Maiden Voyages

by Siân Evans

  Every liner with any pretensions to passenger comfort carried a number of female hairdressers to meet the constant demand. Between the wars, maintaining an elegant and soignée appearance while afloat was considered essential for any woman with a sense of style, but even the most chic coiffure could be turned into a frizzy mess, thanks to the damp, wind and salt spray. While the wealthiest women travelled with their own maids, who could dress the mistress’s hair every day, most would rely on the dexterity and skilled expertise of the ship’s hairdressers.

  The mother of a future Archbishop of Canterbury was known as ‘Madame Edna’, a professional hairdresser who made home visits around Liverpool. Ann Benson had married a Scottish-born engineer, and they lived in Crosby with their four children. The three eldest were close in age, but the youngest, Robert, was a much later addition to the family; he described himself as an ‘autumn leaf’. Ann was always keen to travel, and Robert recalled a family friend, a Cunard steward called Bill Barnard, who would bring them gifts of exotic American chocolates and cigarettes obtained on his voyages. Ann, who was rather a volatile beauty with large brown eyes and curly auburn hair, found home life both humdrum and stifling, and suffered badly from ennui. She went to work as a freelance hairdresser on a succession of Cunard passenger ships in the early 1920s, and chose the more fashionable name ‘Nancy’ as her on-board professional persona, ‘Madame Edna’ being perhaps a little too ponderous. Nancy Runcie and her friend Peggy Levy signed up for a world cruise with Cunard in 1923. Two-year-old Robert was handed over to his great-aunt, while the rest of the family relied on their easy-going and sociable father, the capable eldest sister, Kathleen, who was fourteen, and the help of a servant. Ann’s voyage took her to San Francisco, Cairo and Yokohama. Robert’s older brother, Kenneth, who was ten at the time, remembered feeling forsaken because their mother was away for nearly five months, but the other siblings accepted that their father stayed close to home while their mother travelled overseas. Although unusual by the general standards of the 1920s, for the families of seafarers of both sexes parental absences of varying lengths were a matter of routine, even necessity. Seafaring mothers often relied on their extended families – or even neighbours – to look after their children on an informal basis while they were away at sea, sometimes for months at a time, and small but useful sums would change hands to recompense the children’s adoptive ‘aunties’.

  Ann Runcie was employed on sea voyages where demand was high for lady hairdressers (as opposed to ladies’ hairdressers, who were men). She usually worked freelance at home, so could set her own rate for different services. However, if they were engaged by the shipping company, lady hairdressers were paid at the same rate as the ship’s assistant barber. This was a great improvement on the wages usually available to them ashore, and there were also tips from grateful passengers. While Ann’s earnings usefully augmented the family’s finances, it seems her contact with affluent passengers on board ship also made her extremely ambitious for her offspring. Ann had had a lacklustre education, but was a keen reader. She encouraged young Robert to study the classics at school, an unorthodox decision in Liverpool in the 1930s – because of the Depression, most families wanted their children settled in a steady job, or an apprenticeship, as soon as they could leave school. However, Ann was thrilled when Robert gained a scholarship to Christ Church, Oxford. He went on to serve in the Scots Guards, renowned as a ‘smart’ regiment; she would pump him for names of his fellow officers, then go to the public library to look them up in Debrett’s. Tellingly, Robert Runcie later described himself as a ‘chameleon’, with an ability to adopt the accents of his social group wherever he found himself.11 He lost his Merseyside accent and took on the voices of his public-school friends, first at Oxford and, later, in the army, a social skill that he may have inherited from his observant, aspirational and hard-working mother.

  By the mid-1920s the range of roles available to women seafarers on the ocean liners was expanding, and there were now unparalleled career opportunities for many women from less privileged backgrounds. The long-standing assumption that working women would be tolerated by their male colleagues only in ‘nurturing’ capacities, as stewardesses or nurses, was being eroded. Any shipping line enterprising enough to provide novel and amusing daytime diversions for its wealthy but occasionally bored lady passengers would be likely to improve its reputation and ensure their repeat custom.

  One new role for women seafarers was that of swimming instructress. The post-war obsession with health, physical fitness and the enjoyment of sport, known as the Cult of the Body, had made it fashionable for more liberated women to swim for pleasure as well as for exercise, and the transatlantic ships had impressive heated seawater indoor pools for passengers’ use. Women and children swam at separate times from the men, so female pool supervisors and professional swimming instructresses were required to ensure their safety, and to provide lessons and demonstrations of diving and swimming techniques on request. Demand was high: Mrs Nan Palmer spent six years as swimming instructress on the Majestic, employed by White Star. She claimed that on one particularly hectic voyage she spent two whole days in the pool, except for mealtimes.12

  But it was Hilda James who was the trailblazer in this field. Born in 1904, Hilda was a window cleaner’s daughter from Liverpool, and a remarkably talented swimmer. She won a silver medal for Britain at the Antwerp Olympics in 1920, aged only sixteen. There she met the American Olympic team and became friends with their manager, Charlotte Epstein, captain of the Women’s Swimming Association, based in New York. They taught her the new swimming stroke known as the American crawl, and she was subsequently unbeatable, setting five new English records and two world records in just three months in 1920. Throughout 1921 swimming records continued to fall to Hilda, who was known as the English Comet. She became a popular sporting celebrity, and her triumphs were much featured in the press, especially in Liverpool.

  In 1922 the Cunard company offered to provide free passage for Hilda to travel to the United States to take part in invitation swimming races, galas and exhibitions. Hilda’s mother, Gertie James, grudgingly agreed to accompany her as chaperone. In addition, the company gave Hilda a complimentary life membership of the Cunard Club at the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool, so she could practise swimming in the pool. The company was sponsoring one of the country’s top sporting personalities, someone who they regarded as a public relations asset, and a potential future employee.

  Hilda, her mother, her coach Mr Howcroft and his wife Agnes, travelled by train for Southampton on 21 July 1922. They were provided with second-class cabins on the Aquitania, but were entitled to dine in the first-class Louis XVI dining room. They were invited on to the bridge, and given an escorted tour of the ship. Hilda proved to be very popular with the passengers, the captain and the crew. She gave a number of swimming demonstrations in the indoor pool, and she coached swimmers, which she enjoyed.

  On arrival in New York on 28 July 1922, Hilda was amazed by the vibrancy of the city. With her American friend Charlotte (known as Eppie), she enjoyed a formal dinner at the Waldorf Astoria, went sightseeing in New York, took a trip up the fifty-seven floors of the Woolworth Building, marvelled at the Statue of Liberty, rode on the Staten Island Ferry, and visited Central Park.

  Touring the north-eastern States was an education for Hilda, who was still only eighteen. The tour was intended to raise the public’s awareness of swimming as a suitable sport for women. Various clubs held galas and invitation events, and the local competition against Hilda was fierce. She broke a number of British and American records, and at Indianapolis she watched a young champion swimmer competing. A tentative friendship developed between them; his name was Johnny Weissmuller.

  After returning to New York, Hilda and Agnes Howcroft were escorted by Eppie to Bloomingdale’s, the smart department store, to try on frocks, as there was to be a formal dinner-dance at Madison Square Garden to mark the end of Hilda’s tour. Hilda and Agnes enjoyed th
e fantasy of dressing up in evening gowns, but knew they could not afford to buy anything to wear. To their amazement Eppie presented them with dress bags containing the lovely outfits they had just tried on, and with matching shoes and handbags. The clothes had been paid for by various American swimming organisations and benefactors. Due to Hilda’s amateur status, she could accept ‘gifts in kind’, though not cash. Still reeling from their benefactors’ generosity, Hilda and Agnes were given a professional makeover. Hilda’s humble background and teenage years spent competing in swimming tournaments had not accustomed her to beauty treatments, but the results were impressive. Hilda and Johnny Weissmuller were the joint guests of honour at the dinner; Johnny danced with Hilda and gave her the medal he had won in Indianapolis the first night they had met.

  Hilda escaped her chaperones to spend a romantic day at Coney Island with Johnny, and they returned to Manhattan without Hilda’s truancy being discovered. Johnny was still painfully shy, but they exchanged a kiss. Weissmuller’s swimming career was just taking off: he went on to win five Olympic gold medals, and broke nearly seventy world records. Handsome and with an impressive physique, he became a model, then an international film star, playing Tarzan, King of the Jungle, in twelve movies.

  Hilda, her mother and the Howcrofts returned on the Mauretania on 5 September – they had been upgraded to first class. As before, Hilda gave swimming shows and coached her fellow passengers. At the captain’s table one evening, she was told that Cunard was planning a new type of ship for ocean cruising, that it would want swimming instructresses, but also intelligent, sociable ‘people people’; had she thought of turning professional? Hilda was tempted, but in order to compete in the 1924 Paris Olympics she needed to retain her amateur status, so she declined.

  A rapturous reception back in Liverpool was hosted by the city’s Lord Mayor. By crossing the Atlantic, Hilda’s life had been transformed. She had adapted to the social mores of life afloat, and impressed her fellow passengers and the officers with her affability. Her experiences in America had shown her that a more glamorous life was possible, and she had made genuine friendships. She planned to move to New York when she was twenty-one; however, she was still three years away from living independently, and her controlling parents increasingly viewed her achievements with jaundiced eyes.

  In September 1922 Hilda set another world record, for the 150 yards freestyle, and began training in earnest for the British Olympic team. She was a strong contender, and was predicted to secure three gold medals, despite her youth. But in November 1923 a huge family row erupted in the James household. Hilda’s mother Gertie, always prone to furious and irrational rages, refused to let her daughter join the British team abroad unless she could go too. The Paris Olympics were scheduled from 4 May until 27 July 1924, and the Olympic Women’s team was provided with official chaperones. Mrs James could travel with them, but she would have to do so at her own expense. Gertie felt entitled to benefit from her daughter’s sporting prowess. If she wasn’t offered a complimentary trip to Paris, she would not permit Hilda to participate.

  What had started as a heated family argument escalated into an ugly and horrifying assault. Hilda’s father John had a nasty temper; goaded by his histrionic wife and stung by his daughter’s defiance, he gave Hilda a savage beating with his leather belt, leaving her unconscious. The following morning Hilda could barely stand; she dressed with great difficulty, packed a small case, and escaped to her Aunt Marjorie and Uncle Jim’s house nearby. Her relatives were appalled, and called a doctor who treated her injuries. It was three weeks before her wounds began to heal. Aunt Marjorie berated her brother, and warned him that they had informed the police of his assault, to deter any future violence.

  Hilda, badly bruised and traumatised, was denied the chance of participating in the 1924 Olympics in Paris by her parents. Having produced a daughter with astonishing talent, dedication and great willpower, they had deliberately sabotaged her chances, just as she was on the brink of international success. Hilda was now counting the days till her twenty-first birthday, 27 April 1925, when she would be free to live independently. Having missed selection for the Olympics, it was no longer necessary to maintain her precious amateur status. She could turn professional, carry on swimming and make a living from her talent.

  Cunard offered Hilda a job as the ‘resident professional’ at their swimming club at the Adelphi Hotel. Yet again her parents were implacably opposed to any professional career for her and refused to give their permission. Hilda didn’t risk another confrontation and possible punishment beating. This time she would use subterfuge and rely on the support of friends. She replied to Cunard, asking if the company might be prepared to employ her once she was twenty-one. Sir Percy Bates, deputy chairman, wrote back, assuring her the company would wait, and invited her to tea with him and his wife at his home, Anderton Hall.

  Sir Percy explained to Hilda his plans to develop a new series of liners for leisure cruising. He wanted Hilda to travel on board as an employee and give swimming displays and lessons to the passengers. She was a celebrity, and she had proved herself to be entertaining company, sociable and resourceful. He also gave her his telephone number, ‘in case there was any more family trouble at home’. Hilda realised he probably knew about her beating, as he was a local Justice of the Peace and had good contacts with the police. Percy wanted to offer his support in a practical way, with a job on Cunard’s new cruise ship, the RMS Carinthia, which was to be operational by the summer of 1925. For Hilda this was the opportunity that changed her life.

  The Carinthia was designed as Cunard’s cruise liner, running between Britain and New York, with world tours every winter, and shorter summer cruises. Percy wanted Hilda as part of his hand-picked team of senior officers. Officially she would be the swimming instructress, with regular pool and swimming duties, but also act as an entertainment hostess to the guests as required. This was a new role – Cunard needed someone to charm the passengers, helping to keep them amused. Hilda accepted, but on condition that her new job could be kept secret from her family till the very last minute in order to avoid another family row.

  Hilda was discreetly put on the Cunard payroll on 1 July 1925. She was given a secret tour of the Carinthia, during which she changed into her swimming costume and posed for publicity photos on the edge of the pool. She gradually smuggled her few belongings out of the family home and stored them in the Adelphi Hotel. On the morning of the Carinthia’s maiden voyage she planned to set out for central Liverpool as though she was going to the Adelphi for a swim, leaving a letter for her father to find after the ship had sailed.

  But the day before Hilda’s planned escape, there was another volcanic family row, and Hilda finally snapped. She told her mother that as she was now twenty-one years old, she was independent and that the next night she would be leaving Liverpool on the new Cunard ship the Carinthia. Gertie was inarticulate with fury, and, screaming uncontrollably, she flung a metal pan at Hilda, who dodged it. John heard the commotion and came running into the kitchen. Hilda slipped out of the door before he could stop her, and escaped to her aunt and uncle’s house once more.

  The following day, Saturday, 22 August 1925, there was a traditional maiden voyage send-off from the Pier Head at Liverpool. Brass bands oompahed as passengers embarked on the Carinthia, the most modern and luxurious of Cunard’s ships. Luggage was loaded, photographers and reporters recorded the occasion, and there was a general air of anticipation and celebration.

  On the packed quayside, her sister Elsie appeared, carrying the modest suitcase Hilda had left behind in her flight the night before. The two sisters hurriedly exchanged news. After Hilda’s escape, Gertie screamed so much that she made herself sick, and then sat in a chair seething for the rest of the evening. John James had hurtled out of the house in pursuit of his errant daughter. He returned eventually in a towering rage, prompting Gertie to start ranting about hell; the resulting row between the parents continued unabated through
out the night. Elsie and their two brothers had hidden in fear. The following morning, John instructed Elsie to collect together all Hilda’s remaining belongings and dispose of them. When Gertie started declaiming on her favourite theme of sin, John told her forcefully that he wished that she had left instead of Hilda, and thundered out again.

  That day’s copy of the Liverpool Evening Post prominently featured the publicity photos of Hilda poised on the edge of the Carinthia’s pool, and the announcement of her appointment. Elsie knew that when the paper was delivered to the James family home in the afternoon it would lead to further drama, so she had collected Hilda’s remaining few possessions and brought them to the Pier Head, together with Hilda’s small suitcase. In addition, she gave Hilda a thick envelope and told her not to open it till safely at sea. The sisters agreed to write to each other using a go-between; Elsie wished her luck and Hilda went aboard in tears.

  Hilda’s twin cabin was in the female-only crew quarters, near the medical room. She was to share with one of the hairdressers, and the luggage she had hidden at the Adelphi had already been delivered to the cabin. Their corridor was lined with twin rooms – the other female crew were cleaners, laundry staff, nurses, stewardesses and a physiotherapist, but Hilda was the first swimming instructress.