The Titan Drowns

by Nhys Glover

  Chapter Twelve

  Marco

  The galley of the À la Carte restaurant was frenetic with activity as the whistles and horns for Titanic’s imminent departure from Southampton were sounded. But it was an organised and systematic activity, somewhat like a mechanised factory floor. Most of the staff knew each other from the two Ritz restaurants in London and worked well together, easily slipping into the roles they’d held on shore like well-oiled cogs in a machine.

  When Marco had joined them an hour earlier, there had been a few disgruntled comments, but no one had questioned his presence. They all knew Gardi’s volatile temperament well enough not to show their displeasure overtly. The Manager of four Ritz restaurants, two in London and now one on each of the sister ships, Olympic and Titanic, was a talented businessman who had risen from nowhere to wealth and prominence by the time he was forty. He was a pragmatist first and foremost, and would discard inefficient or problematic staff dispassionately and without a qualm. And he never played favourites. This meant that no one felt secure enough in their position to voice their disapproval of his choice in Marco, in case they themselves were next to be let go at the end of the voyage.

  The Head Waiter called his staff together in the dining room, allocating tables and assistants to each waiter on duty. There were thirteen waiters and eighteen assistant waiters employed to cover both the restaurant and the adjacent Café Parisien. With nine waiters and twelve assistants serving fifty tables and catering for up to 140 dinners in the restaurant at any one time, and four waiters and six assistants serving twenty-one tables catering for up to sixty-eight patrons in the Café from eight in the morning until eleven at night, their workload was immense. But so would be the payoff. Tips were expected to be substantial on this maiden voyage and would be divided among all the staff equally.

  After allocating staff, the Head Waiter addressed the issue of working hours. He was a reed thin French man in his late thirties with a high-pitched nasal voice that Marco found irritating. He listened intently, nevertheless, as all instructions were essential to the smooth running of their domain.

  ‘From our experience on the Olympic, we know that patronage will be spread evenly across opening hours, with light periods expected until ten o’clock in the morning, and then again between three and five o’clock in the afternoon. It will finally drop away from ten o’clock in the evening. Those wait staff assigned to work from eight o’clock will work a split shift with a three-hour break from three. Those who start at ten o’clock will work through until ten.

  ‘During off hours staff will remain either in their cabins or in the third class recreational areas. Under no circumstances are staff permitted to enter passenger’s cabins. Any staff found doing so will be summarily dismissed and all earnings forfeited. Any questions?’

  Marco looked at his assistant, Paulo, a seventeen year old from the second London restaurant. He looked very nervous and Marco had to wonder how much experience he’d had up to this point. Never mind, he was used to being stuck with the beginners. They said it was because he was a good teacher and very patient. He knew differently. It was because inexperienced staff meant more work. But the added work didn’t faze him. On this voyage, nothing would faze him.

  As he and Paulo started laying out their tables in the restaurant, his mind turned back to that morning for the hundredth time. From the moment he awoke before dawn and hurriedly departed from his accommodation, he’d felt an uncontrollable excitement. At first, he thought it was because of the journey to America, his dream-come-true, but when he met the party of immigrants on the way to the docks, he knew differently. As soon as he’d noticed the tall, slim blonde he walked beside, he’d felt an undeniable need to speak to her. And when she had responded, stiffly and shyly at first, his heart had nearly jumped out of his chest.

  Petra. Her name was Petra and she was Swedish, although you would never know that by listening to her. Her English was as unaccented and perfect as many of the ladies who frequented his restaurant in London. What was it about her that attracted him? It wasn’t her looks or her manner. Neither of these was exceptional, although he liked her tall, boyish figure and fair, lightly freckled complexion. And it certainly wasn’t because she was showing him any interest, because she had barely looked at him the entire time they walked together. Nor was it because he was desperate for female companionship; he had more of that than he needed. Given half the chance, he would have sworn off women completely.

  So, there was no reason for his interest in her. And yet as soon as they’d met, the overwhelming drive towards some unknown goal had disappeared and he was left feeling oddly content, as if he had reached his destination. Left to his own devices, he would happily have followed her onto the ship. However, the only way he could board was via the crew’s gangway, and the chances of seeing her again were next to none, especially with this rule about non-fraternisation. Maybe he would seek her out in New York. But he didn’t even know her last name or where in the city she was heading.

  From the sensation beneath him, Marco could tell that the liner was now on the move. He knew from experience that little tug boats would be guiding their way out of the harbour into deep water. Once they left shelter and headed out to sea, the engines would be engaged fully and they would be on their way across the Channel to France.

  It was a beautiful day, and he wished he were outside on deck watching the waves break over the prow. Unfortunately, such pleasures were for the passengers alone. His job was to feed the very richest of those passengers and reap the rewards.

  ‘Did you see all those flowers the passengers had?’ Paulo said, in his Genovese accented Italian as they laid silverware in neat rows on white damask tablecloths.

  ‘Sí,’ he replied absently.

  ‘I wonder how many friends caught their flowers when they threw them. It would make a nice keepsake.’

  Marco clapped the lad on the shoulder with a grunt of amusement. ‘You have the heart of a dreamer, garzone. I think America will be the perfect place for you.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t get to see America. We are in dock only a few days. But I have my sketch pad, so I will capture something of the place for my memories.’

  ‘You draw?’

  ‘Poorly, but I have never been long without a pencil in my hand.’

  ‘But for now you have a fork in your hand, what artistry can you make of our tables with that, garzone?’

  ‘A picture perfect, signor.’

  ‘Excellent. Let me see your work then.’

  By the time the first of their patrons began to drift in for luncheon, their tables were perfect. With swift professionalism, Marco seated those shown to his tables and began to meet their needs. He felt the rush of expectancy that always came at the beginning of a shift. Who knew what patrons would be seated at his tables? Who knew what they would talk about while he stood by attentively waiting on their every spoken and unspoken need? And who knew how much financial gratitude would be shown him for his exceptional service?

  What would Petra be eating down on F Deck right now? Nothing like what they would be serving. Even so, he could see her sitting there quietly, grateful for anything she was given, smiling her shy, sweet smile at anyone who gave her the time of day. What if one of those single men down in steerage took a fancy to her? He felt jealousy rear its head and the shock of it had him frozen to the spot for an instant. Jealous? He was never jealous.

  But, if Petra should share one of her rare, sweet smiles with one of those uncouth louts below decks, he would beat the recipient bloody. Those smiles were his, even though she didn’t know it yet.