Women and Children First: Bravery, love and fate: the untold story of the doomed Titanic

‘I’m Annie McGeown. I wonder, could I ask you a question? Is there somewhere I can warm the baby’s milk? I filled his bottle from a jug at lunch so I could give him a feed later, but he doesn’t like it cold. I haven’t seen any other babies down here and I don’t want to cause a fuss.’

‘Do you want it now?’ Reg asked. ‘I can pop down the corridor to our mess and get someone to do it straight away. Other times, you ask any steward in the dining saloon.’

‘Oh, if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘Tell you what,’ Reg suggested. ‘Why don’t your two eldest come with me and they can bring it back again?’

This was readily agreed and Reg led them along the corridor and through the crisscross metal gate into Scotland Road. He showed them where the crew dorms were, and the storerooms and the mess, then he took them to meet Mr Joughin, who warmed the bottle and gave them a teacake each. The boys kept nudging each other in their excitement. Finally, Reg showed them back to the gateway into third-class aft, and pointed them in the direction of their cabin.

‘Will we see you again?’ Finbarr asked wistfully.

‘I should think so,’ Reg smiled. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you.’

‘Grand!’ Finbarr breathed, and Reg realised with amusement that they looked up to him. They must be the only people on the ship who did.

Once they’d gone, he wandered back to his berth for a lie-down. He had a Sherlock Holmes novel with him but he wasn’t in the mood for it. He spotted an old newspaper among John’s things and pulled it out. It was dated the 8th of April, the day before they’d sailed. Reg climbed up onto his bunk and opened it.

The headlines were all about two steamers that had collided on the River Nile, and they estimated around two hundred were dead. Reg shuddered. He hoped they had drowned rather than being devoured by Nile crocodiles. Seamen hate reading about deaths in the water so he quickly turned the page. The PM, Mr Asquith, was about to introduce his third Irish Home Rule Bill. Good luck to him, Reg thought. No matter what he offered, he’d never manage to keep all the parties happy. Some suffragettes had been chaining themselves to the railings at Parliament again. And then he came to the society pages and settled back to read properly.

There was a photo of some lords and ladies in full evening dress huddled under umbrellas outside the Savoy. The accompanying story congratulated them for coming out to a ball on such a filthy night and risking getting rain or mud on their expensive gowns and black tie dinner suits. The picture was grainy but they looked radiant and not the slightest bit damp. What you couldn’t see were the footmen off to the sides who were holding the umbrellas. They’d probably look like drowned cats, but he supposed that wouldn’t be the kind of picture the paper would want to print. Not on the society pages.

He glanced at the names. They were all called Charles, Edwin, Herbert, or names like that. None of them was called Reg or John. The ladies had flowery names: Violet, Charlotte, Venetia.

John came into the dorm. ‘There you are. I thought you’d jumped overboard after your little accident at lunch.’

Reg sighed. ‘You can bet the stupid flapper who caused it won’t be losing any sleep. Tell me, John, d’you ever wish your mum had called you Herbert? D’you think your life might have been different?’

‘If I had a different mam, my life would have been different. A name’s a name.’

‘What’s wrong with your mum, then?’

‘I dunno. I never see her. Haven’t been home in a while. We’re not a close family, not like yours.’ John came from Newcastle and he always claimed there wasn’t enough time between sailings to nip back and see his folks, but Reg guessed he didn’t make much effort.

‘The only thing close about our family is the way we all live on top of each other. I wish I could afford to get digs, like you.’

‘You’ll have your own place soon enough when you and Florence tie the knot.’ John put his finger in his mouth and popped his cheek.

Reg threw a pillow at him. ‘Don’t you get on my case as well! I’ve got enough people telling me what I should do. There’s a whole big world out there and you and me should be off exploring it instead of rushing down the aisle.’

‘That’s why we came to sea, isn’t it? To see the world, meet the rich – and clean up after them. Did I tell you I had to mop up after a yappy little dog had a widdle in the dining saloon yesterday? The owner knows she’s not supposed to bring him, but she sneaks him under her shawl then he sits on her lap eating bits of fillet steak and whatnot.’

Reg smiled. He’d noticed the lady in question, with a tiny nose poking out of her oversized handbag. ‘I bet she’s American.’

‘Course. An English lady wouldn’t do that. You can tell a mile off which nationality they are before they open their mouths, can’t you?’

‘Definitely. It’s the way they hold themselves. Americans slouch.’ John nodded agreement. ‘And they talk about themselves all the time without listening to other people.’

‘I can’t stand watching them eat,’ John added. ‘They shovel the food in. And their table manners would make your hair stand on end. They just reach across the table for things instead of asking and they use all the wrong cutlery.’

A steward lying on a nearby bunk, a chap called Bill, butted into their conversation. ‘I had one American gent complaining because his knife wouldn’t cut the steak, and he was actually using his fish knife. I didn’t say anything, though. Just went and got him another steak knife and then he was happy.’

‘I’ve got one who brings his own cutlery with him because he doesn’t trust ones that anyone else has used. He’s an odd one. Won’t share the sugar bowl with anyone else on his table, but wants one of his own. I just set completely separate things for his place. He’s not even one of the millionaires. He’s down on E Deck.’ This came from a steward named Harry.

It seemed everyone had a story about the passengers on their tables, although some thought the English were worst because they were so perfectionist and snooty. ‘Lady Duff Gordon won’t take food from a serving plate if I’ve served anyone else from it. There’s six of them at the table but I think she reckons she’s the grandest.’

‘You work in Gatti’s, don’t you?’ Reg asked, because the last speaker had an Italian accent. Gatti’s was the à la carte restaurant on board, run by Luigi Gatti, who also ran the restaurants at the Ritz in London. Passengers paid extra to dine there.

The chap nodded. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t suppose you have a girl who comes in there, really slender, with copper-coloured hair? She’s drop-dead beautiful, about twenty-ish I’d say. I saw her on deck last night in a silvery-white dress, very low neckline,’ Reg motioned with his hands, ‘but she hasn’t been into our restaurant so I thought maybe she eats in yours.’ He wondered why he was asking. It made him sound obsessed. What would they all think?

The Gatti’s waiter shook his head. ‘They are mostly older couples in ours. I can’t think of a girl like you describe.’

‘Reg is in love,’ John teased, and this was met by a chorus of whistles and ‘wey-hey’ noises.

‘Course I’m not.’ Reg was regretting opening his mouth. ‘I only saw her once. I just wondered why she never comes to the dining saloon. I ’spect that’s why she’s so skinny.’

‘She might eat in the Parisien or the Verandah,’ one chap suggested. ‘Lots of the young ones eat in the Parisien.’

‘A few of them get food sent to their rooms. Only if they’re feeling under the weather, though.’

‘Perhaps she’s not in first class?’ Bill suggested. ‘There are some lookers downstairs as well.’

Reg considered it for a brief second, but there was no question in his mind. ‘She’s definitely in first. Keep your eyes peeled for me, will you?’

‘For you? Not if I see her first,’ Bill rejoined, and they all chuckled at the idea. In reality, none of them would ever try getting it on with an upper-class lady. It wasn’t the way things worked. You were born to a certain station and that’s where you stayed. For a saloon steward to have an affair with a first-class passenger would be like a donkey squiring a thoroughbred horse.

Reg wished John hadn’t said he was in love. It was quite the opposite really. He was curious about the girl from the boat deck but he instinctively disliked her for what she was doing. He was still wondering if there was anything he could do to protect Mrs Grayling from finding out about the affair. He considered asking John’s advice, but when he thought about it, he was pretty sure he could guess what the answer would be: ‘Ye daft eejit! Keep your nose well out of it.’

Chapter Nine

By dinner time on Saturday evening, Juliette was restless in her gilded prison. No matter how large the ship, there was no escape from the exasperating presence of her mother, and from the burden of class expectations, which were magnified a thousand times on board. Here were the crème de la crème of American society and a good few British aristocrats, all mingling together and watching each other closely for any lapse in standards. Not for a second could you swear, or burp, or put your feet up on a table, never mind attend breakfast without a hat. Brought up with a brother who was close in age, Juliette enjoyed tennis, cricket and tree-climbing rather than needle-point and bridge. She liked male conversations about politics and exploration and technology but when she tried to engage their companions in the reception room outside the dining saloon in speculation about what might have happened to Captain Scott, her mother was desperate to change the subject.

‘Really, Juliette, I’m sure the ladies don’t wish to talk about such things.’

Juliette ignored her and continued. ‘Mr Amundsen has returned triumphant so at least we know it’s possible. But the papers are saying that Scott’s party did not have enough supplies with them for this length of time. I do hope they are all right.’

A middle-aged American woman called Mrs Grayling, whom they had met just that evening, smiled at her. ‘I’m fascinated by the stories I’ve read about both men. They seem infinitely resourceful. I have a hunch that Captain Scott will be fine. He might even have turned up while we’ve been at sea.’

Her husband didn’t agree. ‘They’d have told us. Someone would have telegrammed news like that to the ship and the captain would have announced it. Remember we heard the news that Amundsen had returned safely while on our voyage across to Europe.’

‘That’s true, dear,’ Mrs Grayling said, smiling in his direction. ‘At any rate, I wish Captain Scott and his team all the best.’

There was some discussion about who was dining at which table that evening and they decided to ask the chief steward to move them so they could sit together as a party. Juliette was pleased because there was no obvious suitor in the group that her mother could thrust upon her but humiliated when, over dinner, she guessed that her mother was asking Mrs Grayling if she knew of any possible marital candidates. Their heads were close together, voices lowered to little more than a whisper, but Juliette could tell by the way they occasionally glanced in her direction that she was the subject of their discussion. It was insulting. She was only twenty and perfectly capable of finding a husband for herself once the present unfortunate matter had been dealt with, yet her mother seemed to think it was her role now.

Juliette was seated between Mr Grayling, who didn’t seem to want to make conversation, and a Canadian couple who weren’t speaking to each other. She got talking to the husband, a man called Albert Howson who came from the Calgary area, and who proved to be a most agreeable companion. They talked about the rumour that King Edward VII had been married bigamously to Queen Mary, after a secret marriage in Malta while he was serving in the Navy, which meant George V wouldn’t be the lawful King of England. Neither believed it. Juliette was interested when he described Calgary as cowboy territory, but said that there were fortunes to be made for those prepared to speculate. But when she brought up the subject of women’s suffrage, she found Mr Howson unsympathetic.

‘Men are the ones who understand finance and business. How would a woman even begin to vote knowledgeably on fiscal policy? They would vote for the most handsome or charismatic candidate rather than attempting to review the issues.’