by Lyn Andrews
At last Emily nodded. She had to work, she knew that, and she hadn’t relished the thought of factory or shop work. She’d been in service ever since she’d left school and she’d enjoyed it.
Richard Mercer breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair. ‘Good girl. I’ll write to Miss Millicent and Miss Nesta today. When would you like to start?’
Seeing how confused her daughter looked, it was Lily who answered. ‘Shall we say Sunday, sir? That will give me time to get her things sorted out.’
‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’ He looked a little perplexed. ‘Er . . . I must say this. Both ladies are a little . . . eccentric, shall we say. They tend to adhere to old values.’
‘Nothing wrong in that, sir,’ Albert put in gravely.
‘Perhaps I didn’t put that very well. They adhere to the fashions of the early years of this century and sometimes those of the last one, too. Emily, I think you will be required to wear your skirts much longer, to cover your ankles.’ He felt rather foolish. He should have let the girl find out their antiquated ways for herself but then she’d gone through enough without having to endure a dressing down for her immodesty, as he was sure Millicent would put it. She’d certainly come to no harm in that house. He’d always viewed Adele’s aunts as a little bit strange. Harmless but slightly strange.
‘I’m sure her mam will attend to all that.’ Albert could see the interview was at an end and he felt it better to get them both out of the highly charged atmosphere.
‘I should have asked him how much the investment was,’ Lily said when they were outside in the street.
‘Mam, I don’t want to hear another word about that money. I don’t want it!’
‘You might do one day. Maybe you’ll want to get married. It will be useful then, love.’
Emily turned to her mother, her gaze stricken. ‘Oh, Mam, I’ll never get married! I couldn’t! I just couldn’t!’
Lily patted her shoulder. ‘Time is a great healer, Emily. Just believe that.’
Time was something that Edwin was short of. He left the house in Upper Huskisson Street on the Sunday night and the Mauretania docked on the Thursday, to sail again on Saturday. He had his uniform to buy from Green-burgh’s in Park Lane. He had to sort out an allotment for his aunt, there were documents to be obtained, which inevitably meant running the gauntlet of a variety of officials and miles of red tape, and he wanted to take Emily out, if she’d agree. She refused but said she would go to see him off and with that he had to be content.
After a hectic week, at eight o’clock on Saturday morning he stood in the richly panelled first class dining room with hundreds of other waiters, stewards, cooks, bakers, scullions and bellboys, awaiting the arrival of the Cunard shore-side official and the Board of Trade official. Everything was alien to him and he felt a little daunted. On board this floating palace, as he perceived it to be, things were very different to all he had experienced on shore. He glanced around him thinking of the Malones but obviously the stokehold crew had a separate time and place for signing articles. A pungent aroma of beer and tobacco hung over the assembly. Obviously there were quite a few who were still recovering from their last night of shore leave and also some who had taken advantage of the hospitality of the Stile House at the Pierhead even at this early hour, he deduced.
‘How long do we have to wait?’ he enquired of a lithe, swarthy-skinned lad of about his own age who stood idly surveying the decorative plaster and stained glass of the domed ceiling.
‘Until the Old Man and the Two Ringer decide to put in an appearance and the Company wallah of course. No show without punch,’ he answered.
‘The who?’
‘The Captain, Second Steward and Cunard Official. What’s yer name?’
‘Leeson. Edwin Leeson.’
‘Todd. Johnny, an’ don’t start singing that bloody song either! There’s enough comedians on board as it is. Most people call me Todd.’
Edwin grinned remembering the old sea shanty entitled ‘Johnny Todd’. ‘It’s my first trip.’
Todd rolled his eyes. ‘God ’elp yer.’
‘It can’t be that bad?’
‘Don’t bet on it. The skipper’s a birrof a tyrant. Comes round once a week to inspect all the glory holes.’
‘Where’s that?’ It appeared to be a different language.
‘Where we kip, like. Anywhere they can stick a few bunks an’ a locker. Eh, up! Here they come.’
There was much shuffling of feet and gradually a silence fell as the Captain, accompanied by the Chief Steward and Chief Purser made their way to the table where the two officials who had preceded them were already shuffling wads of paperwork.
He listened while the Cunard Official read out the Statutory Conditions of Employment, to be honoured by all Company servants during voyage number 120 of the Royal Merchant Ship Mauretania. His concentration wavered as the latitudes and longitudes, rations and watering provisions in accordance with the Board of Trade scales were read out, plus the laws empowered to the Master over the crew for the duration of the voyage. Idly he wondered how order and efficiency could possibly emerge from the assembled motley crew who he judged to be about five hundred or more strong and not including engine-room crew. His deliberations were interrupted by a dig in the ribs from his companion.
‘Told yer. Birrof a tyrant. “All members of the catering department to be in uniform at the wishes of the Master”,’ he repeated, sotto voce. ‘He’s a bloody marionette! Got to wear our bloody monkey suits all day!’
Edwin smirked at the description of the Captain as given by Todd. ‘Don’t you mean martinet? What happens now?’
‘When yer turn comes, go an’ sign on an’ then it’s down to work. I bet yer only ’ere cos someone got a D.R. in ’is book.’
‘What?’
‘If ’e puts D.R. in yer Discharge Book you’ve ’ad yer chips. D.R. – Declines to Report. Bad behaviour. Dead bad behaviour. If yer mam or yer wife asks what it means, tell ’em it’s Definitely Reliable.’ He winked. ‘Know what I mean, like?’
‘I’ve got neither.’
‘Aren’t you the lucky one then.’
‘The pay’s not bad though. I didn’t get £8.5s a month where I worked before.’
‘Bet yer never ’ad ter work fourteen or sixteen hours a day for it though.’
‘I did.’
‘Not much of a bloody job then, was it. You’ll gerra bit extra when we dock, like. What with yer dropsy an’ all.’
‘Can’t you speak in plain English?’
‘Don’t get all airyated with me, la! Tips. Money from the bloods – passengers. Yer can spot the lousy tippers. Eats everything, asks for more, asks for the à la carte menu, drives yer up the wall with complaints and gives yer nothin’ at the end of the trip. Some of them are real ’ardfaced too. Snap their fingers at yer as if yer were a bloody dog! Eh, up! It’s our turn. See yer later in the Pig an’ Whistle.’
‘Where the hell is that?’ Edwin was becoming infuriated by his own ignorance.
‘Crew’s bar in the fo’castle,’ Todd grinned.
He wondered how he ever got through the first day and night. It was sheer pandemonium. There were people everywhere, crowding the alleyways and public rooms. Cases, trunks and other pieces of luggage were strewn about carelessly and children of all ages seemed to have suffered the same fate and had taken this lack of parental control as an opportunity to run wild. At least four cabins had been overbooked. One set of passengers had claimed the cabins while those who contested their right of occupancy sat determinedly on their luggage in the companionway and refused to move until the harassed Purser arrived to try to sort it out.
Stewards and stewardesses rushed around with lists in their hands and dazed expressions on their faces while trying at the same time to answer hosts of questions. The Purser’s office was total bedlam and Edwin was instructed in his duties by a short-tempered head waiter whose own problems included two new commis waiters and at least a dozen
others in various stages of inebriation, one of whom had been locked up in a storeroom by the Master at Arms for his own safety and that of the passengers. He would be totally useless until the following day. ‘And don’t think you can lie in your pit all day if you’re sick!’ had been the final admonition from the head waiter.
Things did calm down once all the visitors had gone ashore and the three blasts on the ship’s whistle denoted their imminent departure from Liverpool. He was hardly aware of the movement of the ship. He was told he soon would be when he commented on the fact to Todd who was on the same allocation as himself.
His new-found friend was far from happy. ‘Two eights in the bloody annexe!’ he commented, then seeing the look of mystification on Edwin’s face he translated. ‘I’ve got eight passengers at each sitting and the tables are at the end of the bloody room. I’ll be worn out by termorrer!’
He had had little time to think after that. It was much like serving dinner at the Mercers’, he thought, except that it was done at a breakneck pace. He also found that other duties were expected of him. He was expected to help the entrée chef and the vegetable chef and he had to carve for the buffet. At the end of the day there was a ‘scrub out’ of the kitchens. When he at last fell into his bunk he was exhausted.
He was awakened at six o’clock by the raucous blast of a bugle. Tea was brought round in a bucket by a bellboy and he was obliged to start the day with another ‘scrub out’, this time of a section of indoor deck. Then it was on with the first duties of the day.
It was a routine he quickly became used to and the crossing was uneventful. He was looking forward to going ashore in New York. His interest had been aroused by Todd who had a seemingly inexhaustible list of haunts.
‘’Ave yer got a girl back ’ome?’ Todd asked one evening, when the work was finally over and they stood in the crew’s bar.
‘Sort of.’
‘What kind of answer is that! ’Ave yer or ’aven’t yer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whats ’er name?’
‘Emily.’
‘Gorra photo of ’er?’
He shook his head. ‘What about you?’ He didn’t want to dwell on his feelings for Emily. He knew she’d been concerned when she’d seen him off but she’d just held out her hand to say goodbye. He had hoped for more and there hadn’t been time to hold a long conversation.
‘Love ’em an’ leave ’em, that’s my motto. I live with me mam an’ dad, our kid and me two sisters. Bring anyone home more than twice an’ me mam starts askin’ should she go an’ book the ’all an speak ter the priest. She can’t wait ter get rid of me. What does she do this Emily?’
‘She’s in service with two old spinsters.’
‘Sod that for a lark! Was that what you did an’ all?’
‘Aye. We were in the same house until she moved.’
‘An’ you left an’ all. Must ’ave been a bloody slave driver that fella,’ Todd probed. He was no fool and Edwin had quickly realized this.
‘I’d had enough. Wanted to see the world; besides, it wasn’t the same after she left.’
‘’Ow many were there in the ’ouse?’
‘Only three of them. The Master, his son and daughter.’
‘Sounds like it was a doddle. What did yer up an’ leave for?’
‘No prospects.’
‘No bleeding prospects ’ere either. Not unless yer lookin’ for two rings on yer sleeve. That’s about as high as yer can get, an’ I wouldn’t ’ave ’is job for a big clock! All that ’assle an’ keepin’ tabs on us lot! ’E can keep it!’
‘No ambition then?’
Todd grinned. ‘Oh, aye! Marry one of the toffs we gerron ’ere an’ live in luxury all me life.’
‘Fat chance of that I’d say.’
Todd became morose. ‘Yer right. Most of them wouldn’t spit on yer if yer were on fire. Drink up, only another day an’ we’ll be dockin’.’ He grinned, good humour restored by the thought of shore leave.
Shore leave passed in a blur as he followed Todd from one drinking establishment to another, although he did make time to visit some of the shops. Most of them, however, were well out of his price range. He bought little souvenirs for his aunt and for Lily and Albert and Phoebe-Ann. For Emily he bought a little ‘purse’ as bags were called. It was an evening bag but he didn’t care that she probably would never have occasion to use it. It was a trinket, a bit of finery. It was made of black satin and was worked with bugle beads and jet.
‘That’s a bit posh, like! She’ll be after yer to take ’er to the Royal Court or the Adelphi so she can use it,’ Todd remarked.
He shrugged and laughed. ‘I might take her one day.’
‘Yeah, an’ I’ll join the Band of ’Ope!’ came the quick reply. ‘Are yer comin’ for a last pint of jungle juice then?’
The weather on the return journey was rough, but he thanked God that he obviously wasn’t going to succumb to seasickness. As the storm increased in force the ship rolled and pitched and the sea crashed over her, wrecking the rails of the monkey island and tearing away two lifeboats. Her decks were completely awash and at times only her four funnels were visible above the foaming, churning water. Then she’d rise from the trough, her plates groaning and protesting beneath the weight of water before she plunged yet again into the next mountainous wave.
There were significantly fewer passengers in the dining rooms as the storm raged. Ropes were slung across the public rooms, table cloths were dampened so dishes wouldn’t slide, but meal times were punctuated by the sound of breaking china and glass. Seasoned passengers moved with the roll of the ship. Walking when she dipped her bow, remaining stationary through the roll and rise before continuing their progress. Others ran a short distance, clung to the nearest solid fixture, then ran on again. But there were cases of broken bones. All these attempts at progress were pointed out to Edwin by Todd, accompanied by often hilarious comments. He also informed Edwin that the Maury had her own peculiar way of dealing with rough weather. ‘Sort of a thrust, a dip and a dive into the sea and through it. Pitchin’ an’ sprayin’ all over. They ’ave souls yer know, do ships. They’re not just lumps of steel an’ if yer don’t believe me, ask the Captain. ’E says she knows ’e’s in charge, like. Sounds daft but it’s true. She’s often soaked ’is best shirt by doin’ ’er tricks, the dip and dive even when it’s calm. I’m tellin’ yer it’s the God’s own truth! Mind, it’s at times like this that I’m glad I’m a waiter. I couldn’t care less if the whole lot of them go down with seasickness, we’d ’ave no work. It’s the poor bloody stewards I feel sorry for ’aving ter clean up after them. I’d stick a bloody bucket over their ’eads, save all the mess!’
By the time they reached the North Western Approaches Edwin felt he was a seasoned veteran. He’d had his baptism of fire, or should it be water, he mused. There were no new or strange procedures to face. Just the thought of docking in Liverpool and that was pleasant. He wondered how Emily had coped while he’d been away. He lit a cigarette and leaned over the rail of the promenade deck, staring down at the sea far below him. It was almost peaceful now after what they’d come through. He’d forgone the noisy companionship in the Pig and Whistle as all crew bars on all ships were called. He wanted time to reflect. It was a few minutes before he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned and saw the strapping figure, chest bared to the cold wind, leaning against a ventilator. ‘All right, mate?’ It wasn’t a question, just a form of acknowledgement that he knew the man was there.
The figure moved forward and he noted the soot-covered torso of a stoker.
‘Not a bad night,’ he ventured.
‘I know you. Seen you before somewhere.’
He recognized the voice. ‘Your name’s Malone, isn’t it?’
‘Might be.’
Edwin shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘Got a light?’ A cigarette was pushed under his nose.
He obliged. He knew their reputation and he didn’t wa
nt any trouble. ‘Can’t be much fun working down there.’
‘Don’t expect it to be. Ever seen it. The stokehold?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t think yer had. Poncin’ about up ’ere after the bloods.’
He felt his temper rise. ‘It’s no bloody picnic!’
‘Ses you! Want ter go down an’ see?’
To refuse the offer would be construed as cowardice, yet he had no inclination to go on a guided tour of the stokehold, especially not in his white uniform jacket. ‘No thanks, I take your word for it. Hell afloat, so they tell me and you lot are the real grafters. The ship wouldn’t be going anywhere without the black squad. Then we’d all be out of a job.’
Thus appealed to, Jake Malone grunted his agreement and they passed the remainder of the time in silence.
Chapter Ten
EMILY HAD NEVER MET anyone quite like the two old ladies she had gone to meet for the first time the day after Edwin had sailed. As she knocked at the front door of the house in Princes Avenue she was very apprehensive.
The house had a look of faded gentility about it. Its pale grey paint was peeling slightly, the colour of the stucco had faded and the brasses were a little tarnished. A stooped old man had opened the door to her. When she’d given him her name, she stood in the gloomy hall while he disappeared along the narrow corridor. Old fashioned framed prints, draped in black crêpe, covered the walls. From what could be seen of the wallpaper that wasn’t hidden by pictures, it was dark green overprinted with roses that had once been blood red. All the paintwork and the anaglypta that covered the bottom half of the walls was dark green. A bust of a man Emily didn’t recognize stood on its column in the stairwell. A garishly decorated jardinière, containing an aspidistra, graced the foot of the staircase. The whole effect was sombre and exuded the air of a bygone age.
‘You’re to come in.’ Stockley’s reed-thin voice interrupted her thoughts.
