Maiden Voyages

by Siân Evans

  I was first asked to describe the contents of a lifeboat, and then to box the compass. The next questions were in relation to sailing a boat, and then I was placed in a life-boat with a number of seamen and had to take charge of it while it was lowered to the water 70 feet below. Immediately it become water-borne I had to disengage the ‘falls’ so that it could be got away from the ship’s side with expedition. This done, I just took my place with the other members of the crew and pulled an oar. That was the hardest part of the job.17

  The examiner told one of Blanche’s shipmates that he had made the test twice as hard for her as for any male candidates, to avoid allegations of gender favouritism. Blanche did have one advantage: having grown up in the coastal town of Salcombe, in Devon, she had handled boats from a young age, but successfully launching a large and heavy lifeboat from the side of a liner while commanding ten crew members was a challenge. Nevertheless, she passed and when the Majestic next sailed for New York on 7 January 1929, Blanche Tucker was authorised to command Lifeboat 27.

  The second seafaring woman to get her ‘lifeboat ticket’ was a Mrs Berry, a stewardess on the Olympic, a company widow whose husband had also worked for White Star. The third was conductress Edith Sowerbutts, who qualified in May 1930. Writing decades later of her decision to undertake this training, resourceful Edith revealed that in her job description, the section headed Lifeboat Drill merely stated that she should ‘assist ladies’, and gave no further instructions. She thought the best assistance she could offer her charges would be the practical ability to launch and command a lifeboat. Edith was tutored by her officer shipmates, and becoming a certificated boatman was a qualification that gave her great satisfaction.

  While Edith relished her role and responsibilities as a transatlantic conductress, by the end of the 1920s she had serious financial worries. Most of her passengers were impoverished would-be émigrées, unaccompanied women and children travelling in third class, and consequently she received very few tips on top of her basic salary. Her income was expended on maintaining a modest but comfortable home for her widowed mother and her rather shy sister Dorothy, and she would join them there between voyages. However, Mrs Sowerbutts had been injured in a road accident, and the family were now struggling to pay the medical and household bills. Drastic measures were called for: Dorothy was winkled out of her dead-end job in an office, which paid a pittance, and sent to sea to make some real money. Edith had approached her old friend Mr Gosling, the victualling superintendent at Southampton, requesting any available sea-going vacancy for her sister. Such jobs were at a premium; the company’s widows had first preference, and applicants needed sea-going connections, but Edith had clout. Sheltered Dorothy was bundled into the Southampton-bound train at Waterloo Station with a small trunk, and embarked on her own maiden voyage, as a stewardess for White Star Line. Perhaps surprisingly, she quickly blossomed into the role; no longer a ‘shrinking violet’, she proved to be an immense success in her new life.

  The ships on which Dorothy sailed mostly offered leisure cruises, linking the east coast of America with the Mediterranean ports, or the West Indies. The stewardess’s workload was heavy, with long hours, little free time while afloat, and no paid overtime. However, while the salary was low, a competent and pleasant stewardess could bring home a very respectable income if she earned tips, perhaps as much as £500 or £600 a year. Dorothy Sowerbutts found her new life very congenial; she was pretty, and keen on clothes, and she delighted in the affordable fashions available in the competitively priced downtown stores of New York.

  Edith suffered personal tragedies too. In her memoirs she alluded briefly but movingly to her intention to marry a man she had met, but he had passed away unexpectedly, leaving her resigned to be single. She was very depressed about her loss, and wrote: ‘in 1929, my spirits were low. The bottom had dropped out of my world. I had just lost a very good friend. My personal sadness, which lasted a long time, had to be very private. I had to carry on with the job regardless.’18 Edith tried to be philosophical about her loss. ‘He died suddenly. Looking back, it would not have worked out. I used to note the fortunate ladies who had so obviously married the men who loved them. I wondered what it might be like, to be so cherished and pampered, mink coats and all. In the end I settled for a modest home of my own, worked for and paid for by all my own efforts.’ Nevertheless, Edith was rarely short of male companions, and recalled in her eighties, ‘I did not do so badly, with my freckled face and my specs.’19

  In a career spanning nearly twelve years at sea, Edith took off only two days through seasickness; it was a life that suited her, even though it was physically demanding. Now that the Sowerbutts sisters were both established in decent jobs, they were earning independent salaries and supporting their elderly mother, and, although life was not ideal in many ways, they counted themselves fortunate.

  In the case of Edith, it is also apparent that women were gaining new status on board the great ships. Her responsible role as a conductress, the champion and guardian of unaccompanied women and children, occasionally brought her into conflict with some of the crew who looked down on third-class migrants from all over Europe. However, conductresses were the first merchant seawomen to hold officer status, and Edith and her contemporaries often gained respect within the all-male hierarchy on board for their tenacity and determination on behalf of their passengers. Qualifying to ‘man’ a lifeboat on equal terms with any crew member was also a practical demonstration of Edith’s ability and commitment, and gained her grudging respect.

  By the end of the 1920s a small number of remarkable and unusual women were choosing maritime careers previously deemed entirely masculine. Those who were successful tended to be well-connected and supported by their families, but nevertheless they were pioneers, demonstrating that women had capabilities and aptitudes largely unsuspected in the halcyon days before the Great War. Victoria Drummond was employed as a fully qualified ship’s engineer, and Elsie McKay was both a marine engineer and interior designer on P&O ships. Various new roles for women afloat included occupations that had previously existed only on shore. Now that transatlantic travel was booming, enterprising women, many of them originally from modest backgrounds, went to sea equipped with a serviceable trade or marketable skill. Ann Runcie the hairdresser found she could make a much better living afloat on the Cunard ships than in her native Liverpool, while her fellow Scouser Hilda James was promoted from being a swimming instructress to a cruise directress. By providing valuable services to the female passengers, seafaring women between the wars benefited greatly from the expansion of the transatlantic travel industry.

  6

  For Leisure and Pleasure

  Edith admired women travellers of all classes who behaved appropriately and with dignity, no matter what the occasion. Unlike her other female shipmates, the conductress’s unique role allowed her to observe the behaviour and pastimes of unaccompanied women passengers in all three classes, and she would flit between the decks several times a day, keeping an eye on her charges. Edith enjoyed dancing, so often joined the thé dansant, a popular afternoon activity on ships in the 1920s. Sometimes events could take a startling turn:

  One afternoon the orchestra of the Arabic was playing for such an occasion when a sedate, elderly man turned to me and said: ‘That girl has just lost her drawers!’ There they were, pale mauve silk, at her feet. The elastic must have slipped its moorings. I have seldom seen anyone so cool. With complete nonchalance and considerable dexterity, the young lady retrieved her panties, folded them up and continued dancing with a completely co-operative partner. It so happened she was destined for a minor post in the Foreign Office abroad. Calm, entirely collected, I felt sure she would do well in her chosen career.1

  Some women’s louche behaviour irritated Edith. She was particularly disparaging about those who were keen to attract male interest at any cost:

  Old girls, young girls and not so young girls; silly old girls, mutton disguised as lam
b, all dressed up to the nines, all out on a big safari to ensnare unsuspecting males. They certainly were grist to the mill of hard-up young men – it was a gigolo’s paradise at times … I met quite old women, complete with face-lift, tummy-lift and breast-lift, married to nasty younger men, purchased with wealth. A sad sight, those travesties of womanhood. They hung onto their young husbands, kept them well on the leash.2

  Edith also disapproved of wealthy female passengers fraternising with the men of the ship’s company. On some cruise ships the most handsome waiters were occasionally invited by unescorted lady passengers to accompany them on day trips ashore. The women would pick up any expenses, and have a pleasant, attentive young man as company in return. What used to be – and indeed still is – coyly referred to as ‘romance’ was part of the appeal of travel by liner, and was much vaunted by the shipping lines. Passengers were thrust into physical proximity with strangers for a number of days or even weeks, with ample leisure time to socialise and mingle. They were free of the vigilant observation and possible censure of their own social circles on land, and could reinvent themselves anew, as more charming, witty and better dressed. The environment of the giant ships was subliminally suggestive, with an emphasis on pampering, physical comfort and personal gratification, discreet but attentive service, rich food and wines, the charming dance tunes of the ship’s orchestra, and the proximity of the upper boat deck by moon-light, where quiet corners lent themselves to canoodling couples. For some, there may have been an additional frisson to be had from the small but always present risk of physical danger – icebergs, collisions, storms at sea. Where attraction was mutual, both parties were also aware that they only had a finite time afloat, knowledge that often acted as an accelerant to smouldering shipboard romances.

  For those hoping for romantic adventure, travel writer Basil Woon recommended embarking at the earliest opportunity to observe one’s fellow travellers, and scrutinising the passenger list thoroughly. Despite initial disappointment, he noted that enforced idleness often worked its magic and after a few days of an ocean voyage the most unlikely people would find each other strangely more attractive, probably due to the small pool of potential mates. Once back on dry land, he sagely observed, the magic usually evaporated.

  In the 1920s card games were all the rage. A convivial pastime for a small group of people could easily become an avid preoccupation, and for people who enjoyed playing competitive games, such as bridge, a transatlantic trip or ocean cruise was an ideal way to spend one’s time. Bridge players would get so involved in the game they would be unaware, or unconcerned, as the ship arrived in some exotic port, only reluctantly leaving the tables to see the delights of Nassau or Havana.

  The shipping companies catered for the convenience of serious card players during Prohibition, as many liked to gamble competitively in a comfortable environment, assured of waiter service at the card table. However, one of the hazards of ocean life for keen amateurs was the card-sharp, a professional gambler who made a considerable living by infiltrating gaming tables. Posing as just another passenger, though usually travelling as part of a gang, the card-sharp could be young or old, male or female, elegant or scruffy. They were adept at identifying potential ‘marks’, usually some exuberant high-rollers at a certain stage of inebriation. If invited to join a game of poker, the professional might feign reluctance or inexperience, and play ineptly, losing small sums of money. They would appear to take their losses philosophically, so their fellow players would gain confidence and commit themselves to bigger and bigger bets. Eventually, through skill, by cheating, or with the assistance of one or more accomplices, the card-sharp would invariably ‘scoop the pot’. Seasoned travellers knew to bring their own packs of cards and dice on every voyage, to avoid falling victim to marked packs or weighted dice.

  During the early 1920s the Aquitania often carried crooks and card-sharps, with at least one gang aboard every voyage, according to Purser Spedding. These characters were well-known to smoking room stewards, pursers and bartenders, despite their disguises. Notices were prominently displayed, warning unsuspecting people to be on their guard. Steamship lines occasionally employed plainclothes detectives to identify those likely to prey on the gullible, while staff would discreetly tip off unwary passengers if they recognised a familiar face or were wise to a ruse. If the captain was alerted that there was a professional card player on board, he had a number of options. Very few of these ‘professionals’ actually had police records. They were not usually criminals; just extremely good at cards and adept at fooling credulous strangers into thinking they were harmless, until they cleaned them out. The wise captain would invite the suspected card-sharp into his cabin for a friendly chat about inconsequentials, while leaving his large pistol on the desk, unremarked on by both parties. The purser could break up a card game in the public rooms on board ship if bets were being placed, because technically gambling was not allowed there, but it was difficult to police what happened in private staterooms and cabins. Some professional gamblers were tolerated by the steamship lines because they were well-behaved, wouldn’t play against naïve youngsters or drunks, were known to play fairly and were liberal with tips to the crew. Others were actively disliked as they could be violent, resistant to interference with their livelihoods. One card-sharp on the Aquitania in 1923 was confronted with an accusation of cheating during a game of poker. He instantly attacked his accuser with a broken glass, and nearly cost him his sight. The same character had also attacked Purser Spedding years before on the Campania, when he had been exposed as a card-sharp, and had threatened to shoot him.2

  Edith Sowerbutts recalled one transatlantic trip where one of her charges, the female accomplice of a card-sharp, had an attack of remorse after her partner in crime won a huge sum from a wealthy but inexperienced young man. Just as they docked in New York, the beauty summoned Edith to her cabin and asked her to deliver a thick envelope to the victim’s stateroom. Edith deduced that it contained a wad of bank notes, probably enough to get him safely back to London. She speculated that the young woman had felt sorry for the victim, who was probably sadder but wiser for the experience.

  There were some female passengers who actively used their charms to their financial advantage, by attracting then compromising some well-off male passenger, and threatening him with blackmail. Basil Woon called them ‘sea vamps’, and warned susceptible men to be careful not to fall for their wiles: ‘This is a profession with the numbers of its adherents swelling yearly. Beware of the beauty travelling alone – be she never so helpless, never so innocent! You’d never believe the number of women who make a regular living travelling back and forth across the Atlantic, preying on passengers of first-class liners.’3 He cited a former chorus girl from New York, who at the age of eighteen hooked a wealthy American businessman into a whirlwind romance in Paris, and accompanied him on the voyage home. While at sea, she discovered he had a wife and family back in Chicago and secretly obtained his address. She had collected a few handwritten billets doux, including one compromising note that read ‘Honey, I’ll be waiting in the smoking-room after dinner. Kisses and Love’. She threatened her victim with exposure to his family, and he paid $10,000 for her silence. It was apparent that a little maritime extortion offered a far more lucrative life than high-kicking in the chorus line, and by 1926 she had completed sixteen round trips on the Atlantic, with an estimated average profit of $1,000 per voyage.

  Spedding recalled a similar tale of blackmail, perpetrated by a husband and wife working together. A wealthy French gentleman joined the Aquitania at New York, sailing to France in first class. On the second day out, he met an apparently charming married couple. They all had a cocktail together, then the husband made an excuse and left, saying he had to speak to the captain. Gallantly, the Frenchman had another cocktail with the wife; it would have been impolite to leave her on her own, and also she seemed very personable. The trio met before dinner, and again the husband excused himself on some pretext
while the Frenchman danced with his wife. After dinner, she boldly suggested they retire to her cabin for some iced champagne, as her husband would stay in the smoking room till the early hours. Inevitably, within minutes the husband burst in, and caught the Frenchman in flagrante with the wife. Outraged, the cuckold brandished a revolver, but calmed down at the mention of compensation. The following morning, the chastened victim appealed to the purser for advice. Spedding suggested he cancel the cheque he had already written, but the Frenchman knew that the couple had his home address and were threatening to write to his wife, so he had no choice but to pay for his gullibility.