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

‘Do you love her? My goodness, listen to me,’ Mrs Grayling laughed. ‘I’m being so nosy. Please tell me to mind my own business if you don’t want to answer.’

‘No, it’s fine.’ For some reason, Reg didn’t mind the directness of her questioning, although he never talked to anyone else in this way. ‘I do love her, but I just don’t know if I’m ready for marriage and I think that’s what she wants. Her friend Lizzie got engaged recently and I could tell by the way Florence looked at me when she told me about it that she would like me to propose. Other people keep dropping hints or asking outright when I’m going to make an honest woman of her. It’s what you do round our way.’

‘Why don’t you feel ready?’

Reg considered. ‘I suppose I worry about the money. I want to have enough put aside to get us a decent place to live, and before I have kids I want to be confident that I’ll be able to put food on the table for them. Working on ships, you only get a contract for each voyage and you can never be sure you’ll ever be hired again. That worries me.’

There was more. Reg dreamed of bettering himself and being able to afford some of the luxuries his wealthy passengers enjoyed. Just one or two, nothing excessive.

‘I want to get my own car one day,’ he’d told Florence. ‘Have you ever seen a picture of a Lozier? They’re pure elegance on wheels. A bargain at only seven and a half thousand pounds!’

‘You admire the rich more than I do,’ Florence mused. ‘You’re more impressed by them.’

He suspected it was true. Not the ones who’d simply inherited their wealth but he admired the self-made millionaires from America, the ones who had started their own car dealerships and hotels and property empires. He wished he could make enough money to have a better life, but there was nothing he could do besides wait on table. And so they carried on as they were.

‘Marriage is a tricky thing,’ Mrs Grayling told him. ‘It’s hard work and sometimes it feels as though you are the only one trying.’ Suddenly she looked very downcast. Her grey-blue eyes had depths of sadness in them. ‘But it sounds as though you had better be careful not to let that girl slip away. Aren’t you worried she’ll meet someone else while you’re at sea?’

Reg thought about it for a moment then shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t ever mess me around. She’s an honest, straightforward girl, and that’s what I like.’

‘You should hang onto her then. Take my advice.’

A year after that exchange, Reg was overjoyed when he looked at the Titanic’s first-class passenger list and spotted Mrs Grayling’s name. He asked the chief steward, Mr Latimer, if he could wait on her table and as soon as she walked in to dinner on the first evening and saw him holding her chair for her, she exclaimed, ‘Reg! How wonderful you’re here. Tell me, how is the lovely Florence?’

He was touched to the core that such a grand lady would remember anything about his life. ‘She’s fine, thank you, ma’am,’ he said.

‘And are you married yet?’

‘Not yet,’ he grinned.

‘But still together?’ Reg nodded. ‘That’s good. I’m delighted to see you again.’

Then two nights after that reunion, Reg saw Mrs Grayling’s husband with the young woman on the boat deck and he felt simply awful about it. The knowledge weighed heavily on him. It was as if being witness to her husband’s infidelity had somehow made him culpable himself. Should he tell Mrs Grayling? Or do something about it himself? But what?

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.