Women and Children First (20 page)

Reg returned to the doctor’s surgery to have the bloodied bandages on his feet changed. Underneath the toes were purple and swollen, with blackened nails. They looked monstrous, as if they didn’t belong to him.

‘Keep clean dressings on them,’ the doctor advised. ‘They will form blisters as the tissue heals and if you don’t keep them clean, they could become gangrenous.’

Reg found he could get his own shoes on again so long as he didn’t fasten the laces. He didn’t bother to pick up his steward’s uniform, though. He wouldn’t need it any more. The grey suit he’d been given would be much more use to him in New York.

The
Titanic
’s crew were told that they would disembark after all the passengers had left, at which time they would be taken by tender to the
Lapland,
another vessel on the pier. They would be assigned cabins there while they waited for the ship that would take them back to England. Reg felt like a prisoner. Once they had docked, he couldn’t bear being stuck on the water a moment longer. He wanted to flee the
Carpathia
onto dry land and take his chances in the city.

When the third-class passengers lined up to disembark, Reg slipped into the queue, just behind an Eastern European family. With his dark hair, he thought he could pass for one of them, and so it was. They were waved through and he followed as the family walked down the pier towards the exit.

The street door opened and Reg shrank back at the flashing lights and sounds that were like explosions, like the rockets that had been fired on the
Titanic
. He began to breathe heavily, terrified of what lay in wait outside. He pressed his hands to his ears feeling confused and scared.

‘Are you all right?’ a woman’s voice asked.

‘What are those lights? And the noise?’

‘That’s photographers taking pictures. Their flares provide light so the images come out. It’s the last thing you want to be dealing with, I’m sure.’ She looked at Reg and took in his pale skin and wide, staring eyes. ‘Are you on your own? Is anyone meeting you?’

‘I don’t know anyone in New York,’ he told her. ‘I don’t know where to go.’

She nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix you up. I’m Madeleine Butterworth from the Women’s Relief Committee and we’re here precisely to help people like you. Do you have a job to go to?’

Reg shook his head. ‘I’m planning to look for one as soon as possible.’

‘No money?’

Reg decided not to mention Mrs Grayling’s fiver. That was his emergency fund. He shook his head.

‘You look done in,’ the woman remarked. ‘I’m going to take you to a hostel to sleep tonight and get you some cash to tide you over. If you give me your details, I’ll also help you to lodge your claim against White Star. I assume you’ve lost all your belongings? And your papers?’

Reg nodded. He had the fragments of his own passport, but he needed papers in John’s name.

‘Come this way,’ she said. ‘I’ll take down your details while we’re in the automobile.’

Reg blinked. He had never been in an automobile in his life before.

‘We’ll have to run the gauntlet of the photographers. Are you up to it? I’ll be right beside you.’

He agreed he could cope, and as they walked through the door he covered his face with his hands so his picture wouldn’t be taken. A row of black automobiles stood waiting. Madeleine Butterworth spoke to the driver of the one at the front and they climbed in.

She smiled at Reg. ‘You see? We women of New York will look after you. Almost every Manhattan family that possesses an automobile has sent it down tonight to help
Titanic
survivors reach their destinations.’

‘Where are we going?’ he asked timidly as the automobile began to shudder on start-up then rolled away from the kerb.

‘I’m taking you to the Municipal Lodging House on East 25th Street. It’s not far at all. They’ll look after you there until you find something else. Now’ – she pulled out a notebook and pen – ‘what is your name?’

‘John Hitchens,’ Reg told her. The lie made him blush, but if she was going to help him to get new papers, then John it had to be.

‘Where are you from, John?’

‘Newcastle originally, but I’ve been away from home a while.’ He wondered if she would recognise that he didn’t have a Geordie accent, but she didn’t question it.

‘And what class were you travelling in?’

Reg hesitated. ‘Actually, I was crew. A first-class victualling steward.’ Would she turn the car round and take him back to the
Lapland
where the crew were meant to be staying?

‘Didn’t White Star Line arrange somewhere for their crew to stay tonight? That’s outrageous.’

‘They did,’ Reg admitted, ‘but it was on another ship and I couldn’t face it. I can’t go back to sea. I’ve decided I want to get a job and stay here in New York.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve all been through. Well, I’m here to help. Now I can give you four dollars tonight, which should be enough to tide you over for a couple of days. You’ll get breakfast in the hostel and you can ask the men there to show you to our offices down at the pier when you get up tomorrow and I’ll see what else I can do for you. First of all, I’ll get in touch with White Star and tell them that you’re safe.’

Reg bit his lip. What if someone from White Star was there when he went down to the pier, and ordered him to rejoin his fellow crew members? What if someone recognised him and blurted out that he wasn’t John Hitchens? His plan to get work with a clean record would fall through. He would have to think carefully about this.

Their car pulled up outside a tall grey building with lots of windows, and Madeleine Butterworth cried, ‘Here we are!’ She walked into the vestibule with him and had a word with the superintendent.

‘Do you want something to eat or drink?’ Reg was asked, but he shook his head. All he wanted was to get into a bed in a building that was rooted in the earth, one that wasn’t moving.

He was shown upstairs to a dormitory where at least a dozen other men were tucked up in bunks. Reg realised it must be late because all were sound asleep. He took off his jacket, transferred his money to his trouser pocket, just in case, and climbed into the bed. It had a straw mattress, a hard pillow and a scratchy grey blanket but it was fine. He knew he would sleep. For the last three days on the
Carpathia
, he’d had no trouble sleeping. He felt an exhaustion so profound that it was hard to get up even after twelve hours’ sleep.

As he lay waiting for unconsciousness to come, Reg had the strangest sensation. Despite being on dry land, he felt as if he were cast adrift and floating. He was utterly alone in the world, accountable to no one, and with no future obligations. He decided he wouldn’t even go to meet Madeleine Butterworth the next day. He would cut himself off from everything else in his life up to that point and reinvent himself, not as Reg Parton, but as John Hitchens. With John’s help, he would recover from the strange fogginess in his head and the heaviness in his limbs and he would make a success of his life.

Somehow. When he felt strong enough.

Reg was wakened by a man’s voice, an American. ‘If you want breakfast, you’ll have to get downstairs fast. The kitchen closes at nine.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Hey, you’re English! Are you from the
Titanic
? There were more of you but I reckon they’ve gone out now.’

Reg sat up and reached for his jacket. ‘Thanks for telling me about breakfast.’

‘Straight downstairs and across the hall. You can’t miss it.’

It was a huge room filled with rows of long narrow tables, and you collected your food – a creamy soup called chowder and a big hunk of bread – from a serving hatch. Reg ate, then asked directions to the bathroom.

He got a shock when he looked at himself in the mirror. There hadn’t been any mirrors in the crew WC he’d used on the
Carpathia
, and it was as if someone else was looking back at him. He hadn’t realised his chin stubble had almost become a beard, which made him look much older than his years.

‘Where can I buy a razor?’ he asked and was directed to a drugstore down the street. He also needed soap, a toothbrush, hair oil and a comb if he were to make himself presentable.

On the way to the drugstore, he spotted a newspaper seller. ‘Titanic: Survivors’ Stories’ read one headline, and underneath a smaller headline said ‘Heard death chorus for over an hour’. Reg shuddered. It seemed some survivors had been quick to tell their stories to the press, but he didn’t want to read their descriptions. He wanted hard facts, so he decided to buy the
New York Times
, which promised a full list of the living and dead. Clutching his paper, he went on to make his purchases in the drugstore then walked back to the hostel. It was empty now; everyone had gone out for the day to attend to their business. He went up to the dormitory where he had slept and opened the newspaper, and found he was shaking so hard he had to sit down.

There was the list in black and white newsprint: Reginald Parton, first-class victualling steward was listed among the dead, while John Hitchens was alive. It was the strangest feeling. Then a terrible thought occurred to him. Would the same list have appeared in the English newspapers? Would his mother and Florence have seen it and already be mourning him? Florence would be devastated. She had hoped to spend the rest of her life with Reg. He was sure his mother would only miss the money he brought home, but his brothers would be upset. He had to write to them straight away.

He thought of Florence’s freckled skin, her gentleness, and felt a pang of longing for her. If only she were there right at that moment, he could have buried his face in her neck and held her tight. But their relationship felt like something from his distant past, something that had happened in another country a long, long time ago. He was a different person now. He had to be. He felt confused, and sad, and desperately lonely, but what option did he have?

I’ll find out how to send a telegram
, he decided. If he sent it that day, they should get it before they’d made funeral arrangements. After that, he could put all his memories of Southampton into a box in his head and seal it shut while he tried to make a life for himself in New York. He’d need all the strength he could muster to find a job, get a place to stay and keep body and soul together.

He looked at the other names of those lost: Mrs Grayling, Bill, Ethel, James Paintin, and Captain Smith, of course. That lovely old man had gone down with his ship … Almost everyone he had known personally was dead. It was unthinkable. Unbelievable.

He closed the newspaper abruptly, and went to the bathroom for a shower and a shave. He wiped down his jacket and trousers, brushed his teeth and combed oil through his hair, then considered his appearance; he didn’t look too bad now. Perhaps he could try to find a job straight away? As soon as he’d sent his telegram.

The hostel superintendent told him that the main Western Union office was on Broadway, just before you reached Times Square. He suggested catching a tram but Reg preferred to walk. He’d always liked to walk. It helped you to get your bearings in a strange place. He passed City Hall Park then, following the superintendent’s instructions, found himself on Lower Broadway, a street lined with towering buildings, so tall that no sunlight reached the ground. Looking up he couldn’t even count the number of storeys, and they loomed over him in a way that made him feel breathless. It was like walking through a narrow, sheer-sided canyon.

The street was full of trams, carriages and automobiles, driving in both directions, and petrol fumes filled the air. Every time a driver parped his horn, Reg nearly jumped out of his skin and his heart began to pound. The pavements were thick with people, all of whom seemed to be in a hurry, with urgent business to attend to. They passed without paying him any attention, as if he were invisible.

It was further than he’d expected to the Western Union office but there was no mistaking when he reached it because of the huge sign over the entrance. He stepped inside and was directed into a hall where clerks in uniform sat behind a long counter.

‘Next!’ One of them waved him over.

‘How much does it cost to send a telegram to Southampton in England?’ he asked.

‘Three dollars, twelve cents for ten words. Do you need more than ten?’ The fellow had a nasal accent and spoke so quickly that it took Reg a few moments to understand what he’d said, then he flushed. He had spent over a dollar in the drugstore so didn’t have enough American money left.

‘Could you change an English five-pound note?’ he asked, pulling it from his pocket. It was in a sorry state, the paper all warped and salt-marked. ‘I’m sorry, it got a bit wet.’

‘I don’t know if I can take that. I’ll just go ask my super.’ The clerk got up from his chair and disappeared.

Reg rested his elbow on the counter and leant his head on his hand, feeling close to tears.
What would he do if they wouldn’t accept his money? Why was everything so difficult?

‘Excuse me, sir.’ An older man appeared at the counter a couple of minutes later, with the clerk behind him. ‘May I see the banknote in question?’

Reg slid it across.

The man took in Reg’s countenance and the state of the money. ‘Would you mind telling me how it got in this condition?’ he asked, kindly.

‘I was on the
Titanic
,’ Reg told him. ‘We arrived in port last night. I want to tell my mum I’m all right.’

The superintendent passed the banknote back to him. ‘In that case, sir, we wouldn’t dream of taking your money. Please write your telegram on this form,’ he handed him a slip of paper, ‘and we’ll send it free of charge.’

Reg felt overwhelmed. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’

Now he had to think what to say. His mind went blank. He decided to write to Florence and ask her to pass the message on, and he scribbled down the bare facts, trying to keep it brief: ‘In New York [stop] Staying here for a while [stop] Will write soon [stop] Tell Mother [stop] Reg’. He filled in the address of the house where Florence worked and passed it to the clerk.

‘Don’t you want to give a return address so she can get back to you?’

‘I don’t have one yet,’ Reg said.

‘OK, I’ll send this straight away. Good luck, buddy.’

Reg hesitated. He should really try to send a telegram to John’s mother as well. He remembered seeing their address on John’s payslip one time and he knew it was West Road, Newcastle, but he didn’t recall the number. The telegraph boy would be bound to know the family, though. What should he say? ‘I’m sorry but your son didn’t make it and I’m using his name.’ He couldn’t put that in a telegram. He’d write a letter instead, explaining all the circumstances, and mail it as soon as possible.

He nodded his thanks and left the building, then continued up to Times Square, a triangular road junction. One of the streets running off was labelled Seventh Avenue, and it reminded Reg that he had meant to make his way to Fifth Avenue, where he’d heard there were lots of restaurants. His feet were still swollen and the left one was especially painful but he had to start looking for work if he were to survive here. He asked a passerby for directions and just two blocks down 42nd Street, he came upon Fifth Avenue. There were several restaurants lining the road and Reg stopped to look in some, but they didn’t have the grandeur he sought. He had full silver-service training and he might as well use it, rather than handing out eggs and ham in any old diner. Presumably, the smarter the place, the better the pay.

He stopped when he got to the crossroads with 44th Street, because there were two very fancy restaurants facing each other on opposite corners. The nearest one, Delmonico’s, had awnings over a pillared entrance, and through the windows he could see that the décor was sublime: red velvet, chandeliers and crisp white tablecloths. It looked as though lunch service was over, and the staff were clearing up. He asked a passerby for the time and was surprised to hear that it was almost four o’clock. That seemed as good a time as any to seek work in a restaurant.

He walked back a few yards and checked his reflection in a plate glass window: his hair was neatly slicked back and his tie was straight. It was now or never. His heart began to beat hard and his mouth was dry. His courage almost failed him, then he heard John’s voice in his head:
Come on, man, if you’re going to pretend to be me you’d better make sure you do me proud!

He took a deep breath and marched purposefully to the entrance of Delmonico’s, up the steps and in through the front door. The doormen were standing to one side, smoking, and they looked surprised but didn’t try to stop him. Inside, he saw someone by a lectern that held a huge book and assumed it must be the maître d’.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for work,’ he began. ‘Who should I speak to?’

The man raised his head and sneered, as if Reg were an insect recently crawled out from under a stone. ‘Did you just use the front entrance? Who do you think you are?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there was any other entrance.’

‘Get out. You shouldn’t have been let in anyhow. Scram.’ He waved his hand in dismissal, and Reg hurried back out to the street, feeling as though he might faint.
You don’t want to work somewhere that employs the likes of him anyway. Don’t worry. Just try the next place.

Opposite, there was another smart-looking restaurant entrance, and the name read ‘Sherry’s’. He wandered over and glimpsed an interior equally as sumptuous as Delmonico’s. It seemed worth a try but he didn’t want to make the same mistake again, so he walked round until he found an alleyway down the side of the building. He followed it past huge waste bins until he came to some back steps where a man in a white chef’s hat was smoking a cigarette.

‘Excuse me. Do you know if there’s any work for waiting staff?’ he asked.

‘There might be. What’s your experience?’

‘I was a first-class victualling steward on the
Titanic
. We just got in last night. I don’t want to go to sea any more so I’m looking for work.’

‘Jesus Christ! You poor kid! Come on in and have a bite to eat and I’ll get the manager to have a word with you. Hell, that’s dedication to be looking for work the day after you arrive in dock!’

Reg followed him up the steps and into a vast kitchen, all shiny and modern, where sous-chefs stood preparing food at their stations.

‘We’ve got some roast lamb left over from luncheon, or some canvasback duck. What would you like?’ the chef asked, slapping Reg round the shoulders.

‘Lamb would be very nice, thank you.’

‘Aren’t you polite? Listen to his accent, boys! He’s from the
Titanic
.’

As he sat at a table in the kitchen eating his lamb, served with Potatoes Lyonnaise and string beans, the kitchen staff gathered round to ask questions. When they heard he had been in the water and had survived on the upturned collapsible, their admiration knew no bounds. They’d read about the collapsible in that morning’s papers because Harold Bride, one of the
Titanic
’s radio operators who had also survived on it, had told his story to the press. Someone produced a copy of the newspaper to show Reg but he couldn’t bring himself to read it.

When he pushed his plate away, the chef went to fetch the restaurant manager, Mr Timothy, a slight man in spectacles.

‘Are you sure you are able to work?’ he asked. ‘You must be pretty shook up from your experience. Don’t you want some time off?’

‘I want to stay busy to take my mind off it,’ Reg replied.

‘I guess you’ve done silver service?’ Reg nodded. ‘We’ll need to check your references with White Star – if there’s anyone left there who can give references, that is – but as far as I’m concerned, you’re on for a try-out. What did you say your name was?’

‘John Hitchens.’ The lie was becoming easier.

‘Come back tomorrow morning at ten sharp and you can work the lunch service. We’re open six days and the salary is five bucks a week. We’ll provide a uniform, but make sure you look shipshape.’ He winced. ‘Sorry, not a good choice of words. You know what I mean.’

And so it was that within a day of getting off the
Carpathia
, Reg had found work at one of New York’s most fashionable upper-class restaurants. As he walked back out onto Fifth Avenue, his legs felt shaky. It was almost too much to take in.

Before he left, he asked Mr Timothy for a sheet of paper and the loan of a pencil, saying he had to write home. He decided to continue a few more blocks up the road to Central Park and find a bench where he could sit to compose his letter to John’s family.

If only John were there with him. Reg remembered him saying that he fancied going to Central Park while they were in town. As it turned out, Reg would have to go on his own. He’d have to do everything on his own from now on.