Women and Children First by Gill Paul Page A

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    There was a photo of some lords and ladies in full evening dress huddled under umbrellas outside the Savoy. The accompanying story congratulated them for coming out to a ball on such a filthy night and risking getting rain or mud on their expensive gowns and black tie dinner suits. The picture was grainy but they looked radiant and not the slightest bit damp. What you couldn’t see were the footmen off to the sides who were holding the umbrellas. They’d probably look like drowned cats, but he supposed that wouldn’t be the kind of picture the paper would want to print. Not on the society pages.
    He glanced at the names. They were all called Charles, Edwin, Herbert, or names like that. None of them was called Reg or John. The ladies had flowery names: Violet, Charlotte, Venetia.
    John came into the dorm. ‘There you are. I thought you’d jumped overboard after your little accident at lunch.’
    Reg sighed. ‘You can bet the stupid flapper who caused it won’t be losing any sleep. Tell me, John, d’you ever wish your mum had called you Herbert? D’you think your life might have been different?’
    ‘If I had a different mam, my life would have been different. A name’s a name.’
    ‘What’s wrong with your mum, then?’
    ‘I dunno. I never see her. Haven’t been home in a while. We’re not a close family, not like yours.’ John came from Newcastle and he always claimed there wasn’t enough time between sailings to nip back and see his folks, but Reg guessed he didn’t make much effort.
    ‘The only thing close about our family is the way we all live on top of each other. I wish I could afford to get digs, like you.’
    ‘You’ll have your own place soon enough when you and Florence tie the knot.’ John put his finger in his mouth and popped his cheek.
    Reg threw a pillow at him. ‘Don’t you get on my case as well! I’ve got enough people telling me what I should do. There’s a whole big world out there and you and me should be off exploring it instead of rushing down the aisle.’
    ‘That’s why we came to sea, isn’t it? To see the world, meet the rich – and clean up after them. Did I tell you I had to mop up after a yappy little dog had a widdle in the dining saloon yesterday? The owner knows she’s not supposed to bring him, but she sneaks him under her shawl then he sits on her lap eating bits of fillet steak and whatnot.’
    Reg smiled. He’d noticed the lady in question, with a tiny nose poking out of her oversized handbag. ‘I bet she’s American.’
    ‘Course. An English lady wouldn’t do that. You can tell a mile off which nationality they are before they open their mouths, can’t you?’
    ‘Definitely. It’s the way they hold themselves. Americans slouch.’ John nodded agreement. ‘And they talk about themselves all the time without listening to other people.’
    ‘I can’t stand watching them eat,’ John added. ‘They shovel the food in. And their table manners would make your hair stand on end. They just reach across the table for things instead of asking and they use all the wrong cutlery.’
    A steward lying on a nearby bunk, a chap called Bill, butted into their conversation. ‘I had one American gent complaining because his knife wouldn’t cut the steak, and he was actually using his fish knife. I didn’t say anything, though. Just went and got him another steak knife and then he was happy.’
    ‘I’ve got one who brings his own cutlery with him because he doesn’t trust ones that anyone else has used. He’s an odd one. Won’t share the sugar bowl with anyone else on his table, but wants one of his own. I just set completely separate things for his place. He’s not even one of the millionaires. He’s down on E Deck.’ This came from a steward named Harry.
    It seemed everyone had a story about the passengers on their tables, although some thought the English were worst because they were so perfectionist and snooty. ‘Lady Duff