Women and Children First: Bravery, love and fate: the untold story of the doomed Titanic. Gill Paul

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      Next morning at breakfast, Reg couldn’t meet Mrs Grayling’s eye, scared that something in his countenance might give away what he had seen on the boat deck. The situation was compounded when he overheard Mr Grayling being irascible with his wife. He seemed a bad-tempered sort, forever complaining about something: his food wasn’t hot enough, or the next table were making too much noise. That was forgivable, Reg supposed, but speaking discourteously to such a sweet-natured person was not.

      ‘Will you try out the gymnasium today, George?’ she asked. ‘You could have a Turkish bath afterwards. It’s supposed to have glorious mosaics.’

      ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? When have you ever known me go to a gymnasium or a Turkish bath?’ Mr Grayling’s tone was impatient, and as Reg arranged the cutlery for their chosen dishes, he couldn’t help noticing the hurt look on Mrs Grayling’s face. He remembered her commenting that marriage was hard work and watching her with Mr Grayling, Reg could imagine why she might feel that way.

      ‘I plan to stroll along the promenade this morning, then perhaps I shall write some postcards in the reading room,’ she told her husband. ‘How about you, dear?’

      ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet but when I do, I’ll be sure to inform you.’

      His tone was heavy with sarcasm and Reg flinched. Mr Grayling seemed to be in a particularly foul mood, which was rum considering that, from what Reg had seen, he was having his cake and eating it. What right did he have to be bad-tempered, when he had both a charming wife and a willowy, goddess-like mistress?

      He wasn’t the only grumpy one that morning. At one of Reg’s tables there was a young Canadian couple, Mr and Mrs Howson, and the wife was a silly, giggling girl who kept making eyes at Reg right under her husband’s nose. It was a game to her. Maybe she was trying to show hubbie that she was attractive to other men, but it put Reg in a very awkward situation. He tried to be strictly formal and avoid any eye contact, but Mrs Howson insisted on clutching his arm and asking inane questions.

      ‘What’s the difference between a herring and a haddock, Reg? I only like fish that don’t have any bones.’ She clutched his arm and peered up at him with doe eyes.

      He felt like telling her that jellyfish were the only fish without bones and they didn’t have any on the menu. He also wanted to ask her to let go of his arm, but he did neither. ‘The herring have tiny bones throughout so you might be better with the haddock, ma’am.’

      ‘You always look after me so well,’ she purred, and her husband snorted. It was embarrassing, and Reg moved away from their table as quickly as he could.

      As he worked, he kept an eye on the saloon door watching for the girl from the boat deck to arrive. He was curious to find out whether she was travelling with a husband or, if she was unmarried, who was chaperoning her. They certainly weren’t doing a very good job. Women like her would never travel alone. It simply wasn’t done.

      First class was full of beautiful women. Some had looks that owed a substantial debt to artifice, but others were natural stunners. Even at breakfast, they wore fancy gowns in expensive velvets and silks with lace trimmings, and they all had hats with feathers and bows pinned to their heads. Every lady in first class wore a hat for breakfast and lunch and some kind of headdress for dinner. It was a regular fashion parade. Florence would have enjoyed looking at the clothes, he thought. She liked nice clothes. He’d gone with her a few times to browse through the rails in Tyrrell & Green’s department store, although she could seldom afford to buy more than a new pair of gloves or a length of lace to trim a petticoat.

      Breakfast service ended at 10.30 and there had been no sign of the girl from the boat deck. Maybe she was having a lie-in, or perhaps she had chosen to dine at one of the ship’s cafés or the à la carte restaurant. He cleared the last plates from his tables and set them for luncheon, then caught his friend John’s eye and motioned with two fingers to his lips that he would meet him down in the mess for a fag. John nodded, but he had a table who were being slow to finish their meal, so Reg went on ahead.

      He stopped in at the dorm to pick up his fags and wrinkled his nose at the vegetable smell of farts and feet and armpits; the twenty-seven men who slept there wouldn’t have a bath till they reached New York so it was sure to get worse each day. There were only two baths for the eight-hundred-plus crew members, and a separate one for the officers. Reg opened a couple of portholes and jammed them ajar with iron shoots from the store cupboard. That should help. Then he took the fags and matches and made his way to the stewards’ mess, where he sat down and waited for John to arrive so they could light up at the same time.

      Reg wasn’t a big smoker. Some stewards were always nipping СКАЧАТЬ