The Titan Drowns: Time Travel Romance by Nhys Glover (highly recommended books .txt) 📕

And though his belief in God was sorely tested after all the misfortunes in his life, the rule of cleanliness still held true.

By the time he walked the three quarters of a mile to the Strand, umbrella held over his uniform to keep off the worst of the drizzle, his mood was anything but good. They would have to start new staff to replace those who were going on the Titanic, and the training of the new waiters would fall to him. Some of the new recruits would have no English, and that would cause problems with the patrons. It would then be his problem to fix.

As he hurried into the kitchen from the back entrance alleyway, Giuseppe Gardi himself caught his eye and motioned for him to come with him. He followed, without question, the tall, dapper figure into his office.

‘Enrico has not taken up the offer of work on the White Star Liner as expected and I am one man short. Do you want it?’ Gardi demanded abruptly, as soon as the door was closed. His waxed moustache twitched with obvious disdain.

Marco felt his flagging spirits lift. It was the answer to his prayer and his mistress purred her delight.

‘Sí, signor. I would be happy to take the position.’ He kept his voice calm and polite, because if he gave any indication of his joy, the man was just as likely to withdraw the offer. Keeping his staff happy was at the bottom of the Restaurant Manager’s list of priorities. In fact, he seemed to delight in making their lives a misery wherever possible. It had only been that he was away dealing with last minute matters concerning the voyage the night before that the staff had been able to hold their impromptu Bon Voyage party. No such event could have taken place otherwise.

‘Then get out of here and make your way down to Southampton by this evening. You can stay overnight with some of the others at Bowling Green House in Orchard Place. It is a residence for Italian nationals and very convenient for the harbour. You will need to be at the docks by nine o’clock, at the latest. The ship sails at midday, and we will start serving shortly after that.’ He handed Marco a letter acknowledging his position. Then, with a negligent gesture toward the door, he dismissed him.

Who would replace him for the luncheon sitting, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. He was about to embark on the greatest adventure of his life. Once he arrived in America, he would stay. He had always wanted to see the Wild West and the cowboys and Indians. This was his opportunity. And if he made enough in tips on the voyage over, he might be able to have enough for his transport west without recourse to employment straight away. He didn’t want to get caught in New York as so many others like him had done before.

America… the land of opportunity! He had yearned for those fair shores since he was a child, but the cost of such a journey was more than he could raise. Even on the cheapest vessels, it cost almost a month’s salary for a steerage class ticket. He had never been able to save that sort of money when he sent every spare penny back home to his mother.

Not that she needed his help so much now. His brothers were all working and his sister Mary was married with children of her own. Only the baby, Rosa, who was now fourteen, was still at home. That his mother had several more children to her second husband was not his concern. He owed them nothing, but helping his mother still remained a priority. It was almost an act of contrition, continuing to send her money. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for his selfishness and cruelty back then, but no words could do his feelings justice. So he sent the money in their stead, and she accepted it for what it was and wrote him long, loving letters every chance she got.

But now he need not concern himself with raising the fare. He could travel for nothing and use his earnings to pay for the rest of the journey west. The West had made many men rich. Maybe now he’d be one of them.

‘Marco, where’re yer off te?’

The high-pitched voice of a child drew his attention as he hurried down the alley. He stopped to look back at the grubby, little urchin standing beside the garbage bins outside the back door of the restaurant.

‘Micky, you’re out early,’ he said, by way of greeting, smiling at the eight-year-old child with filthy face and ragamuffin clothes. The boy’s accent marked him as Irish; one of the many who had flooded into London while famine held their homeland ransom. Marco knew the lad earned his living as a thief on the streets around the Strand, and that he used that money to support his family who lived together in one room in a tenement not far away.

‘Aye, me dah threw me out early-like because pick’ns were so bad yest’de.’ He scratched at his lice infested hair and gave a little, apologetic shrug. Sometimes the boy’s accent was too broad to understand; today was no exception. But, though he didn’t catch all the words, Marco got the gist and felt his heart go out to the child. His own father had been a good man. Micky’s wasn’t. And Micky was in an impossible position.

‘Where yer off te then?’ Micky asked again, wandering over to him on scrawny legs that didn’t seem strong enough to support him.

‘The Titanic. I have to go there straight away. It leaves tomorrow.’

‘That big boat ye yabbered on about? Thought they didn’t want yer fer that,’ he said, his face suddenly alive with excitement. The lad was one of the few friends he’d made in his time in London and the only one he’d shared his disappointment with concerning the missed opportunity to sail aboard the Titanic. Now his little mate was happy for him, even though he would have to have realised that his free meals would come to an end with Marco’s disappearance.

‘Sí, I was not going, but someone has dropped out and they have no one else. So I go.’

‘Aye, there’ll be fair pick’ns on board that mewty craft, I’ll be thinkin’!’ The boy was almost jumping up and down in delight for him. It warmed his heart that the lad cared enough to be so unselfish in his joy for him. He reached into his pocket and found the few shillings he had there. He needed enough for his train ticket to Southampton and his accommodation for the night down there, but surely, he had enough to give the lad a few pennies for a meal?

Then he thought about his accommodation. His room was paid up until Friday and he wouldn’t be able to carry all his possessions with him on the ship. Maybe the lad could use the space and his belongings.

‘Come back to my place and I will give you what I do not need. I do not plan to return.’

The boy’s face became closed and suspicious. Marco was shocked by the boy’s reaction. But then, surely Micky had been subjected to the kind of attentions that had plagued his own youth. It was only sensible that he was cautious of older men.

‘Do not worry, Micky. With all the women I have, my hands are full enough. I do not need to trouble a boy such as you.’ He spoke gently, but with humour, and was pleased to see the lad’s chagrin.

‘It ain’t that. I know you ain’t one of those types. I just don’t like takin’ charity is all.’ The boy slouched his shoulders and kicked at the dirt with his holey shoe.

Marco should have realised it was his pride that was in the way, not his fears. Even getting the boy to take a meal with him had been an act of diplomacy. He would stand outside the kitchen with his own plate piled high with leftovers and offer the lad bits and pieces off it as they talked. Eventually, he’d introduced a separate plate, saying it was a serving someone had sent back. Only when he was sure it wasn’t charity would the boy agree to take what was offered. Micky never begged, no matter how hungry he was, and that was probably the reason Marco liked him so much.

‘Not charity. Just a way of getting rid of what I cannot carry. You would be doing me a service as I have no time to sell it.’

‘Then I’d be more’n happy to help yer out, me boyo.’ His grin revealed stained and missing teeth. No matter how many times Marco had seen that cheeky grin before, the sight made him cringe. His mother would have been horrified by the little boy’s hygiene.

 

As they walked along, companionably, sharing the umbrella that kept the worst of the rain off them, Marco felt a pang of regret. He would miss the lad and would worry about what became of him. If his father didn’t beat him to death or the police catch and imprison him, then he’d die of hunger or disease, like so many other children in this city. Not for the first time, he felt the anger and frustration such unfairness inspired. Why should a child like Micky starve on the streets as rich men walked by, uncaring? It was probably the reason he did not condemn Micky’s career choice. It was one way to balance the discrepancy.

By the time he had changed into his street clothes and selected what he’d need to take with him, it was well past midday. He shared with Micky some fruit he’d taken from the restaurant the night before and then said his farewells, telling the lad he could use the room until the end of the week. The tears in the boy’s eyes as he waved goodbye were the best gift he’d received in years.

It was just after six that evening when Marco’s train steamed into Southampton Docks Station. By that time, his sadness over leaving Micky had been replaced by overwhelming excitement. He found it hard to believe that his life could change so completely in a matter of hours. It seemed like a million years ago that he had woken up that morning, hung over and depressed because of the state of his life. And now, at the other end of that same day, he was as excited as a small child who was taking his first journey away from home.

It wasn’t as if harbours and travel were a novelty to him. He had seen so many of them in the fourteen years since he left Milano that they should have lost their appeal. But there was something different about this trip. He could feel it deep in his bones. It wasn’t just the unexpectedness of the trip, or even its destination, or that it was the maiden voyage of the largest ship in the world – the unsinkable RMS Titanic. It was something else entirely.

The only way he could describe the feeling was to say he was finally stepping into his destiny. Until today he had been floundering around on the edges of his life, never sure which way to go. Now the way was clear and straight, and he was determined to greet whatever came with courage and intelligence. He hoped he had enough of both to do the job.

After fighting his way through the milling crowds on the station, he started looking for someone who might point him in the direction of his accommodation. He spotted a wagoner who looked like he might be a local loading his wagon with goods from the train.

‘Which way to Orchard Place, please?’ he asked the man politely

The middle-aged man gave him the disgusted once-over he was used to receiving from the English who resented foreigners, but he was good-natured enough to point off to the left. ‘Follow Canute Road up to Queens Park. It’s one o’ the roads off the park.’

‘Thank you most kindly, sir.’ He was in the mood to be magnanimous, and along with his polite gratitude, he gave the man his broadest