He nodded. “Together.”
Together, they ascended onto B Deck, before moving their way to the A La Carte Restaurant, where the Gresham family would be waiting for their arrival.
Georgiana prayed that old resentments had been turned away, and that her family, not having seen her for some three months, would embrace her openly.
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday, 10th April, 1912
Adene
Adene changed her outfit before attending to her daughter’s – they didn’t have much, but they had enough to allow for Adene to change at every dinner, should she choose, and her daughter to change at every second – considerably more than many of the other passengers in her section, including a sizeable Finnish family, the Anderssons (she had befriended them at lunch after they had sat next to her and Isla), could afford, and she was sure the Haas family had everything they owned confined in trunks in their rooms, or in the cargo holds; though they seemed in good spirits about the journey, even if Adene couldn’t understand a word of anything they said.
Making sure her hair was bundled, fastened stylishly high on her head, secured tightly with pins, Adene checked her reflection in the small mirror attached to the washbasin. Isla’s hair was partially tied back in a bow, with most of it remaining free, with a few slight waves in her predominately straight light-brown hair.
“What’s for dinner, Mama?” Isla asked, her English accent a stout Cockney, like her father’s had once been. Though Adene would never voice it out loud, sometimes hearing her daughter’s voice felt as if she were being repeatedly stabbed, as if God were testing her strength. Adene wondered, as she lay in her bed every night unable to sleep without her husband’s snoring, if her late husband’s voice would ever stop haunting her, and in time, she would only hear Isla, not her husband, when her daughter spoke. She wondered if a time would come when she could recall her husband fondly, and not with pain that ached her heart so.
“I don’t know, my little monkey,” replied Adene, walking her daughter towards the third-class dining hall. She’d ensured they’d be the first of the three rounds; the last thing she needed was her daughter growing hungry as she became overtired. While Isla had rested in the morning, after they’d boarded, she’d been active since lunch, playing extensively with several of the other children, who’d sat in the corner of the Common Room. Some of the older children, nearer to their adult years than their child ones, had played games with a makeshift ball on the Orlop Deck, something that Adene had flatly refused to permit her daughter to join. She always wanted her daughter within her sight; the ship was already filled with those of Middle Eastern descent, many more of which had boarded at Cherbourg, fleeing from persecution in Syria, but most could not speak with an English tongue. Adene had expected third class to be dominated by the Irish; an uncouth lot, but people she could relate to, at least. She hadn’t expected there to be so many people of different colours and, if only she thought so to herself, horrid smells. The Syrians, for the most part, did not speak an ilk of English, and seemed distrustful of everyone, seeking to cook their own meals instead of choosing to dine in the dining hall.
Adene prayed her companion tomorrow had a ward of similar age to Isla, and that the companion was willing to timeshare the children. It would be a welcome relief, to have a few minutes peace to herself, where she wasn’t staring up at the roof, crying silently for her husband, while scolding herself for not being a better mother to Isla. Her daughter had already lost her father; she did not need to lose her mother to despair.
Tonight, Adene wouldn’t dare bathe for fear of leaving her daughter alone – what if she woke, during the night, and discovered her mother wasn’t there? While they were in a four-room berth, meaning that Isla could have her own bed, Isla slept with Adene every night, a habit that had formed even before her father’s death but had intensified in need since, and would be distressed if she woke up to learn of her mother’s sudden disappearance – though she hoped that would be different tomorrow. Adene hoped her new companion would be amenable to trade – Adene could offer to take the girls to dinner and supervise them as they played; and in return, perhaps her new acquaintance could watch Isla while she sought a midnight bath.
To Adene, her only solace as of late had been a warm bath, where she could take a few minutes to think to herself, knowing that Isla would be safe. She had learnt from a stewardess that there were only two baths for the entire third class, which happened to be two more than Adene had expected, but due to gender segregation, it meant that there was only one bath she had access to. Late at night, she had quickly decided, everyone would be asleep – which would be the best time she could freely take a bath, without having to schedule it in, the way she had to with Isla’s early this evening, fighting the schedule among seven hundred others, though not everyone seemed to care for the lavatory facilities. The men, in particular, seemed unperturbed by the lack of hygiene options, and had appeared to take the idea of not bathing as a luxury in and of itself; it had scarcely been used, and she had not seen a single man waiting for it.
As they reached their position in the queue, Adene filled Isla’s plate with Rabbit Pie, roasted potatoes and brown onion gravy, as well as some bread and butter. On her own, she added the same, except she added steamed green beans to hers, something she knew Isla would flat-out refuse to eat, particularly when neither had been accustomed to such an abundance of food, even before her beloved husband’s passing. Food hadn’t always been plentiful, but it had never been scarce. She also noticed there was bread and butter pudding, something she’d never sampled before; something both her and Isla could look forward to.
“Is all that for me, Mama?” Isla asked, her eyes wide. Adene reached down and kissed her daughter’s forehead gently, before leading her to one of the many wooden chairs lined in the long dining hall, fit to seat twenty.
“Yes, baby girl,” she replied, placing down the hot plate after her daughter had taken her seat. “And, if you finish all of that, and you’re still hungry, there’ll be biscuits and cheese after, perhaps even pudding. Or, if you really enjoy all of this, we can get you something more, okay? But the important thing is, you can eat as much as is your fill.”
Isla nodded happily, but her fingers were already digging into the Rabbit’s Pie, and gravy was slathered across her smiling face, revealing a small gap between her two front teeth. The sight almost brought Adene to tears; she hadn’t been able to afford such a full meal for her daughter since her husband’s passing, and even prior to his passing, she could not imagine ever having the luxury to eat so much, so freely. Adene could count on her hand the times she’d had the opportunity to eat rabbit pie, and none had ever concocted something so succulent, so rich in gravy, the topping crisp and buttery.
Of course, she reminded herself, that would all change now. She was staying with Edith and Arthur, and Arthur was extremely well-to-do, at least for people like them, who had risen from the ashes of nothing and made a worthy name for themselves.
Her and her daughter would never have to go hungry again, as Adene remembered deciding, at times, whether heating was more essential or food. People who had not experienced poverty did not understand that sometimes concessions had to be made, however uncomfortable and undesirable. If one could not pay their lord’s rent, one would lose their house, forced to live in the streets of unsavoury places like Whitechapel, where most sought either Ms Warren’s profession or a life of criminality, just to feed their bellies. There were homes for women, of course, retreats where her and Isla could stay and receive a warm meal; but even the largest of places had lines extending around corners, and most left cold, tired and hungry, unable to secure a spot in a safe haven.
Adene dived into her meal – trying to tame the same ferocity her daughter had when she began pulling apart her pie, struggling to retain all sense of manners and decency – savouring every mouthful. Several eastern Europeans – too many accents for Adene to name, from countries she likely had
never heard of – sat around her, though Adene could not find the Anderssons she’s met at lunch. However, the dining hall could only seat so many; she had come early, as soon as the galley had opened; they may have decided to avoid the rush. Still, she thought, smiling down upon her daughter who was happily destroying her dinner, she didn’t mind so much.
If this was what third class was like, Adene thought, she couldn’t imagine the extravagance of second class, let alone first.
For the first time in a very, very long time, Adene felt a surge of hope, and she suddenly felt invigorated, ready for whatever the future may lay.
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday, 10th April, 1912
Barrett
Barrett was exhausted; he’d been shovelling smoking coal til just after twelve, when his shift had ended; but he would be back on at twenty hundred hours, working until midnight. He’d already heard from the second crew that, as he’d expected, they hadn’t made a dent in the out-of-control fire. Barrett was fearful that the coal fire would continue to spread, taken hostage of the old, easily combustible coal, and the coal strike meant that they could not afford to lose fuel unnecessarily – though Barrett felt as if he and his men were facing an impossible mission, one they were destined to fail. He also knew that while Hesketh would be understanding – as well as Harvey – Bell didn’t seem to be a man willing to bend. The Captain had ordered the fire be extinguished, and Bell had appeared to take the order personally. He’d already assigned double shifts to men he’d caught mucking around, though they weren’t Barrett’s men. They belonged to boiler room three or four, though he wasn’t sure.
It wasn’t within Barrett’s position to offer his opinion, even as lead fireman, to officers and engineers, but he could easily see how the hull had warped, and the metal was red-hot in places from the fire’s continuous heat. It wasn’t enough to cause severe damage to the ship, but it was enough that, if a collision took place on the starboard side, the Titanic would likely become lame. It frightened him, in a sense, watching as the hull and watertight bulkhead door had warped at unsavoury positions, even if it were an ‘unsinkable’ ship. Barrett knew well enough from previous experience that fires in hulls of boats frequently weakened them, though he hadn’t been on a steamship where a hull fire had caused the demise of a ship, grand or not, practically unsinkable or not.
He also knew from personal experience and the smack of his comrades that both Cunard and White Star frequently covered up coal fires; stokers who dared to speak to the papers about some of the inner-workings of the ship could find themselves quickly seeking new employment; if they were lucky, they might be demoted and moved to a smaller ship until they’d earnt their penitence and regained their humility. Large companies always had a way with ensuring that those that spoke ill were silenced; positive press was easily bought, just as easily as negative press could be hidden, if one had the right connections. Barrett could tell by the amount of time Mr Anderson had spent in the boiler rooms that Anderson was a man of care, who took pride in his vessel. Barrett wondered if the same could be said of the officers, particularly the Captain, or the owners of the White Star Line.
Despite his duly earned surly reputation, Barrett was happy to be sitting in the gallery for stokers and engineers, eating a simple meal of roast beef, brown gravy, and a mixture of roast and boiled vegetables. It wasn’t oodle, but it was a decent meal; something he would appreciate when he was back among the fumes and steam the boiler rooms emitted.
“You aren’t a chipper man,” one of the firemen said, sitting beside Barrett, even though Barrett was purposefully sitting at the Leading Fireman and Chief Engineer dinner table, a place where a lowly fireman wasn’t welcome. He hadn’t chosen the table for the express belief he thought himself better than the others; it was the opposite. He did not want to hear their tales, nor share his own. It wasn’t that Barrett minded the man joining him; though he thought, Bell who was a punctilious man, might.
“What’s there to be chipper about?” he grinned as he shoved sopped bread and gravy into his mouth.
“Lots of things mate. Lotta things.”
“Name me one.”
“I’ve got me some moonshine, if you’re keen. That’ll put hairs on your chest, it will, and that’ll make you real chipper real fast.”
Barrett glanced around; the last thing he needed was Chief Bell or some other stickler who had a penchant for bloody rules that made no sense to anyone, before accepting the man’s brew. He pushed forward his tin mug, that he quickly drained of water, and the man poured in the white liquor. It smelt closer to the kerosene that fuelled his and Mary’s lamps than any alcohol he’d sampled before.
Barrett took a sip and immediately spluttered; he wasn’t a weak man, and Barrett could drink as well as any Irish man, but what he swallowed tasted closer to menthol than alcohol. Still, he could feel the warmth spread through him, and already he felt lighter.
“Thanks,” Barrett said, cheering the man before taking another swig, this time more prepared for the burning sensation that would lacerate his throat and clear out his sinuses. “Barrett.”
“I know. You’re me boss. I’m Paddy. There’s a million of us down here, so that’ll make it easy for you to remember me.”
“But only one of you fellas sat next to me and offered me some drink. I think I’ll remember you – when your face isn’t wrapped in a handkerchief, that is.”
Paddy laughed. “You’re not bad, you know, for a quiet fella. Lots of the lads keep saying it’s because you’re a landlubber.”
Barrett laughed, though his laugh sounded hollow to even him. “I’ve been at sea since I was thirteen. There’s not a place I’d rather be,” he swore. It was true, especially now. “Can’t believe my fortune, neither. Getting transferred to Titanic, at the last minute.”
There was a small pause, then, “I thought you were married?”
Barrett flushed, wondering how the man had guessed it. Had he seen Barrett remove his steel ring in the crew quarters, hiding it in his spare long johns? Had they seen her photo, which he currently kept hidden under his pillow, so he could simultaneously wallow in his grief and spend his life wondering if she could ever love him again, the way she once had. Barrett spent his nights plotting a way to earn his Mary’s forgiveness, to make her love him again. He wasn’t yet sure how he’d achieve it – he’d hurt her more, he suspected, than she had him, and his heart had broken since he’d found her entangled with another man. Still, if he could reach her, he could explain.
He would profess that he still loved her, and the way his body, mind and heart ached for caused him agony and sleepless nights, and he would always love her, despite her duplicity.
“Not me,” Barrett lied. “You must have me confused with another fireman.”
Paddy nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. Barrett wondered if there’d been talk of his personal life; the stokers did that. There was little to distract one's self with, so they resorted to gossiping more than the annoying ladies that donned Oxford Street. They all talked about how their women nagged, maidenheads they’d stolen, hearts they had broken, and their love for the sea, and, apparently, Barrett’s marital status. More than half the stories told were bogus, or at least a friend of a friend’s, though they cheered the men nonetheless. If Barrett’s marriage hadn’t been an object of discussion, he likely would not have cared in the slightest what his men chattered about.
“Maybe his wife’s a two-bagger,” snorted one fireman. Barrett stared intently at the ground; he did not want to throw the first punch, no matter what insults the rotten cur offered.
“A two-bagger?” a young apprentice asked; he was not even a man. He looked to be of similar age to Barrett when he’d first taken to the sea. From the looks of him, the apprentice was a greaser.
The first man laughed, his teeth black and crooked. Spit hissed from his mouth, and Barrett fought the urge to remain silent, still. It would not do if he caused a fight or was seen as respon
sible for one. It wouldn’t result in the termination of his position as lead fireman, but it wouldn’t be looked upon favourably, either. “When a woman’s so ugly one bag won’t do it, son,” he jeered. “You need the second one in case the first falls off.” The men around him, including the young greaser, roared with laughter; Barrett tried to count to ten. Do not hit anyone, he told himself. He had a right temper, and he could not stand the man’s mistreatment of his wife, no matter what she had done.
“Nah, his missus fucked some other cunt,” came a loud, boisterous voice. Barrett didn’t recognise the man and wondered how he could possibly have come across said information. The insult had been one thing – it was cruel, but unfounded; Mary was a beautiful woman, the light of his life, his forever and always; the only woman he would ever love. As much as he wanted to knock the bastard out, he had a job to keep, and he didn’t need Bell penalising him. Even now, part of him hoped that after his journey, there could be salvation for him and Mary. He could become a changed man, forfeit the sea for her. If Mary would take Barrett back, he would give her anything she wanted, and anything that was in his ability to give her.
The second man, however, had hit too close to home, and Barrett would not let it go.
“Excuse me?”
The quarters fell quiet, a hushed silence taking hold of the room as the tension rose steadily. Barrett did not rise from his seat, but he turned and faced the man, his steely face meeting the other man’s.
“You heard me.” The man stepped closer, and Barrett could smell drink on the man’s breath. “Your wife. She’s a slut. Good fucking lay, too.”
Barrett couldn’t help himself; he knew the man was goading him, taunting him; he knew he didn’t know his wife’s name, let alone had spent any time with her. Barrett tried reminding himself that the man had only said it because he knew it’d angered him, yet still, it had worked.
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