The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  On this second visit I noticed more white women about, which struck me as a pleasing novelty. It’s surprising just how starved for the sight of a female form a man can be after several months at sea. Finding one specific person, however – even a well-to-do Englishwoman – seemed impossible. I hoped that by day things would be different, that once I got away from the waterfront, the settlement would be easy to reach.

  Joe said I was on a fool’s errand; nevertheless, he gave permission for a daytime run ashore. Having got Jim the cook to barber me and trim my beard that morning, I sluiced myself down, donned the dark blue cotton suit I’d purchased last time in Hong Kong and barely recognized myself in the glass. A little creased perhaps, but with the addition of a straw hat, suddenly the lanky young seaman looked quite the gentleman. I thought so anyway.

  Nodding his approval, Jim wished me luck as he straightened my tie. ‘But watch yourself,’ he said. ‘She might not take kindly to being told where she went wrong.’

  Grinning, I promised to mind my manners, ignoring whistles from the crew as I crossed the deck.

  Apart from the odd pony trap, sedan chairs and litters borne by coolies seemed the chief means of transport, but I ignored them. After being cooped up aboard it was a pleasure just to get off the ship and walk. The town of Victoria ran along the shoreline in both directions, with a scattering of houses high on the hill. Having established roughly the area of the address I sought, I began working my way upwards from the cheek-by-jowl habitations of the waterside towards the houses of the rich. From below they looked dauntingly grand.

  It was hot and the way was steep. I had not gone very far when I began to see the folly of my task. Maybe Joe was right. Even if I found my way to this address, there was no guarantee the family would be at home, and even less that I would be allowed to speak to the person concerned. People like that, Joe said, did not generally receive young men without previous introduction, especially those of no account. The most I could expect, he said, was that a note might be accepted.

  By the roadside was a small public garden. I took a seat there in the shade, and a moment or two to review things. My plan had been born of some black-and-white notion of justice. Harry Jones had loved this girl but she had rejected him, and he’d died a broken man. At least, that was how I saw it. Therefore, as judge and jury, I had decided she should be told. She deserved to feel guilty.

  Those convictions had kept me fired up. But sitting there with the blue hills of China across the bay, I found myself going over Joe’s words. What business was it of mine? I was not a relative, so what was I aiming to do? As he’d pointed out, I could be heading for a situation in which I might be made to feel a fool. And at worst, be thrown out with a flea in my ear. After all, we only had Harry Jones’s word to go on. And he was delirious half the time.

  But I believed him. I felt she should be told. If I’m honest, my imagination still buzzed with erotic images that had their origins in Harry Jones’s delirium. I envisaged some raven-haired siren swathed in Chinese silk, ruby lips promising all the pleasure a man could wish for. In cooler moments I think I understood the image to be, shall we say, highly coloured, but even so, I began to question my certainties.

  Wrestling with the problem, eventually I reconciled my desire for justice with the heat – and, to be honest, an underlying suspicion that Joe might be right. It was obvious – well, it would have been if only I’d thought of this earlier – that I did not have to present myself in person, I could write something short and to the point and post the letter here. If she wished to discuss the matter further, then she could ask to see me. That would prove whether she cared or not.

  With a profound sigh I got to my feet, tapped my straw hat back on my head, and prepared to retrace my steps. Movement caught my eye, and I realized the garden was attached to a building of some kind. It looked more like a hall than a church but there was a cross over the open doorway, and people were moving in and out, carrying cups and plates and glasses. Beneath an awning on the shady side were tables with books and plants and cakes. A signboard announced that it was a bring-and-buy sale in aid of the local mission school.

  Well, it was not my usual venue, but I had money in my pocket. Surely they would sell a refreshing drink to a thirsty wayfarer? And maybe, if they were not too expensive, a book to while away the weeks at sea.

  I made my way down, returning the greeting of a man in a dog collar as I headed for the bookstall. The lady minding it looked me up and down before asking if I had any particular interest. When I said ships and the sea, she bent to a box at her feet, saying she was sure she’d seen something along those lines. Huffing a little as she rooted amongst the volumes, she emerged red-faced with Robinson Crusoe. Would that do?

  I shook my head, imagining the reaction if I took that aboard ship. Somewhat embarrassed, I studied the titles before me and picked out a scuffed copy of Great Expectations. At just a few pence I could afford that.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ I said, probably with more emphasis than the sale warranted.

  ‘Are you sure? Oh, well, Mr Dickens is reliable, and always worth a repeat.’

  I agreed, not wanting to tell her that I spent so much time studying, my reading matter – and my pocket – rarely stretched to novels.

  I was scanning the first few lines when someone at my elbow said, ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’

  Surprised, I turned and looked into a pair of dark eyes fringed by the longest, most sweeping lashes I think I have ever seen. That those eyes were set in a pert little face framed by dark curls was something I registered like a physical shock.

  ‘Tea?’ she said again, smiling up at me.

  It was all I could do to nod and stammer a word of thanks. Heat was rising from my chest, I felt clumsy holding the book, was suddenly all thumbs in my attempt to take a cup and saucer from the tray.

  ‘Oh, how silly of me,’ she said at once, ‘offering a cup when you have a book in your hand…’ She led me to a table. ‘Here, do have a seat, then you can enjoy your tea and read in comfort.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I got the words straight that time and even managed a smile.

  My experience of women was limited. I’d had flirtations at home with local girls, but generally at sea I spoke with men about things pertaining to ships; if we talked about women it was mostly fantasy. Even my brief times ashore had been spent in bars where the girls expected to be paid.

  So, finding myself smitten by a beautiful young lady in a white muslin dress, I was at a loss. Pretending to read my book I watched her serving tea, noticed too that the Reverend kept turning his gaze in her direction as she moved amongst the crowd. I wondered if she was his intended, and felt a pang of envy.

  After a while I noticed that I too was being watched, mostly by older ladies peering critically from under their parasols, and a couple of young girls who kept glancing at me and giggling. There were rather more gentlemen present than might have been expected at home, more the sort who owned ships rather than those who worked them. I began to feel uncomfortable; thought perhaps I should finish my tea and leave.

  Just then, a grey-haired man in an immaculate linen suit took a seat close by and engaged me in conversation. His enquiries were carefully phrased but enquiries nonetheless. After a moment I decided a loose kind of honesty could do no harm, and explained that I’d been at sea with someone who knew a local family well, that I had a message for these people, but had lost my way.

  ‘May I know the name? Perhaps I could help?’

  ‘Lang.’

  He was clearly surprised. ‘But that is my name. I am David Lang.’

  It was my turn to flounder. This was not the situation I had envisaged. Gathering my wits I stood to introduce myself, and gave the name of my ship.

  He rose at once. ‘The Senator Weber – yes, I remember. Is your message to do with poor Harry Jones, who passed away last year?’

  ‘You know about that, sir?’

  ‘We had word from his fami
ly some time ago. My son was a friend of his. Tragic, quite tragic.’

  ‘I see.’ A sudden absence of wind slackened my sails. Had Harry mentioned a male friend by the name of Lang? I could not recall. ‘The reason I came – well, it was with news of Harry’s death…’

  ‘You were with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That I had not noticed the girl in white approaching was the measure of my unease. Mr Lang turned and beckoned her closer. ‘Dorothea, my dear, come and meet Mr Smith. He hails from the Senator Weber – he was with poor Harry last year…’

  Dorothea Lang – Harry’s intended – the girl of the creamy skin and fathomless dark eyes. Lost for words as my heart leapt and plummeted, I could only bow and mumble some sort of banality about the coincidence.

  With an effort I forced myself to concentrate on what was being said. I gathered that Dorothea’s brother Nicholas was currently attached to a bank in the City of London, while their father handled the Hong Kong end of things. I had the impression it was some kind of family business, which in itself was daunting. In my private fantasy, I’d had time alone with a faceless young woman, time to spell out Harry’s broken dreams, his physical suffering, the number of times he’d called her name. But she was no longer faceless; and in her father’s company I could say none of those things.

  While people bought plants and books, and cakes were cut up to be served with tea, Dorothea Lang and her father talked to me about Harry Jones, one voice picking up as the other fell away. Dorothea told of his schooldays with her brother Nicholas in England, their firm friendship, and his subsequent posting to Hong Kong… Mr Lang said Harry was delighted to have renewed contact with his old friends, but had been stricken by illness within months, concern mounting as he failed to throw it off. After a lengthy stay in the military hospital, his superiors were forced to arrange his repatriation. Harry had opted for a passage on the Senator Weber because it was a Liverpool ship…

  ‘No doubt a sentimental choice,’ Mr Lang added, ‘his father’s business being there.’

  They looked to me to carry on the tale. Describing the voyage, the route we’d taken, our joint sense of helplessness when faced with an endless ocean and imminent death, I felt myself back there again as I spoke of poor Harry’s fortitude.

  There was pain in my chest and gravel in my voice as I murmured, ‘We did our best, but in the end he just slipped away. We buried him at sea…’

  The sweeping lashes were lowered; tears escaped and Miss Lang covered her face. With my eyes on her, I could not believe the things Harry had raved about nor that she would hurt anyone deliberately. And yet even in his saner moments he had spoken of her cruelty, the careless way she’d taken him up and then cast him aside in favour of someone else. I didn’t want to believe that.

  Instead, I found myself embarrassed by David Lang’s thanks for what I’d done for Harry, for coming all this way to let them know what had happened. I caught Dorothea’s eye and something passed between us. She knew there was more, and her look begged me to be silent.

  ‘I promised to stay and help here,’ she turned to glance at the Reverend. ‘But I would like to talk more about poor Harry. Could you possibly bear to wait for this to be over? Maybe another hour?’ She looked appealingly at her father, and then back at me. ‘Afterwards, perhaps you could walk me home? We could talk then.’

  My heart leapt. This was my opportunity, the moment I’d been planning for months; it might not come again. I saw her father’s heavy brows draw together, but before he could protest I said yes, of course I could wait.

  Dorothea left us. Aware of tension in her father, that he was viewing me less kindly than before, I felt obliged to mention my working hours, said I was unsure when my next day off would be; or indeed, whether there would be another in Hong Kong. Even now, I added, the Captain was negotiating the next cargo.

  Mr Lang smoothed his forehead. I thought he seemed relieved. For some reason he felt it necessary to inform me that there was no Mrs Lang, that his wife had succumbed to the climate and passed away some years before. His sister – the lady on the bookstall – had been like a mother to his children, but life in Hong Kong was not easy. It was not like England.

  ‘You must understand,’ he said, ‘that in a place like this, where there are so few English ladies, pretty girls are extremely popular. Consequently, in the last year or so – dare I say it? – Dorothea has become a little spoiled. Men of all ages – and ranks,’ he added pointedly, ‘tend to fall at her feet. …’

  If his warning found its mark, it could have been because I was already in danger. I told myself I had the ghost of Harry Jones before me, and a mission to accomplish. Despite the heat of embarrassment I tried to look wise.

  Deep-set eyes held my gaze for a long moment, as though assessing my reaction. ‘Harry Jones was not Dorothea’s only admirer. Unfortunately, he thought he should be. Because he’d known her in England, before she came out to Hong Kong, he imagined he had some kind of claim. He hadn’t – it was all in his mind.’ David Lang paused to examine his fingernails. ‘Things became… difficult. And then, when he became ill…’

  With a sigh, Mr Lang spread his hands in a gesture that said they had done everything they could, but to no avail. ‘So when you talk to my daughter, young man, and she asks you about Harry Jones – do you think you could moderate your reply? She was distressed by his death. I do not want that to happen again.’

  Doubt must have shown on my face, because he found it necessary to ask if I understood. As I assured him, David Lang consulted his watch and made his apologies. ‘Well now, it’s almost 4 o’clock, and time I returned to my office.’

  We both stood. ‘I hope I may rely on you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied earnestly, swayed by the fact that this man of wealth and authority had taken me into his confidence.

  I was willing to concede my mistakes until he said firmly, ‘Do not stay too long. And once you’ve had your conversation with Dorothea, let that be it. I want this business to be over. She’s been upset enough.’ He paused and looked me in the eye. ‘It’s been interesting talking to you, young man – but I hope you understand me when I say I do not expect to meet you again.’

  It was like a slap in the face.

  ~~~

  For the next half hour I applied myself to my book, although how much I absorbed of young Pip’s encounter with Magwitch, or his later meeting with Estella and Miss Havisham, I do not know. It hardly mattered; I had ample opportunity to digest Mr Dickens’ words and wisdom on the long voyage home.

  When my own Estella was free, she introduced me to her aunt, Mrs Wilson, and to the Reverend Hawkins, whose mission to bring a Christian education to the orphans of Hong Kong demanded unremitting effort and constant funds. I judged him not much older than me, an open-faced man with a shock of unruly hair and earnest eyes; full of praise for Dorothea’s efforts – and the other ladies, of course – in raising money towards his mission school by the waterfront. In other circumstances I might have taken to him, but his yearning glances towards Dorothea had the opposite effect.

  At last, accompanied by Aunt Wilson, we were ready to leave. As we climbed the hill and the way became steeper, she was happy to let us walk on ahead.

  ‘Now,’ Dorothea began, ‘you must tell me about poor Harry. I felt sure, earlier, that there was more?’

  Between my original judgement, her father’s insistence that I should spare her, and my present doubts, I was stricken. But she turned to me with such a serious face I knew I had to say something.

  ‘He cared for you,’ I began, searching the dusty road for inspiration, ‘very deeply. For three weeks you were almost all he talked about.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she moaned, hiding her face beneath her parasol. ‘Is that true? What must you think of me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I confessed, trying to see her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to think. Harry worshipped you. He was convinced there’d been some sort of secret engagement…
’

  ‘There was no such thing!’ she exclaimed. ‘All it was, was – well, we flirted a bit, that’s all. It was years ago. I was only fifteen, for heaven’s sake, and still at school. He was – what, seventeen, eighteen? He wrote to me, I answered a few of his letters, they were romantic, the sort of thing a girl likes to receive – no more than that. And then I came out here…’

  ‘And later – when he came out…?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Smith, the flirtation resumed. Why wouldn’t it? He was my brother’s friend. I thought he understood it was just in fun.’

  ‘In fun?’ I turned in surprise. ‘Harry didn’t see it like that.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she exclaimed, clearly agitated, her breath coming in short gasps. We reached a level spot and paused where there was a view across the busy harbour. Clouds were gathering and the sea was grey. ‘I know how upset he was. It was dreadful, I didn’t know what to do. He kept saying I’d promised him all those years ago, and if I didn’t set a date to marry him he would kill himself.’

  ‘Kill himself?’ I was shocked. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could I do? I was afraid. He had a gun. I really thought he might do it. I had to tell Daddy – I didn’t want to, because I knew he would be cross. Not just with me, but with Harry. And Daddy can be rather alarming when he’s cross.’

  I could imagine that. ‘What did your father do?’

  ‘Spoke to his commanding officer, I believe.’ Silence stretched while I waited for her to explain. ‘Had poor Harry confined to barracks.’

  It took me a moment or two to understand the implications. ‘You mean he was under arrest for threatening his own life?’ She nodded. ‘And that’s when he became ill?’