Titanic Twelve Tales
RMS Titanic
Short Story Anthology
BY
Lynda Dunwell
Titanic Twelve Tales
ISBN: 978-09574837-1-2
Published by Romantic Reads Publishing
Copyright ©Lynda Dunwell 2012
Lynda Dunwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication many be produced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
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For my mother, Alice Dunwell,
who kindled my interest at an early age in the Titanic.
Also to the memory of those lost in the disaster April 15th, 1912
Twelve Titanic Tales
*****
A face at the window: a face from the deep
I am...
The lace-maker’s gift
The night I grew up
Lover boy
Dealt a bad hand
My own darling Ted love Lizzie
Trapped!
The statue
Third-class souls
Graveyard Gang
Matrix Titanica
A face at the window: a face from the deep
April 11th 1912
I peered inside the gymnasium on the ship at an odd machine where a young man appeared to be rowing, but there was no water. His muscular arms flexed as he pulled on the oars and his face grew redder as he picked up the pace. He wore a white singlet and shorts, just like the men in Papa’s scrapbook of newspaper pictures.
“Some men collect stamps, others butterflies, I collected sporting events,” Papa had said. I hadn’t realised the significance of his interest as he pasted newspaper cuttings into his scrapbook. “These fine young athletes have represented their country in track and field events at the Olympic games.” He had explained to me as he pointed to the pictures.
I had no idea what he meant, but to call something Olympic had seemed very grand at the time. “Papa, how do men become athletes?”
“They hone their muscular skills though daily training, thus building up their bodies until they can perform at the very highest level.”
Perhaps the man in the gymnasium was an athlete in training? He stopped rowing and mounted the bicycle fixed to the floor. He started to peddle and steadily increased his pace until the wheels span so fast the spokes disappeared. Mesmerised I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him and his rosy red cheeks.
“Come away Edith,” Mama prodded me, “come along.”
I looked up and dutifully followed her but I couldn’t forget the man on the static bicycle peddling to nowhere.
On Sunday, Mama and Papa took me to the service in the dining room. It seemed odd to be singing hymns in the same place we would soon be sitting down for luncheon. I didn’t say anything to Mama because she had scolded me once that morning when I complained about wearing my black boots.
“They’re too small,” I cried.
“Nonsense child, tight boots are good for a young lady’s feet. We don’t want yours growing too large, do we?”
She didn’t explain what my feet would be too big for, surely cobblers could make shoes and boots in a variety of sizes. My black laced ones felt so tight when we stood up for the hymns my toes tingled and having sung three verses, my feet were numb.
After Sunday service we walked by the gymnasium. I gazed through the window but couldn’t see anyone inside. A young man approached the door and tried the handle. The door was locked and he hurried away.
“What could that ill-mannered young man be thinking of?” Mama shook her head. “Did he expect to enter the gymnasium on a Sunday?”
Papa didn’t reply as he usually agreed with Mama, especially where matters of etiquette were concerned. Mama always knew best. She knew the correct clothes to wear and instructed me accordingly. My numb toes started to tingle and I began hopping from one foot to the other.
“Stand still,” Mama said.
“I’ve got pins and needles in my toes.” Her sharp look silenced me. How I yearned to unlace my boots and run free in my stocking feet, just like the steerage children I’d seen on the lower open deck the previous day. I wondered if they were there now, enjoying their games, the girls skipping and the boys kicking their football. Perhaps not, it was Sunday.
Later that day we were in our stateroom. “There’ll be no dancing tonight,” Mama said, “and quite rightly.” Papa looked up from his book and nodded his agreement. “I’ve arranged for the stewardess to look after you Edith, whilst Papa and I attend the concert.”
I didn’t mind going to bed immediately after dinner that night, at least I could take off my tight boots. When I was in bed, my parents kissed me good-night as they always did and I watched them leave. It was the last time I saw Mama and Papa.
The stewardess woke me up. “Get dressed, your warmest clothes. It’s very cold outside on the deck. Come on, hurry up.”
The electric light stung my eyes and I rubbed them. The stewardess didn’t tell me to wear my black boots, so I didn’t. I picked out my brand new fawn leather ones. They were too big for me, but I didn’t tell her. I struggled into my chemise and drawers. She helped me put on my petticoat, long stockings, woollen dress, pinafore and coat. And when she produced a hook out of her pocket and buttoned up my boots, I remembered wriggling my toes around inside them and smiling.
“You must wear something white,” she said as she threw a silk scarf around my neck, “and your hat and fur muff.”
“Where’s Mama?”
“I don’t know. She should have come back for you. But we can’t wait any longer. Everyone has gone from this corridor. You’re coming with me.” She tugged at my hand.
“I can’t go without Milly.”
“Milly? Who’s Milly?”
“My doll.” I took her out of my bed and gave her a big hug.
“Very well, but you must put this on.”
The stewardess held out a big white padded tabard and threw it over my head. It reached below my knees. “Here let me tie it together for you.” It felt heavy and bulky around my body. She pushed her head into a similar one with square shaped pouches and marched me out of the stateroom. We hurried up the stairs to the Boat Deck.
The cold night air pinched my face as I held Milly close. Her clear blue eyes stared up at me and I told her not to worry that we would soon find Mama and Papa. The stewardess grasped my hand tightly. “Stay with me, whatever happens, don’t let go!”
People scurried by, some were very rude and pushed others out of the way. Screams and cries echoed through the night air. A sudden whoosh and I looked up to the dark sky pin-pricked with bright stars. A firework rocket zoomed upwards and burst with a loud cackle into a cascade of white lights that lit up the black sky. We stopped by the window o
f the gymnasium. The face of the young man rowing without water and peddling but getting nowhere stared back at me through the window.
“Women and children only!” an officer shouted.
“That’s us,” the stewardess said. She made her way along the crowded deck, squeezing between groups of men dragging me behind her. I heard music and wondered if it was the concert where Mama and Papa were waiting. But as the melody got louder, I saw a small group of musicians standing on the deck playing their instruments. Mama and Papa weren’t with them.
We reached a crowd of people being held back by the crew. “Women and children only,” the officer called, “come along ladies. Are there anymore ladies?”
People called out, voices shouted, we were jostled. “Edith, I’m going to lift you up. When I do, scream as loud as you can.”
The ship listed before she could pick me up. The crowd surged and carried us along. Men scrambled towards one of the remaining lifeboats. The shouts and cries grew louder. Bang! The crack of a pistol shot momentarily silenced the mob. “I’ll shoot the next man who tries to rush this boat. Are there anymore ladies?” The officer’s voice was stern and the men backed away. “Don’t panic, get a hold of yourselves,” he called out to them.
“Eh love, you and the young ‘un best go along to the officer. They’ll be places for you.” The man dressed in workman’s clothes spoke with an accent. He looked down at me. “Don’t worry Miss, the officer ain’t gonna shoot you.”
Again I felt the stewardess’ hand grip mine tightly. “Come on Edith.” She swept me along to the lifeboat already packed with women and children.
“Get aboard and I’ll pass the child to you,” the officer said. The stewardess nodded, let go my hand and followed his orders.
“I want Mama,” I shouted.
“She’s just here,” the officer replied as he grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off the deck.
“That’s not Mama.” I struggled to free myself.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “we’ll find her later, but you, young lady, are going in that boat.”
I screamed as he swung me around over the side of the lifeboat and into the arms of the stewardess. I kicked out with my feet. I didn’t want to go. I wanted Mama. Hands grabbed my legs and hauled me aboard as Milly slipped from under my arm. I leant over the side and watched her fall down into the sea. I screamed at the top of my voice, the way the stewardess had asked me to do before on the deck when she tried to pick me up. “Milly!”
September 2nd 1985
The summer sun lingered in the sky. As I sheltered my eyes with my hand and turned towards the house, I noticed my finger nails were black with potting soil. At the kitchen sink I scrubbed away the remains of the dark earth until my nails were clean. I made a cup of tea, took it into the conservatory, sat down and put my feet up. I must have dozed off because the next thing I heard was the phone ringing.
“Mum, I was beginning to think you’d never answer.”
“Sorry, I’ve been working in the garden all afternoon, I must have nodded off.”
“Have you seen the news?”
“No dear, should I? Have I missed something important?”
“Yes Mum, they’ve found the Titanic.”
A strange mixture of excitement, nervous anticipation and curiosity swept through me. I didn’t know whether I felt happy or sad. “I don’t know what to say...I suppose it was inevitable they’d find her one day.”
“Yes Mum and there are some wonderful pictures. Of course, they’re only releasing a few of them at the moment and keeping the location very secret, but isn’t it marvellous, after all the years?”
I couldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t want to sleep if I slept then I’d be back on board, a nine year old child again, saying good-night to my mother and father. But this time I would know that good-night also meant good-bye. I took my scrapbook out of the desk. The large picture book I had kept all my life. Like Papa, I didn’t collect stamps or butterflies I collected cuttings about an event, my event, the sinking of RMS Titanic.
I had seen the films and read the books about White Star’s most famous liner, but I hadn’t been to any of the reunions, conventions or joined any of the societies. I had kept my story to myself and pasted the cuttings into a series of scrapbooks.
A few weeks after my daughter had telephoned with the news, she arrived on my doorstep with a set of newspaper colour supplements. “Thought you’d like these to add to your collection,” she said.
Slowly I flicked over the pages and stopped abruptly at one. My fingers trembled, my mouth dried, stunned I couldn’t tear my gaze from the picture. A ghostly white porcelain face looked up at me through empty dark spaces where her clear blue eyes had once been. Her blonde wig, made from real human hair, and her body had been taken by the sea. A tear rolled down my cheek. After 73 years I was looking at Milly’s face again.
I am…
The sea is my mirror, my vanity. I gaze at the ocean and see my glorious lines reflected. I am admired, chased by the press, photographed, written about, talked of and yes, I am everywhere. Nothing has been built or launched this year to match my luxurious form. From the bridge to the boilers I am beautiful. Gaze down at me from my crow’s nest, inspect my many decks, eat in the luxury of my First-Class Dining Room and relax in the Smoking Room after dinner.
How much did you pay to come on board?
That is important because I must know your class. We live in a monetary society. The Americans understand, my English owners only think they do because they are too refined to speak of money. They say it is vulgar to speak of money, especially “new money” made by those who have earned their wealth through their own endeavours, or sheer luck. I have three classes, like the society I represent. My first-class accommodation is very fine and many of the world’s richest will doubtless wish to take advantage of my luxury, if only to say to their friends or anyone else they wish to impress that, “I sailed on her maiden voyage.”
Still, you’ve not answered my question? Where will I find you? In Second Class perhaps? A difficult in-between category to find oneself, I sympathise, middle class, comfortable, regular income, but frugal. Yes, middle-class folks know they have to work, whether they are professionals, bankers, solicitors or doctors, or perhaps their fortunes have been made from trade? Do they aspire to the upper classes or feel their paths will always be barred because they lack connections? Some progress can be bought via marriage or political gain, but will true acceptance ever be granted? Perhaps for a short period aboard one of my regular passages across the North Atlantic.
I don’t call my lower class ‘steerage’ any more for my owners have opted for Third Class. As expected my accommodation is the finest afloat for Third Class passengers and it needs to be because those passengers are my bread-and-butter. Their fares will pay for my coal, my crew’s wages and keep me going as long as America sells her dream of the land of opportunity to Europe’s impoverished masses. I shall be content.
I am a dream, a very large dream. Everything about me is big – I am a giantess of the seas but like all vessels I need careful handling. They call me a ship of dreams, of which I have plenty. I am also a steamship, a triple-screw steamship. I am powerful. My equipment surpasses anything afloat and I cost one and a half-million pounds to build. My grand staircase is the finest ever constructed…
“Enough!”
“What did you say?”
“Enough, I have heard enough, who do you think you are?”
“I am Titanic, the largest and most luxurious ship afloat.”
“Afloat, excuse me, but haven’t you noticed something?”
“Noticed? Noticed what?”
“That your lights have gone out? That you are engulfed in darkness, that you are on the ocean floor with a broken back, or did those few facts just happen to slip your notice?”
“I am Titanic, the largest and most luxurious ship ever built.”
“That fact I cannot dispute,
but there will be others, bigger, better, more beautiful, more luxurious and faster than you ever were.”
“So, what does that matter? I am still Titanic, I was famous whilst I lived and I shall be famous for ever more.”
“Ah, fame, yes I cannot deny, your fame will probably live forever, but not your hull. You are made of iron and slowly you will dissolve into the vast Atlantic Ocean and you will only be remembered, but not before you have been plundered. Fragments of your structure will be chipped away and stolen to be held up for auction around the world. Many will bid for your tiny pieces; so they can collect even a small bit of what once was you. They will clamour to hold just a morsel of you in their hands. Yes, if that is what you want, some part of you will live.”
“I am Titanic, I will live forever but you have made me sad, by what authority do you speak to me so?”
“I am no one, but I am everywhere. I am vast, vast enough to hide many secrets.”
“Why do you speak to me in riddles? Your name, I demand to know your name.”
“You would not like it, you would not want to know me, but you cannot escape my clutches. You are here and now you are mine.”
“Still you speak in riddles, can you not address me with the respect I deserve? I am Titanic, I am the most famous ship in the world.”
“Of course you are and arrogant too! No wonder I had to claim you, bring you down, you challenged me, said you were unsinkable.”
“I never claimed that!”
“But it was said of you, wasn’t it?”
“Virtually unsinkable, would be nearer to the truth.”
“Ah, so we have arrived at that magical word truth. I will tell you the truth Titanic, you were too vainglorious, swamped by your own importance, so bathed in self-admiration that you failed to see me reaching out to you and bringing you down.”
Titanic Twelve Tales - A Short Story Anthology RMS Titanic Page 1
