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

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘Were you born in Liverpool, sir?’ Eleanor asked Joe. ‘Have there always been seafarers in your family?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. My father was a potter from Stoke-on-Trent – he died when I was a boy. Then my mother married Ted’s father, and when I left school I was expected to go into the potteries too. I didn’t want that,’ he said frankly, ‘it wasn’t for me. So I ran away to Liverpool, to a seafaring cousin of my mother’s, and signed on aboard his ship.’

  ‘Joe went off to sea when he was fourteen,’ I said. ‘As you can imagine, our mother was not best pleased when I wanted to do the same.’

  Eleanor smiled and nodded sympathetically. ‘In winter-time, when Mother complains about Father coming home soaking wet and covered in mud, he always tells her to be thankful he chose the land and not the sea for a living…’

  ‘That’s true,’ Mary Jane said pointedly. ‘From what we hear it’s a dangerous profession.’

  ‘It can be,’ I agreed, sensing some kind of undercurrent. I wondered how she could resemble her sister and yet be so different. ‘But I imagine farming has its dangers too. You’re at the mercy of wind and weather just the same.’

  ‘Not quite,’ she replied primly. ‘We knew some people who took ship for America. It went down somewhere off Canada, I think, and everyone drowned.’

  Joe and I exchanged a look. Suddenly, much was explained.

  Blushing, Eleanor frowned at her sister, and turned to me. ‘The Prestons lived in our village,’ she explained. ‘They had five children. Their daughter Lizzie was my age.’

  On the periphery of my vision I was aware of Joe’s eyes on me, but my gaze was for Eleanor. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What ship, can you remember?’

  ‘Yes. It stuck in my mind because they were crossing the Atlantic on a ship of the same name.’

  I knew it at once. In Liverpool at the time, studying for my Mate’s Ticket, I’d heard the newspaper boy calling out details no seafarer could forget. ‘The Atlantic, yes – she foundered off Halifax in ’73. A terrible tragedy – almost 600 lost their lives. I’m so sorry,’ I added gently, ‘for the loss of your friends.’

  The morning’s good beginning seemed liable to collapse. When Eleanor said she’d always wondered what the ship was like, Joe shot a warning glance in my direction, but something told me she would never accept a lie or half-truth. Even so, I weighed my words. ‘Well, Miss Eleanor,’ I began, clearing my throat, ‘the Atlantic belonged to White Star. We’ve just been looking round her sister-ship. I have to say, Republic is as close to her in looks as makes no difference.’

  There was a silence. Eleanor’s eyes widened. I wondered how much more would be helpful. ‘Nothing wrong with the ship,’ I said firmly, as Mary Jane began to protest. ‘There was a terrible storm, it was the middle of the night and they were out of fuel. No doubt an error of navigation took them onto the rocks.

  ‘Marine engines have been modified in the last ten years,’ I assured them. ‘They’re much more reliable now. And lessons have been learned. Nowadays, the amount of coal we take on is always over and above what we need.’ I forced a smile, eager to play down the worst aspects. ‘There are dangers, I cannot deny it. But we do all in our power to keep everyone safe.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Thomas Jones said.

  ‘Sadly, a disaster always makes the headlines. But think of all the voyages that pass unremarked, the ships and passengers you never hear about.’ As my listeners nodded, eager to be reassured, I added lightly, ‘I swear to you, every time I come into Liverpool, the traffic is worse. These days, I reckon crossing the road is riskier than crossing the ocean!’

  With rueful laughter, everyone agreed, and the serious talk was over. The deep-sea grey of Eleanor’s eyes was suddenly greener, catching the light when she smiled at me.

  As we were leaving, under cover of more general conversation, she said quietly, ‘I confess I haven’t thought of Lizzie Preston and that awful tragedy in years. But something in the newspaper brought it to mind the other day. And suddenly, here we are in Liverpool, meeting you, Mr Smith, and invited to look round your ship. Almost a twin of the other. A strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

  Aware of more than that, I nodded.

  ‘And I’ve never been aboard a ship before…’

  ‘What did you think of it?’ I ventured.

  Glancing up at me, she blushed and smiled and began pulling on her gloves. ‘It was very exciting,’ she said demurely.

  20

  I wanted to talk to her, listen to her, know her. The seemingly impossible question of how tormented me that night.

  After a year and a half on the New York run I’d adjusted to the fast turnarounds but, although it paid well, it left little time for leisure between voyages. And even less for the gentle pursuit of courtship.

  Unable to sleep, in the early hours I took pen and paper and scribbled a few lines, changed my mind and scribbled a few more. The final version, expressing pleasure at our meeting, and looking forward to renewing our acquaintance, was copied onto a sheet of the ship’s headed notepaper. Could I hope, I wrote, that if she should happen to be in Liverpool at the same time as myself, I might be granted the privilege of taking her to tea? It was difficult to name a precise date, but as soon as my ship docked, I promised to be in touch.

  Other than the final sentence, it was very formal, very correct. I felt that was what Miss Pennington – and most especially her parents – would expect.

  My only means of contact was through her uncle, but the connection with Dorothea – albeit a tenuous one – caused me more than a moment’s hesitation. Telling myself it was the only way, I addressed it to Miss Eleanor Pennington, c/o Mr Thomas Jones, Castle Street, Liverpool. With the ship’s mail I handed it to one of the juniors as I went in to breakfast, instructing him to see it posted.

  All the way across the Atlantic, Eleanor invaded my dreams. Making my way to and from the bridge for my watch, supervising work on deck, occasionally passing through the saloon, I pictured her eyes, her smile, her every reaction as I showed her my world. Equally, I tried to visualise her world and failed; could only see her demure figure bending towards me as she asked a question and listened wide-eyed to my reply. I thought I would go mad if I didn’t see her again.

  Joe had always spoken well of Thomas Jones, so I was sure he’d post the letter. But whether he would promote my cause with Eleanor was another matter. I was at least ten years older than his niece, and perhaps not quite what the family had in mind when it came to suitors.

  I’d included Mary Jane in my invitation, and hoped that would sway things. But all the way back from New York, every time I tried to imagine Eleanor and me taking tea together, my fantasies were quashed by thoughts of her kill-joy sister. If only she could be detained by some emergency at home – but in that case, Eleanor would be similarly detained. Unmarried young ladies were usually keen to keep their reputations intact.

  Eleanor’s note of acceptance – waiting for me when we docked – was as formal as mine, but it bestowed an almost euphoric anticipation. On the afternoon in question I spent an age before the glass, trimming my beard and brushing my springy fair hair into submission. I donned my best shoreside suit of clothes, tied a blue silk bow purchased in New York at the neck, set my hat at a jaunty angle and set off for Castle Street. I was on time and Thomas Jones was waiting in the shop, quietly informing me as we went upstairs that Eleanor was here but Mary Jane was indisposed and had remained at home. For a split-second I was overjoyed; then he said that his sister-in-law – Mrs Sarah Pennington – had come with Eleanor instead.

  ‘Do not fret,’ he added as my heart plunged off some internal cliff, ‘she’s merely concerned to meet you. But with your permission we’ll have our tea here.’

  My smile was frozen to my face as I was shown upstairs to his office. The two ladies rose as I bowed, a pink-faced Eleanor bobbing a nervous half-curtsey as her mother inclined her head. If I’d thought of Mrs Penningt
on at all, I probably imagined an old lady like my mother, stiff with rheumatism, emphasising her wishes with the aid of an expertly wielded walking stick.

  I could not have been more surprised. Plump and well-corseted, Eleanor’s mother looked to be younger than Joe. Thomas covered an awkward moment while I collected myself. I glanced at Eleanor, taking heart as her eyes implored my understanding. Finding my manners, I enquired solicitously for Mary Jane while expressing myself delighted by this opportunity of meeting her mother. Oh, I was very correct, very much aware that this was staid, merchant class Liverpool, and not the wild, heady place that was Hong Kong.

  Our host brought another chair to a table before the window which had been set for tea. There were cakes and scones and silver cutlery. Mrs Pennington granted me a smile as I took my seat but her glance was coolly appraising. I knew at once who Mary Jane resembled and, as it turned out, the resemblance was not confined to looks. Mrs P seemed just as suspicious as her elder daughter. ‘My brother-in-law tells me you are a Master Mariner, Mr Smith. Forgive me, but we are unacquainted with seafaring at Winwick, so perhaps you could tell us a little about what you do.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I agreed, aware that I was being interviewed for the position of suitor to Miss Eleanor. In such circumstances it was difficult not to sound either glib or boastful as I launched into some familiar phrases, but with Eleanor as my goal I was desperate to impress. I wanted her mother to know that I followed a respectable profession.

  ‘The term Master Mariner,’ I began, ‘is purely a qualification. It proves a man has served the required time at sea, studied the right books, and satisfied his peers that he’s competent to handle a ship.’

  ‘And what does that entail?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, he must be able to navigate by the stars, forecast the weather and conduct the ship’s business – oh yes, and understand maritime law as well. Above all,’ I concluded, with what I hoped was a deprecating smile, ‘he must prove himself a fit person. Because once promoted to Captain he will be responsible for everything – the ship and its cargo, and every soul aboard.’

  She was surprised. ‘Ah. I see.’ Studying her daughter for a moment, she switched her glance back to me and said, ‘I understand you have already attained this position?’

  ‘Well, yes – and no.’ I went on to explain my four years of command aboard the Lizzie Fennell, and the subsequent move from Gibson’s to White Star; that having gone from ships with sails to ships with engines, I’d spent the last few years learning my trade all over again.

  ‘I’m presently studying for a further qualification,’ I said, and noticed Eleanor’s eyes widen with surprise. ‘An Extra Master’s Certificate covers all the major subjects in greater depth, but the main part of it concerns the handling of steamships.’

  Mrs Pennington wanted to know about my present job. As I described my responsibilities for the cargo and the crew, she raised her eyebrows. ‘It seems they keep you busy, Mr Smith. Do you enjoy your work?’

  ‘I do, Mrs Pennington. I enjoy it very much. With diligence, I hope to regain a position of command within a year or so.’

  ‘If what Thomas tells me is true,’ she conceded graciously, ‘I’m sure you will.’

  I thanked her as Mr Jones’s man arrived with the tea. Mrs Pennington poured. While I perspired inside my collar Eleanor asked whether the voyage had been a good one. I said the weather had been rather trying for some of the passengers on the outward journey, but not really bad. Remembering our last conversation, I wished I’d kept off the subject of weather, but to my relief, she asked next about New York.

  ‘I’ve read that everyone over there has ice boxes – is that true?’

  ‘And washing machines to do the laundry?’ her mother asked.

  By our host’s expression, he was amused – but Mrs Pennington’s sense of humour was so well-hidden I was forced to answer in serious vein. ‘I don’t know whether washing machines are common as yet, but I have seen them in the stores – worked by a handle, I believe, to agitate the clothes. But everybody has an icebox. New York gets very hot in the summer. Over a hundred degrees sometimes, and humid too.’

  ‘A hundred degrees?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Very uncomfortable. But having such tall buildings, at least the streets are shady.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Mrs Pennington acknowledged with a frown, ‘but imagine the stairs. It must be dreadfully wearing going up and down, especially in all that heat.’

  ‘They have elevators – lifts.’ At their incomprehension, I said, ‘Like a dumb waiter only bigger – powered by electricity.’

  As Eleanor and her uncle exclaimed in amazement, Mrs Pennington looked horrified. I assured them that being whisked up and down was quite entertaining. ‘Except when the thing breaks down between floors – you never know how long it will take to start up again.’ Suddenly envisaging being stuck for an hour in a lift with Eleanor, I forced myself to think of something else.

  My one dominating thought during the voyage had been how to court her. Aware that my suggestion might be badly received, I said, trying not to stammer, ‘The ship will be in port for a few more days… I wondered… wondered if Miss Eleanor would be free to accompany me to the theatre? An afternoon performance, of course,’ I added quickly.

  I might have been suggesting something improper, although my original plan had been to include Mary Jane. Mrs Pennington, however, was a different proposition. As Thomas Jones raised an eyebrow, his sister-in-law shook her head emphatically. ‘The theatre?’ She made it sound like a den of iniquity. ‘No, Mr Smith, I don’t think so. Even were it something elevating, like Shakespeare, there would be the problem of getting home afterwards. We are some miles, you know, from the railway station at Newton. Mr Pennington would have to make a special journey, which is hard for him at the end of the day…’

  There was a long pause in which we all raised our cups and appeared to study the prettily-set table. Eleanor replaced her cup in its saucer and set it down. ‘That’s a shame, Mother, because I would like to go. Couldn’t John pick me up from the station? Surely Father wouldn’t mind?’

  She looked appealingly at her uncle, and he appealed to me. ‘Is there something special showing?’

  ‘A Gilbert and Sullivan opera, at the Grand.’

  ‘Ah, yes, The Pirates of Penzance – I saw it advertised. It should be entertaining – very witty, these things.’ He looked to his sister-in-law, but, taut with disapproval, she said the matter would have to be discussed. He turned to the window. A weak sun was shining through the haze. ‘It seems a shame,’ he said, ‘to spend all afternoon indoors. While I ring for some fresh tea, why don’t you young people get yourselves out for a walk? Blow the cobwebs off.’

  Before Mrs P could protest, Eleanor had retrieved her coat and we were descending the stairs with unseemly haste. As the shop door closed behind us with a jangling of the bell, she looked up at me with a mischievous smile. With one accord we hurried along the street, crossed over and came out on the Strand. Before us were the docks, Canning and Salthouse, with the Basin and Albert Dock beyond. A forest of masts and spars, funnels here and there, bustle and activity wherever we looked.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Any,’ she said on a long breath. ‘I love being here – it’s so exciting. All these ships, where are they going? And their cargoes – where do they come from? I do envy you, Mr Smith, travelling the world. Mother doesn’t understand, I’m afraid, but this was always my favourite place as a child.’

  I could have hugged her for that. ‘Mine too.’

  I led the way, cupping her elbow as we crossed the Strand’s broad expanse, avoiding cabs and drays and an omnibus heading for the ferry. The contact felt intimate. We crossed by the locks to watch a ship being hauled into the Basin, and she wanted to know where it was from.

  ‘Could be the West Indies,’ I said, giving her a sidelong look, ‘with a bonded cargo of rum and molasses…’

  ‘Really?’


  ‘Just guessing. The Customs warehouse is over there…’

  She laughed and so did I. Because I longed to fulfil some recent daydreams, I deliberately avoided the Landing and the Republic, and took her in the opposite direction. I felt ridiculously happy with this girl at my side, could have sung for joy just because we were together. We walked half a mile or so along Wapping, past the old docks, enjoying the smell of hemp and tar from the repair yards. Just a few tall ships in, but it was only mid-October.

  ‘They’ll be busier next time,’ I said, ‘in late November, December, when they’re starting to lay up for the winter…’ Thinking about it made me sigh. Meeting her quizzical glance, I said, ‘Wishing I was due for some leave. A few days off every six weeks is better than most, but it makes for an odd kind of home life.’

  ‘It must,’ she agreed. ‘Where do you stay when you’re ashore?’

  ‘I used to go to my brother’s in Birkenhead, but my mother has just moved up from Hanley. She’s living with Joe and his family now, so I’m presently staying aboard.’ I went on to explain that if I needed to get away from the ship for a while, I knew of a good lodging house in town. ‘It’s clean and well-run and will serve its purpose.’

  ‘But not nearly so homely,’ Eleanor commented sympathetically. ‘It seems a strange kind of life to us, who live on the land – especially to someone like my mother. You must forgive her for asking such direct questions.’

  ‘She has your interests at heart, Miss Pennington,’ I said magnanimously. ‘But I hope she’ll agree to our trip to the theatre.’

  Eleanor gave a puckish smile. ‘If anyone can talk her round, Mr Smith, it will be Uncle Tom!’

  ~~~

  She was right. With permission granted, two days later we dropped the formalities. We were Ted and Eleanor, and getting to know each other a little better. The show was witty and funny and we laughed a lot – in fact, Pirates of Penzance remained a favourite for years. It was gone five when we came out and already dark. With catchy tunes still echoing, we had some tea before making our way to the station; and then, simply because I couldn’t bear to say goodbye, I found an empty compartment and boarded the train with her.