“Might as well watch it,” I said casually. “After all, I’m stuck here.”
“Good. It might take your mind off last night.” She sat down on the couch. “Mind if I watch it with you?” Like her plopping herself on the couch didn’t signal that was her plan.
I slid the disc into the player and waited for it to load. She suddenly jumped up and went to the kitchen. I heard her rattling a drawer, then clattering ice out of the ice maker.
She returned and handed me a plastic bag filled with ice, wrapped in a dish towel. “Here. The doctor said you needed to ice that.” And as she sat back down, she picked up the remote.
I brought the bag up to my shiner. The cold stung, but then it started to penetrate and felt good. It eased the pain I was beginning to feel.
The menu appeared on the screen, and I settled back to watch with my one good eye.
Mom pushed Play.
The titles flashed across the screen announcing the expected credits, ending with Titanic Survivor in huge, icy blue letters. Then a sentence scrolled up from the bottom. “Charley Robinson was only sixteen years old when he boarded the unsinkable ship, the Titanic. Here, in his own words recorded in 1969, is his story….”
A face appeared, filling the screen. A man, dignified white hair and mustache, wrinkles that told his age. He began to speak.
“’Tis a tale to be told,” he began, his British accent coloring his speech. “A tale of two young Portsmouth lads, one who perished on the maiden voyage of the finest ship that ever sailed, and one who wished he had. The victim was Jacob Hardy; I was the other, Charley Robinson.”
Images of turn-of-the-century Portsmouth, England, filled the screen—the grime of the port city, children playing in streets, children laboring, the dockworkers. Underlying it all was a moody, tonal atmosphere of period music.
I watched it, thinking that life must have been hard there. It was no wonder that two young men would want to escape on a magical ship. Then I smiled. Magical would have been my father’s word for the Titanic, not mine.
Charlie’s voice continued, taking us back to before the great ship. “But to fully grasp our story, we must journey farther back.”
He told of the hard labor Jacob’s father did, the washing his mother did to scrape money together.
At times Charlie Robinson’s 1960s face filled the screen; other times, he simply became a voiceover. I watched with interest, Charlie’s face compelling, the hundred-year-old images fascinating.
“One of Jake’s mum’s employers was the Mistress Barrowman, the wife of one of the most prosperous solicitors in town. Mistress Barrowman took young Jacob under her wing. She tutored him, training him in the King’s English and improving his reading skills. When it occurred to her that Jacob had impaired vision, she purchased spectacles for him. And she taught him to see the world in a different way through those spectacles and through the outlook she gave him.”
A portrait of the woman was on the screen. The legend underneath read “Constance Barrowman, wife of Francis Barrowman, solicitor.” She was portrayed sternly, like the pictures I’d seen from that time in history books, but if you looked into her eyes, you could see a goodness, a kindness that made you realize why she would help a poor boy who might have promise.
“Jake spent hours in Mistress Barrowman’s library. T’was there Jacob marveled at Mr. Jacque Futrelle’s most famous character, a detective known as The Thinking Machine, a man with uncanny abilities to deliberate and solve problems.
“‘Charley my lad’—Jake almost never called me anything but that, like those three words were my name, and I grew to love his saying them—‘someday,’ he said, ‘I shall travel to America, to Boston, to meet Futrelle. With his pointers, I shall become a detective like The Thinking Machine.’”
I lifted the ice from my eye and blinked to clear my vision. I thought of the detective stories I’d read. None of them had ever inspired me to become a detective. The Jacob before me was quite a thinker. Maybe if I were more of a thinker, I wouldn’t be here now clutching an ice pack and dreading having to talk to my friends.
“Jake combed the bookstalls for a copy of Futrelle’s book The Professor on the Case. His detective skills were emerging, apparently, for he was able to purchase a used copy of the book. He carried it with him everywhere. When Jacob Hardy formed an attachment, he remained steadfast to it.”
I shifted slightly, trying to relieve the pain in my neck from the blow I’d taken last night. Here Jacob was spending his time searching for a book while I was spending my time brawling. I squirmed with shame. My neck hurt even more.
“Jake set his sights on obtaining a position, an opportunity for advancement, in the nearby seaside resort of Worthing.
“A tear forming in my heart at the thought of losing my constant companion, I told him, I fully understand, but I shall miss you.
“‘Charley my lad,’ he said, doffing me across the back of my head. ‘You shall come with me.’
“‘But Jake, with your confidence and education, you are perfectly capable of obtaining a position.’ I said. ‘And, too, you can easily convince them that you are older than our sixteen years,’ leaving it unsaid that there was no way anyone would want to hire me.
“‘You just leave it to me, Charley my lad. I shall find employment for the both of us.’”
The picture on the TV filled the entire screen. As I looked at a yellowed picture of a huge, wooden structure near a beach, I somehow knew that Jacob would indeed find jobs for both of them. I was becoming more and more enamored of my namesake. Jacob Hardy was a boy who took charge, made decisions, was loyal.
Charley’s wrinkled face came back, filling the screen with an expression that showed that he, too, had strong feelings for his friend Jacob.
“With our few possessions in hand, we journeyed to Worthing, and there Jacob became a waiter at Swans-next-the Sea. Once he secured his position, he demanded that I be employed as a busboy.”
“Jacob was a wonderful young man, wasn’t he?” Mom said quietly. I could tell by her tone of voice, that she, too, was won over.
“Yeah,” I said, putting the ice pack back on my eye. Pain shot through me, and I regretted last night. Big-time. Pain can be a powerful motivator, but I not only regretted the fight, I regretted my whole attitude. The pain was just a reminder.
“Life in Worthing was a dream for me,” Charley continued. “To be free of the impoverished life we’d led was a luxury I’d never imagined.
“The other staff members, whom we shared lodging with at the resort, were a delight to know. One waiter, Gio Frentini, shared a small room with his wife across from our dormitory. She was with child, and Gio was very protective of her. Gio, with his loving, kind manner, became a cherished friend of both Jacob and me.
“Excitement swept through Worthing in early January of 1912 when handbills appeared advertising the maiden voyage of the White Star Line’s grandest vessel, the Titanic, leaving Southampton on the tenth of April.”
Suddenly the image on the screen came to a standstill.
“What?” I barked. “I’m watching this!”
Mom stood. “Jakie, you haven’t had a thing all morning but orange juice. Your body needs food to heal. I’m making us some sandwiches.”
“But, Mom, I’m not hungry. I want to keep watching. Crap.”
“I’ll overlook that awful word. It is the pain talking. Do you need more Tylenol?”
“No, it will just put me to sleep. I’m into this and don’t want to nod off.”
“Tylenol does not put anyone to sleep, but it’s your call. But you will eat something. So just hold your horses, little man.”
“Fine, but hurry up.”
“I will. I want to see what happens to Charley and Jacob as much as you do.”
Chapter 25
SOON SHE returned, bearing ham sandwiches, chips, and Cokes. She settled into her place on the couch, then said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
I pointed the remote,
the video came to life once again, and Charley was speaking as a shot of the Ship of Dreams filled the screen.
“Jacob and I marveled at the illustration of the magnificent ship.
“‘Her’s a beautiful ship, her is,’ I exclaimed.
“‘She’s a beautiful ship, Charley my lad.’ Jacob constantly corrected my old way of speaking. ‘If you wish to rise up in the world, Charley my lad,’ he’d say, ‘you must learn the proper King’s English.’
“‘Right you are, Jacob,’ I agreed as he looked at the Titanic handbill. Ah, I remember the sun glinted off the lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“‘I would dearly love to sail on this vessel, Charley my lad, to journey to Mr. Futrelle and start a new life in the land of freedom.’
“I could not bring myself to quash Jake’s dream, for I was convinced that it was a dream. Lads from the Portsmouth docks could never hope to sail away to America on the grandest ship to ever ply the seas.”
A mixture of Titanic shots glided across the screen. Music swelled.
“I never quite understood your dad’s fascination. Maybe I was just too close to his obsession, but look at it.” She pointed at the screen. “It is magnificent, isn’t it? Hearing about Jacob’s longing to climb aboard that ship and escape the poverty he grew up in just makes you realize that the Titanic really was the Ship of Dreams, you know?”
I’d heard Dad call it that many times. Somehow, hearing Mom call it that told me she really did love him, despite their differences. “You’re right. God, it’s beautiful.” I never in a million years would have thought that those words would fall from my lips. And just as they did, I realized I’d taken the Lord’s name in vain and would catch hell for it. But Mom was so glued to the TV she didn’t say a word.
Another thought surfaced. Could Dad’s lifelong fascination with the Titanic be tied to his being gay? Not that it caused him to be gay. That would be ridiculous. But it just might be that he, too, had that longing to escape from who he was, and wishing he could sail on that magnificent ship would be like the Titanic whisking Jacob away from his fetid world. Was it possible that he suffered all the turmoil I had suffered when he discovered that he was gay? He’d told me he had. But I’d refused to believe it. Did the Titanic help him cope?
Charley’s face faded up on the TV screen as the Titanic faded away.
“On Sunday the seventh of April, Gio arrived at the dining room quite agitated. He was carrying an envelope. He marched directly to Jake.
“‘Giacobo!’ he called out. ‘My wife, mia bella, is very—how you say?—eel.’
“Jacob looked at me, then turned his head back to Gio. ‘I’m afraid I’m quite puzzled, Gio,’ he said. ‘Eel?’
“‘She’s a seek—you know, Giacobo, unwell.’ Gio’s English was not the best, but we loved the lilt of his voice. No one ever laughed at him. He was our friend.
“‘Oh yes,’ Jake exclaimed. ‘She is ill! Is it serious? Are there complications with the baby?’
“‘Si! The bambino.’ He thrust the envelope he was holding into Jake’s hand. ‘I’m supposed to sail on the Titanic on Wednesday, but the doctor, he say that mia bella will not give birth before then. The bambino was to have been already here. And with this delay, I cannot leave my-a beautiful wife. You, Giacobo, you must take my place. As a waiter on the Titanic. Here—my letter explaining everything to the White Star.’
“Once again, my heart sank. This was Jake’s dream, and it had fallen right into his lap. I couldn’t deny him the opportunity, but I couldn’t help feeling doomed.”
“Oh,” Mom yelped. Her finger must have involuntary pushed Pause because the picture froze.
“What is it?” I looked at her, thinking something was wrong.
“Jacob can’t leave Charley,” she cried out.
I rolled my eyes. “Mooom,” I drew it out, “They were both on the Titanic when it went down, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, sheepishly.
She was really getting into this story. And I was thinking the same thing the whole time I knew what would happen.
Maybe I shouldn’t have rolled my eyes at her. After all, my first reaction to Charley’s despair was of Dad moving to Halifax, thinking maybe at first he’d have to leave Paul. I totally related Dad and Paulie’s story to Jacob and Charley’s. They were just best friends, and Charley was heartbroken at the thought. No wonder Dad and Paul decided to marry. I’d bet they couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.
I had no time to dwell on that thought before Mom pushed Play again, and the story continued.
“Jake grasped my arm and pulled me from the dining room. ‘Come, Charley my lad, we have preparations to make. We must get to Southampton and the White Star offices.’ The joy I felt, believing Jake was going to find a way to take me with him!
“Everything that happened next is almost a blur. We made our way to Southampton where Jacob presented Gio’s letter.
“‘How old are you, boy?’ the gentleman in charge asked Jake.
“‘Twenty, sir,’ Jake replied, his confidence never wavering.
“‘Twenty, you say?’ The man eyed him, sizing him up. ‘More likely sixteen, seventeen at the most,’ he said.
“Jake just stared at him.
“‘But I like your bravado. And we are desperate at this point to fill all available positions. You say you have experience as a waiter?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ Jake answered, never revealing the fact that his experience amounted to only two months, with three weeks of that as an assistant.
“‘Well, then, we’ll take you on as a waiter in our first-class dining salon… two pounds, two shillings per month.’
“I could see a smile trying to burst forth from Jake, but he kept his composure. ‘Thank you, sir. There’s one other thing….’
“The man looked up from his ledger in which he was entering Jacob’s name. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
“‘Are there any other positions open, sir? My friend Charley Robinson here also seeks employment.’
“‘Robinson, eh? Do you think you could operate a lift, Robinson?’
“‘Certainly sir,’ Jake plunged ahead, answering for me. He was determined we both would get jobs on the Titanic.
“The gentleman chuckled. ‘Fine, elevator operator it is.’ And he entered my name into the ledger as well. ‘We sail this afternoon,’ he said.”
Mom actually applauded. I laughed at her, but inside I agreed with her. Charley’s story was engaging—a word my English teacher loves. It was easy to get caught up. This was a real person telling a real story. We weren’t watching Le-ho and Red while the pennywhistle played underneath, an obvious ploy for our sympathy. Charley Robinson was genuine.
And he was telling me of another Jacob Hardy, the Jacob Hardy my father was commemorating when he named me. I didn’t want to get all teared up over this, but I was definitely into it. So into it that I had pushed a big fact way back in my mind. Jacob would eventually die, a sixteen-year-old boy, just like me—and with my name.
“Jake and I boarded, and we were soon whisked away to be fitted with our uniforms—he, the white waistcoat of a waiter. I, the longer white coat of a lift operator. After cursory instructions, we were shown to our quarters, a mass of bunks in a crew cabin, and then we were immediately set to work.
“Jake and I didn’t see each other again until late that evening.
“He pulled me from the bunk that adjoined his and led me to a dark alcove down the corridor. There, Jacob embraced me and effused, ‘Is this not amazing, Charley my lad? This ship is the ultimate in luxury. It makes Mrs. Barrowman’s home look like a shanty. And the passengers. Oh my! The richest of the richest.’”
Pictures of the elite society, the first-class passengers whisked across the screen, their names prominently displayed.
“‘The Astors rode in my lift this afternoon. I overheard him say that he had paid almost 900 pounds for passage for each of them. You would have to work almost te
n years on this ship to amass that much… and I, well, I would be dead before I could ever acquire that.’
“Jake laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Charley my lad, one day we shall have that much and more.’”
This Jacob Hardy had determination to make a better life for him and his friend. What did I, his namesake, have? Apparently a determination to destroy lives—D’s, Finn’s, and my father’s. Maybe I didn’t deserve to carry Jacob’s name.
But I would make it right. Try to redeem myself.
Charley’s voice was soothing, tender. “He placed a hand on my cheek, stroked it lightly. ‘And do you know who is on board? Jacques Futrelle himself. He has promised to sign my copy of his book if I have it with me tomorrow.’
“‘Amazing, Jake. But why didn’t you have it with you today? You carry it everywhere!’
“‘In the madness of our journey, I packed it in my valise. But I shall never let it off my person ever again.’
“The next day flew by. Although both Jacob and I worked long hours, we agreed that it didn’t seem like work. Jake showed me what Futrelle had written in his book that day… For Jacob Hardy—May you be your own Thinking Machine and solve all the mysteries you encounter…. Jacques Futrelle.”
And, I thought, may I become my own Thinking Machine. This blindly following emotion was leading me nowhere. I had hurt too many people. I asked myself, What would Jacob do? I laughed at myself. Mom was always asking What would Jesus do? Well, now I had my own WWJD. I had my resolve. I needed the courage. Jacob was full of courage, and I was named after him. I would start my amends as soon as Jacob’s story came to an end. And immediately, my heart sank, knowing the end he’d come to.
The picture came to a standstill.
“What do you find so funny?”
“Nothing.” I’d forgotten I’d emitted that chuckle at my internal joke. “Just watch the video.”
“I’m trying to, but you’re distracting me,” she whined.
“Just get on with it,” I said, gesturing toward the screen.
It came to life, Charley’s face once again animated.
Titanic Summer Page 23