Shipbuilder

by Dotterer, Marlene

“Casey Andrews. We haven’t seen new plans from you for a long time. It will be good to see what you have.” The president beamed at Casey as she stood and moved to the front.

  Don’t look at Sloan.

  She managed a smile for the president and turned it on the group. “I’ve been working on something for a while, but just in my spare time. It’s based on work done in Berkeley when I was young. Younger,” she added as several of them tittered. She was, by far, the youngest member of the society. The joke had been unplanned, but it helped loosen her up and remember that most of them actually liked her. It also helped that her words were true. She had based her plan on work done when she was a teenager. It was just that the work was done in the 1990s and early 2000s. They had needed to tear up developed areas to free the streams that had been covered over in previous decades. She hoped, in part, to prevent Belfast from making the same mistake.

  She held the roll like a cane, letting its end rest on the floor. She wasn’t ready to unroll it yet, as she went on with her explanation. “The idea was to preserve natural spaces within the city, and nurture the riparian areas. Like Belfast, Berkeley has many streams that run through the town. So my plans are based, firstly, on the geology and topography of Belfast, which is a wide area.” They were nodding, their faces reflecting their anticipation. Despite her resolve to not look at him, she saw Sloan narrow his eyes. He was suspicious.

  “As I’ve learned working at the Botanic Gardens, landscaping works best when it’s incorporated into the whole. Isolated, exotic gardens require a much greater effort, and much more expense, to maintain. So…” she unrolled the plan and the president rose to hold one end of it for her.

  The first murmurs were because of the scope of the plans. They had not expected to see the entire city represented. The silence that began to descend over the meeting happened as they realized her plan did, indeed, represent the entire city. All of it. Casey spoke quickly into the silence.

  “I’ll leave it up here for you to peruse. I hope we can take the time to discuss it in full.”

  “You already know we can’t allow this.” Mike Sloan spoke before anyone could move. “Don’t pretend it’s just another idea we can discuss.”

  “I will pretend exactly that, Mr. Sloan,” Casey said. “This plan takes into account the watershed and native habitats as they already exist. I propose that we build on them, in ways that preserve them for future generations.”

  Sloan stood and the vice-president tapped a gavel. “Mr. Sloan, you do not have the floor.”

  “Well, I’m takin’ it,” Sloan retorted and he turned back to Casey. “Watersheds and natives are all fine, Mrs. Andrews. But ye must keep your plans in the correct areas. Take it home and fix that and then we’ll consider it.”

  “It won’t work if you try to truncate the natural environment,” she said angrily. “The watershed doesn’t know or care about political divisions. It just is.”

  He pointed at her. “Ye better care about ‘em, lass. They exist for your protection.”

  “The land belongs to everyone at once, regardless of religion or income, or…”

  “We do not make plans for the Papists!” His voice roared. Timid Lady Talbot put her hands over her ears, and the vice-president stood, his gavel pointing at Sloan, who ignored him. Sloan pointed again at Casey, his face red. He spoke softly, but with more threat.

  “Ye, Casey Andrews, have disregarded our laws, our rules, and our way of life, from the day ye got into town. Ye do what ye want, and ye manipulate the people around ye with deceit and lies. And when you’re found out, ye smile real pretty and say you’re sorry. Ye use your feminine charms to keep people under your spell. Ye charm the rich and influential so ye can spread your poison. You’re a danger to this society and to this town. I’m callin’ for your dismissal!”

  The small crowd broke into whispers and gestures, some nodding in agreement, most looking uncertain and afraid. Casey held onto her plan and glared at him. “The only thing I disregard is your bigotry, Mr. Sloan. I recognize that all kinds of people live in this town and they all deserve a healthy and beautiful environment!”

  Sloan looked over at the secretary, who had stopped taking notes and was staring in astonishment. “I move that Casey Andrews be stricken from the membership of the Horticultural Society, and not allowed to attend meetings. Due to her avowed disregard for the wishes of the Society, and incitement of members.”

  Lady Talbot was weeping, but she said loudly, “Flowers. I just wanted some flowers around town. Why do we have to argue like this?”

  “I second the motion.” The speaker was in the back, a businessman whom Casey did not know well. He stood and bowed slightly to Lady Talbot. “It is my hope, madam, that we can rid ourselves of troublemakers and get back to planting those flowers.”

  Casey’s mouth fell open and she closed it with a snap. I’m the troublemaker! That’s really rich!

  Mrs. Herceforth raised her hand and at the president’s nod, she stood. “I’d like to remind all of us that Mrs. Andrews is very young. We do her a disservice with the phrase ‘troublemaker.’ She is only too idealistic, perhaps. Youth seldom understands the larger ways of the world. I’d rather we let her stay and continue to nurture her to maturity. She has a great deal of talent and expertise that have been very useful to this society. I think we can all agree on that.”

  “Aye,” Sloan said. “Maybe she doesn’t intend to cause trouble, yet that’s what always follows her. She never minds her place, either; she’s always out lookin’ for some way to meddle. She’s better off at home, taking care of her family, and learning how to behave herself in society.”

  The murmurs that followed this were louder and more sincere. Casey fought down her fury and humiliation at the injustice of it, gripping the corner of the paper in her hand, causing it to crumple.

  The president was still holding the other end of Casey’s plan and she slowly released it, glancing with regret at Casey before facing the group. Her voice shook. “The motion has been made and seconded, to strike Casey Andrews from our rolls. All in favor, please raise your hands.”

  Far too many of them raised a hand immediately and Casey watched, as after a few moments, the stragglers joined them. Mrs. Herceforth sat grimly silent, hands in her lap and tears on her cheeks. Her lip trembled as she gazed at Casey.

  “Let the record show…” the president stopped, unwilling to say what the record showed. “If there is no more business, this meeting is adjourned,” she said and they all stood, moving toward their cloaks at the back. But Mike Sloan walked forward, toward Casey, who was still standing in front, holding her plan in front of her like a shield. Everyone turned to watch. Mrs. Herceforth began moving quietly closer to the front.

  Casey watched him come, tense, her eyes burning with unshed tears. He stopped in front of her and her chin went up. Her voice was ice. “Are you going to try stripping me again, Mr. Sloan?”

  His face flushed with anger, and he clenched his hands into fists as he glared at her. Whatever he had been going to say, she saw him decide against it. Instead, he reached with both hands, and taking hold of her plan in its middle section, he tore it, pulling the Catholic section away from the rest and ripping it in several pieces, before turning and walking out.

  ~~~

  "Ah, love." Tom was there when she got home and he held her as she wept. He had not received a very coherent description of the evening due to her crying, but he had enough to know how humiliated she was. The ripped plan lay at their feet in the parlor. He stroked her hair, dropping kisses on her temple, feeling helpless to do anything useful.

  "It's a wonderful plan, Casey. I was so proud of you, watching you put it together. They would not have gotten a better plan if they'd paid a professional a hundred pounds for it." He tilted her face up to look at him. "When you're ready, love, you need to fix it and put it someplace safe. Maybe it's too soon, maybe it's too "American," this idea that people of different backgrounds can work together. And
too advanced. Remember, you have a hundred years of history and experience that the rest of us don't have."

  She nodded reluctantly and he continued, "There'll be a time when Belfast is ready for your plan. We'll keep trying to get people to listen and maybe it won't be long. There are people out there who want peace, sweetheart. They'll like your plan."

  She choked on a bitter laugh. "If the people who plant flowers don't want peace, who will?"

  He hugged her tighter. "Some of them do. And some of the people who build ships, and some of the people who work in stores, or sew clothes, or cook food. There's people everywhere, Casey, who want peace. They just aren't very loud about it."

  She seemed to recover a bit as she listened to him and her smile, while small, was suddenly amused. "You would've made a great hippie, Tom Andrews."

  He looked alarmed. "If those are the same people Sam has told me about, I don't think so. I know I'm not ready for Rock and Roll."

  She giggled at the awkward way he said the phrase, and let him help her fold the ripped sections of her plan. Then she locked them in a drawer in the library.

  It was several months before she could make herself look at them again. Sometimes she just stared at the drawer. Once she actually touched the handle, her fingers folding around it, before she snatched the hand back and went outside to work in her own garden.

  When Tom or Sam asked her about it, she just shrugged it off and said she'd get to it when she was ready. Just looking at the drawer brought back the humiliation and heartbreak of that night. She couldn't bear the thought of actually looking at the pages.

  But she couldn't forget about it. Resentment simmered in her, that people she thought were her friends would turn on her so easily, that Sloan so effortlessly succeeded in obstructing her, that Tom went to work, day after day, with the man who had set her up as a sworn enemy.

  That wasn't fair, she knew. When Sloan, the next day at work, had tried to act as if everything were normal, Tom confronted him with quiet rage. Word had gotten around. Tom told her that the majority of workers had turned against Sloan, ignoring him outside of work-related discussions. Most of the less fanatic members of his evangelical group had dropped out. When it came to respect at Harland & Wolff, Tom was the clear winner, and no one was happy at Sloan's treatment of Casey.

  But she had to do something with the plans. She couldn't face fixing them; she didn't want to look at them. An idea began nibbling at her mind. After thinking about it for several weeks, she made a phone call. Then, on a conveniently windy day in November, with her head covered beneath her cloak, she walked alone through the streets, clutching a satchel, until she reached a Catholic church. This was a dangerous plan. But she could think of nothing else.

  Inside, she paused and gazed at the elaborate beauty surrounding her. It really did evoke a sense of mystery or worship. A priest was coming her way and she stepped to meet him. "Good morning," she said, wondering if he expected a ritual greeting of some kind. "I have an appointment with Father McCarrey."

  "Aye, welcome. I'll take ye to his office." The priest was young and polite, gesturing with a hand to have Casey follow him down a side aisle and through a door in the back. Father McCarrey's office was in a building connected to the main church by a long corridor, windowless, but with large overarching beams every twenty feet or so. He greeted her with that kind, dignified air she associated with clergy of all types, and she let him take her cloak and usher her to a comfortable chair in his office. He took the chair's mate, instructing his secretary to bring tea, then looked at her, fingers together and eyes twinkling.

  "It's not often I get a Protestant visitor, Mrs. Andrews. Not planning on converting, are ye?"

  She laughed in surprise. "No sir, I'm not. I don't have much interest in religion at all. I'm afraid I'm the bane of my husband's family."

  "Well then," he leaned back in his chair, "Ye said on the phone ye wanted to discuss a gardening plan for the Catholic areas."

  She nodded, licking her lips nervously. "You see, I'm in a bit of exile because of it." He raised his eyebrows and she tried to explain what had happened at the meeting, without getting into the history she had with Sloan. At the end, she picked up her satchel and pulled out the ripped pieces of the plan, looking up to catch the blink of surprise from Father McCarrey when he saw the pages. His expression was sad.

  "Ach, lass. What a dreadful thing to do." He reached for the plans and moved to his desk, spreading the pages out and reassembling them. Casey sipped her tea and waited.

  "What is it you're hoping for, Mrs. Andrews?" He spoke respectfully, looking at her from his spot behind his desk.

  She went to stand in front of his desk, gazing at the pages, before touching a finger to the largest section. "I want to give them to you." Her gaze went to his face. "I want you to start your own horticultural society among the Catholics and engage them in this work."

  He sighed. "Lass, the Catholic people are poor and struggling. Building gardens is for the rich."

  Her brows lowered in puzzlement. "I know they're poor, Father. Yet, they're able to pay for grand church buildings. Gardens are an act of worship just as great. Better in fact, because they nurture the land and provide food, if you plant the right things."

  He stared at her a moment, pursing his lips. Then he nodded, once. "All right. I'll see what I can do. I think you're right about it." He looked back down at the plans. "This is very generous of you. These plans are a work of art."

  She nodded. "Thank you. I'll be happy to help any way that I can."

  "I'll be in touch," he told her.

  Chapter 32

  June–November 1910

  The workforce had more than doubled at the shipyard. Tom found it increasingly difficult to be as personally involved with them. He liked the men who built his ships, but he missed the easy camaraderie they used to have. Now there were thousands of workers he didn't even know.

  Still, he had friends, and after lunch with George Cummings, he walked with him to the engine works. George was giving him a step-by-step report on North Down's latest cricket match, which Tom had missed, and they paused beside the foundation for one of Olympic’s huge boilers. "Taylor smashed it over, but I was out for a duck!" George shook his head as he retold the story. "We really needed you, Tommy. The whole season will be shot if you don't make it."

  "Can't let that happen," Tom agreed, removing a report from a pocket and scanning it. "Jamie’s walking well now, and he'll need to start learning right away how to play the game." He held up a finger in mock seriousness. "I promise he'll only observe for the first few years. Too short for the team, I s'pose."

  They both laughed, continuing on to George's office, going over the report Tom held. "We'll need to have that new hydraulic machinery installed by the end of the year. It's going to help immensely with the riveting; I want to have it available once Olympic is launched."

  "It's on order," George started to explain, when a shout interrupted him. They peered over the catwalk, looking down on the boiler room floor. Two men were arguing and it was turning violent. The smaller man was a foreman; they could hear him explaining about an infraction and what it had cost the company. The bigger man kept shouting about his pay being docked, and he began shoving the foreman with quick, short jabs, pushing him against a spare boiler. By the time Tom and George reached the floor, the bigger man was swinging, a blow landing severely on the foreman's stomach.

  Tom threw his coat into George's arms, reached for the fellow and landed an upper cut right on his jaw. The guy fell against a boiler and Tom stepped back, raising his fists in readiness as the man struggled to his feet. But George and a few others grabbed him just as he began a roaring lunge at Tom. His glare remained fixed on Tom, but he gave in to the men holding him, his jaw the only thing moving. Tom dropped his fists. "See him to the gate. We don't need troublemakers."

  Tom turned away, as the workers dragged the man through the building, following directions from George. The foreman w
as still leaning against the boiler, barely recovered from the hit to his stomach. Tom joined him and together they sank to the floor, each catching his breath.

  "Thank you, Mr. Andrews," the man said, shaking his head in shame. "I couldn't have done that."

  "Aye, well." Tom rested his head against the boiler and gingerly rubbed his knuckles. "We don't usually hire supervisors on their ability to fight." He gestured toward the Administration Office. "Can you go let 'em know what that was about? You'll have to file a report."

  "Aye," was the answer. "I got it all written down. He's a careless sort. Broke some expensive equipment just because he didn't want to follow the procedures. He was pretty blatant about it, too."

  Tom nodded and stood, reaching down to help the smaller man to his feet. "See to it, then. And thank you for pursuing the matter. We've got too much to do to let a lazy worker get away with trouble." He watched as the man headed over to George's office and reflected that this kind of thing was happening more often. He was afraid they were losing control.

  He had just returned to his office when the emergency klaxon went off, with the signal that a man was down. Tom's shouted "Dear God, not again!" blended with cries of dismay from the drawing office. Other shouts or groans could be heard from outside the office, as thousands of men reacted to what was the third emergency of the month, on the heels of one in May. All had ended in death.

  Tom wondered, for a moment, if the angry worker had done more violence. He would almost prefer that, but as he raced through the drawing office, he knew it would make no difference. They had to get this workforce under control. He glanced toward George's office, but no. Men were looking outside, toward the ships.

  Toward Titanic.

  Tom ran to the yard. Men cleared a path for him as he pushed his way through the crowd. He didn't have to go far. On the deck, just a few feet from the ship, a small group was gathered around a body. Tom faltered at the sight of blood and flesh scattered around the victim, and his last steps were slow. There was no reason to hurry.