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

Chapter Sixty-Three

The days when Juliette could wear a corset were long…

Chapter Sixty-Four

From the first day at the summer house, Molly started…

Chapter Sixty-Five

Father Kelly knocked on the door one morning and asked…

Chapter Sixty-Six

In early August, a storm blew up the Atlantic coast…

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Somewhere in the depths of his brain, Reg became aware…

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Juliette couldn’t stop torturing herself with visions of Robert escorting…

Chapter Sixty-Nine

When Reg awoke, it was daylight outside and the storm…

Chapter Seventy

Juliette scribbled a very simple note: ‘Am in New York…

Chapter Seventy-One

It was getting dark as Reg walked over Brooklyn Bridge.

Chapter Seventy-Two

As soon as Juliette woke the next day, she rang…

Chapter Seventy-Three

Juliette didn’t have time to be nervous as Robert dashed…

Chapter Seventy-Four

Reg didn’t know where to find a police station. In…

Chapter Seventy-Five

Reg had a lot of time to worry while the…

Chapter Seventy-Six

Later that night, George Grayling sat at his desk with…

Chapter Seventy-Seven

As arranged, Robert came to the hotel at six and…

Chapter Seventy-Eight

After the newspaper story about her appeared, Annie was alarmed…

Chapter Seventy-Nine

When Reg turned up at the Cunard Line office to…

Epilogue

Reg and Florence got married a week before Christmas 1912…

TITANIC

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Enjoyed this book? Read on for the start of Gill Paul’s new novel, Another Woman’s Husband.

Other Books by Gill Paul

About the Publisher

Reg’s hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t hold the newspaper still enough to read. He sat on a bunk and smoothed the pages open on the shabby grey blanket, ironing the creases with his hand. Lists of names in tiny type covered the surface, organised into uneven columns of surnames, forenames, the class in which each person had travelled, and finally their country of origin.

Straight away he saw an error: Luigi Gatti was listed as Spanish rather than Italian. How could he trust this list if they could make such a simple mistake? Was anything in it reliable? Abbing, Abbott, Abelson … Ernest Abbott. That must be Ernie who worked in the mess, but they had him down as a third-class passenger. Poor old Ernie.

His finger scrolled down the page. There was Colonel Astor, with the same number of words by his name as anyone else. All that money couldn’t buy him a place on the other, shorter list, the list of survivors. There was Bill, who had slept in the next bunk, and Ethel from the pantry, the one they called Fat Ethel. If only they’d been kinder …

A couple of columns across, at the ‘J’s, his stomach turned over and his heart began pounding hard. It was a most peculiar feeling to see yourself listed as dead. He looked away and refocused his eyes just outside the window where he could see unfurling buds on the topmost branches of a linden tree. Someone was moving around in a greystone office building opposite. He couldn’t make out if it was a man or a woman, but they were holding some papers, which they put down then disappeared from view. For a few minutes he breathed quietly, keeping his head empty, until he felt able to look at the newspaper again.

The first name that appeared before his eyes was ‘Grayling, Margaret, 1st class, American’, and his eyes filled with tears for the generous old woman who had been his favourite passenger. Not even that old: she was probably only in her forties, about the same age as his mum. Then into his head came the peculiar scene he had witnessed between her husband and a striking young girl on the boat deck. Everything in his mind was now divided into ‘before’ and ‘after’, and that had been before: exactly forty-eight hours before the unthinkable happened.

It was one in the morning and first-class victualling steward Reg Parton should have been asleep in his bunk, but a restlessness took him to the ship’s galley where he knew Mr Joughin would be pulling steaming trays of bread out of the ovens. Joughin was a good sort and always ready to slip you a fresh roll or two, especially at this time of night when he’d had a few whiskies. Chief baker was the right job for him, because he liked feeding people.

The ship was almost twelve hours out of Queenstown, on the southern tip of Ireland, and gliding her way across the Atlantic. There was less swell than with any other ship Reg had been on. She was as steady as if you were in your own parlour at home, with only the muffled roar of the engines indicating that you were on the move. The Titanic was a beautiful beast, with everything brand new and sparkling. It was nice being on a maiden voyage – there was the sense of every surface being untouched and pristine, and this ship was the most magnificent he’d ever seen. Woodwork gleamed, chandeliers shot pinpricks of light around the vast salons, and every surface that could possibly be decorated was clad in gilt, mosaic or milky mother-of-pearl.

Reg had been on board for two days and he’d spent all his off-duty time exploring. There were ten separate decks, each almost 300 yards long, joined up by elevators and staircases in hidden corners. Every deck had a different layout of interminable corridors with faceless doors and he’d got lost more times than he could count. It would take months to get to know this ship properly. He doubted anyone knew it from bow to stern, except maybe the designers. Mr Andrews, the chief designer, was on board and was often seen wandering the decks making notes in a little notebook.

Reg burnt the roof of his mouth on the hot roll and swore.

‘That’s what you get for being a gannet,’ Mr Joughin remarked in his broad Birkenhead accent.

Reg ran to the sink to pour a glass of water, and while he was drinking, Second Officer Lightoller put his head round the door.

‘Tea and biscuits for the bridge, Mr Joughin.’ He didn’t so much as glance at Reg.

‘Right you are, sir.’

Lightoller disappeared and Mr Joughin began to set a tea tray. ‘Where’s that bloody Fred when you need him? He went for a fag half an hour ago and hasn’t come back. Who’s going to take this tray?’

‘I’ll do it!’ Reg nearly jumped with excitement. ‘Please let me.’ He was dying to see the bridge with all its gleaming, state-of-the-art equipment. Maybe Captain Smith would even be there.

‘It’s not your place,’ Joughin grumbled. ‘It should be Fred.’

‘But Fred’s not here. They won’t even notice who brings their tea. Let me do it.’

‘Go on with you, then.’

Reg took the elevator up to the boat deck and walked to the short flight of steps that led up to the bridge. The moon was waning, the night was so black there was no dividing line between sea and sky, and the few stars were distant dots in some other galaxy. Onboard lights had been turned to a dim glow as the 1,300 passengers slept below. The steps were slippery with salt spray and Reg took them slowly so as not to slosh tea from the pot.