloud in the upper atmosphere. The ship’s engines made a mere humming vibration up on deck, like a cat purring in its sleep. They were noisier down below where he slept.

An officer descended from the bridge and walked across to the officers’ quarters. Reg looked over the railing towards the surface of the water and saw someone’s head protruding through a porthole, smoking a cigarette. Otherwise all was still and silent as the grave. It occurred to him to wonder whether Mr Grayling might have another assignation with the boat deck girl. It had been around that time the previous evening when he saw them. Neither of them appeared, though. Why would they? It was after one a.m. on the White Star Line ‘Honour and Glory’ clock when Reg slipped down the Grand Staircase and back to his dorm.