Читать книгу Women and Children First: Bravery, love and fate: the untold story of the doomed Titanic - Gill Paul, Gill Paul - Страница 21

‘I hope there isn’t some kind of illness being passed around,’ Reg remarked to John on their way to dinner service. ‘Two of my ladies are unwell now.’

‘It’ll be the way you’ve been putting your dirty great thumb in their soup,’ John quipped. ‘I don’t like to think where it’s been!’

‘Rather my thumb than your feet,’ Reg replied. John’s feet always gave off a rank odour when he removed his socks at night and he was frequently joshed about it by stewards in the surrounding berths. Someone even left a pack of Odor-o-no on his bed.

John ignored him. ‘The Wideners are throwing a party for Captain Smith at seven. I’m going to be rushed off my feet. Will you watch my back for me?’

Reg agreed. That meant he would keep an eye on John’s tables as well as his own, and signal to John if he noticed anyone waiting to place an order or for plates to be cleared. If things started backing up, he would step in and help directly, although they would try to avoid it coming to that because passengers in first class preferred their own personal steward.

Perhaps it was the party for the captain, or perhaps it was because there were only two nights left before they reached New York, but all the ladies seemed to have made a special effort with their appearance. The younger ones wore quite daring décolleté gowns in vibrant shades; the older matriarchs appeared to have been unable to decide which jewels to wear as they peered into their jewel boxes and had just piled on the lot. Diamonds and precious stones glittered in tiaras, necklaces, earrings, bracelets and armlets. Light sparkled in them and split into multitudes of coloured dots that bounced off walls and ceilings. The men looked handsome – or at least as handsome as nature permitted – in black tie and with brillantined hair and waxed moustaches. As each party walked in, there was a surreptitious turning of heads in their direction, just long enough for an opinion to be formed on the outfits and for the mot juste to be found.

The chef had pulled out all the stops, serving ten courses and several options for most: oysters, salmon mousseline, the infamous filet mignon, roast duckling, roast squab, foie gras, éclairs. There were going to be a few groaning waistbands, a few people groping for indigestion remedies in the middle of the night.

To Reg’s surprise, Lady Juliette Mason-Parker was back, looking fetching in an ivory gown trimmed with lace at the sleeves and neckline. Her complexion seemed rosy, although he supposed that could be rouge.

‘I trust you are feeling better, my lady,’ Reg said quietly as he fluttered her napkin onto her lap.

‘Yes, thank you so much,’ she whispered, and gave him a quick smile with her eyes. It was obvious she didn’t want her mother or anyone else at the table to hear of her misadventure.

Once again Mr Grayling came into the dining saloon on his own and when Reg asked about Mrs Grayling’s condition, he didn’t have much to say.

‘She’s fine. Just didn’t want to risk it tonight.’

Reg speculated that he could have dined with his mystery boat deck girl in the absence of his wife, but for some reason he preferred to sit on his own at the corner of another table. At first the occupants tried to engage him in conversation then gave up at his monosyllabic responses. Yet again, Reg’s eyes swept the busy saloon looking for the girl; yet again, he didn’t find her.

The Howsons had wangled an invitation to the Wideners’ party so Reg didn’t have to serve them, and he found all his other passengers in celebratory mood. Bottles of champagne, Madeira, Château Lafite and aged cognac were broken open and quaffed. The noise level in the room rose as the levels in the glasses dropped. Faces reddened and smiles broadened. The Wallace Hartley trio played ragtime classics out in the reception room and a couple of young men did a Turkey Trot on their way into the saloon that had diners laughing and applauding.

Behind the scenes, some young scullions in the galley were playing up. As Reg picked up plates from the hot press, a movement caught his eye and he looked down to see one of them crouched beneath the press, piping mounds of mashed potato onto the toecaps of another steward’s shiny black shoes.

‘Watch out, mate,’ Reg pointed, and the chap swore as he had to put his plates down to wipe his shoes clean.

‘Bastards! I’ll get you later,’ he snapped at the guilty party, then turned to Reg. ‘Be careful with that pole by the soup tureens. They’ve put goose fat on it. I nearly came a cropper earlier.’

Stewards often grabbed that pole for balance as they swivelled round the corner to pick up a tray of soup dishes. It was a mean trick. Next time Reg passed John, he whispered to watch out for the pole and keep an eye on his feet at the hot press, because he didn’t have any time for accidents.

Reg kept his head down and worked hard, hoping to impress the chief steward with his diligence. It was after ten by the time the last diners drifted away to the smoking room or the reading room, or to one of the cafés to continue the party. Reg finished his own tables then helped John to sweep up any last crumbs and lay fresh linen for the morning.

‘I’m gasping for a smoke. You coming?’ John asked.

‘Let’s go outside,’ Reg suggested. ‘I fancy a breath of fresh air.’

John grinned. ‘Are you still looking for your mystery lass by any chance?’

‘Course not. Anyway, we’d better go down to the crew deck if we’re having a smoke. One more misdemeanour on my record and Latimer will make me walk the plank.’

They stopped by the dorm to pick up their cigarettes then made their way outside, and the second they stepped through the doorway in their thin uniform jackets, they clutched their arms and shivered.

‘Bloody hell. It’s chilly out here. The temperature’s plummeted since this afternoon.’

‘We must be getting close to Iceberg Alley,’ John said, peering out into the pitch black. ‘Wonder if we’ll see any?’

‘Only if you fancy sitting out here all night. I can just about manage five minutes for a smoke then I’m going in before my bits freeze off.’

They lit up and took simultaneous drags. The smoke they exhaled mingled with the mist of their breath.

‘How long have we got in New York?’ Reg asked. ‘Do you think we’ll manage any sightseeing this time?’

‘I think it’s a quick turnaround but we might get an afternoon.’

‘What do you fancy? Times Square? Broadway? You know me, I just like to have a wander.’

‘All right, I’ll come and have a wander with you. I fancy seeing Central Park.’

When they finished smoking, they flicked their cigarettes over the side and the glowing butts were instantly swallowed by the blackness. They made their way down to the mess and had a cup of tea with some of the other stewards, but most were too tired for conversation. It had been a long five days.

Reg and John were in bed by eleven, and Reg dropped off to sleep rapidly. His limbs felt like lead, his head sinking deep into the pillow, and even the sounds of the other stewards’ bedsprings creaking and their shoes landing on the floor with a clunk weren’t enough to keep him awake.

But at eleven-forty, he woke straight away and sat bolt upright when his berth was jolted, as if a giant hand had shoved it. He felt the ship juddering and heard a drawn-out scraping sound. He’d been on steamers for seven years and he knew right away that it was odd. It would take a lot of force for such a huge structure to be rocked in that way.

‘What the bloody hell was that?’ someone asked.

Reg was already out of bed and pulling on his trousers.