Tip of the Iceberg Page 2

  Charlotte had always been in awe of her sister and was happy living in her shadow. Esme was charming, witty, and intelligent with all these qualities neatly packaged in a lithe, yet gracefully curved frame that disguised her strength. She disarmed men and women alike with her beauty, the shining emeralds in her eyes, highlighted by the soft, jet curls framing her face, captivating stokers and sea captains alike. So striking were her eyes most people, meeting her for the first time, couldn’t remember anything else about her countenance, which did her high cheekbones and delicate, slightly upturned mouth a huge disservice. Once a man had fallen under her spell, he would feel compelled to either spend a small fortune just to remain in her company, a situation favoured by the Belvedere’s landlord, or propose to her in an extravagant fashion. Some would do both before staggering back to their ship to sleep off the night’s excesses.

  Esme got her first clear sight of the rags heaped haphazardly on the damp ground and put out a restraining arm to prevent her sister from advancing any closer. “Don’t look Charlotte. It’s not a sight to be filling a young girl’s head as it will summon the darkest of terrors and haunt her dreams. Please take the boys back to the road.” Esme pushed Charlotte away, propelling her in the direction of both the assembled boys and the main road.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked; Esme’s reaction had piqued her curiosity. She pushed back against her sister’s arm, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the hidden horrors her sister had witnessed, but Esme held firm, pushing Charlotte back. Charlotte finally accepted the inevitable and reluctantly walked away, signalling for the boys to follow.

  Esme watched Charlotte walk away, the gang of boys trailing in her wake as she headed towards the warm yellow glow of the gaslights lighting up the thoroughfare. Then she turned her attention to the large pile of rags and the body concealed within.

  Three

  Patrick eyed the basket with suspicion, disinclined to touch it. The men, gathered around their table, had fallen silent and the old sailor, sitting opposite Patrick, had the look of an expectant grandfather handing out presents to his grandchildren on Christmas Day. Inspecting the basket, he was impressed by its sturdy construction and the workmanship involved, and although Patrick was no expert, he guessed the basket originated from the African continent. Despite his reservations, Patrick stretched out his hand and ran it over the basket’s lid. He felt the wood’s undulating smoothness, each twist expertly finished with none of the sharp, jagged snags that blighted old or cheaply made baskets.

  Something inside the basket moved. A faint scurrying sound was accompanied by a gentle creak as the wooden staves rubbed together. Patrick quickly withdrew his hand and stood up, knocking his chair over. The sailor and his cohorts standing around them roared with laughter. Patrick joined in nervously, unsure whether he was the butt of the joke or if there was some secret he was not yet privy to.

  The amusement was such, it took a minute or more for everyone to settle, and even the weather-beaten old sailor had to wipe a tear from his eye, using the threadbare cuff of his overcoat. When he’d regained his composure, the sailor said, “I like you Belfast. You’re off to conquer the world all full of pretentious swagger, but deep down you’re just a nipper not long off his mother’s tit.” He motioned for Patrick to retake his seat before continuing, “Take my advice lad, travel through life like it’s a game of cards. Hold ‘em or fold ‘em, but do it with belief, not fear.” Gently tapping the top of the basket, he fixed Patrick with a challenging stare, then added, “So Belfast, are you gonna hold on and believe or are you folding with fear?”

  Patrick met the old man’s stare and began undoing the leather thongs that held the lid down. All the while, he heard something scurrying about within the basket and briefly thought he heard a baby’s whimper. He pulled the last thong free and placed it next to the basket on the table, keeping one hand on the lid to ensure it remained closed; at least until he was ready. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle in response to the oppressive weight of expectation in the now silent hostelry. Patrick sensed this was a defining moment in his life; if he bottled it now he would always be an emotional coward unable to seize the moment, to take the risks that would bring life’s greatest rewards. Pretentious swagger or not, the time to step into manhood was now.

  With a deft flick of Patrick’s wrist, the basket’s lid swung up and over to land on the table with a soft thud and the familiar creak of shifting willow. The sound, although barely audible, sounded like a door slamming shut on his childhood. All the while Patrick had returned the sailor’s stare, and rather than feeling intimidated, he sensed the old man’s pride and admiration; an unspoken bond had formed between kindred spirits. But now, Patrick looked away, stealing a glance into the basket.

  Huddled in one corner was a tiny monkey. Its long tail curled around its body, either for protection or possibly warmth, and its saucer-like, mahogany brown eyes looked wide and terrified as the poor scraggly creature tried to make itself look small and invisible. Patrick looked up at the sailor, momentarily speechless. Of all the things he’d imagined being in the basket, some more macabre or bizarre than real, he’d not expected a monkey. He had thought perhaps something hideous and grotesque, maybe reptilian, a dragon or a shrunken head, but certainly not a cute little monkey. He smiled and reached into the basket to pick up the tiny bundle of fur.

  The sailor’s hand stayed his. “I suggested you shouldn’t act out of fear, I didn’t suggest you should become a fool. That animal, however small and dainty it may seem, has the devil within it. When it has the will, it can become the most disagreeable of creatures. Only this morning it took a liking to the finger of a crew member of mine. It bit down to the white of his bone, and it wasn’t long before the evil spread through his body, sending the poor man into a delirium.”

  Patrick withdrew his hand and looked around the assembled crowd seeking confirmation of the sailor’s warning. He felt relieved not to see a delirious madman glaring at him, although several of the tough looking sailors and rougher looking dockers were nodding in silent agreement. A few of these world-weary men, who thought nothing of gambling their skills against Nature's violent seas to earn a shilling then brawling in the bars and brothels of the world’s ports to spend it, looked scared or at least apprehensive. Their eyes clearly focused on the basket and its enigmatic contents. He returned his attention to the monkey and wasn’t afraid to admit his confusion. His eyes told him of a cute monkey held captive far from his home, lost in a confusing world, but his ears told of a savage beast capable of a fury powerful enough to take down a grown man. The curiosity cat within was scratching to be let out, and Patrick was about to open the door.

  “Where is this man so afflicted by this evil curse?” Patrick asked. “Without proof, all you have is a story, a clever and intriguing story I grant, but a story nonetheless. I will take this animal off your hands thereby saving you from the wrath of your wife, which I suspect is more terrifying and because I, like you, see the potential return on this investment once in the new world.” As if to emphasize his point, Patrick flipped the lid shut and began rethreading the leather thong.

  Again the old sailor laughed, his eyes twinkling in the gloomy gaslight. “Aye, I fear you may be right about my wife, however, the story I tell is true. The man in question felt light-headed with a fever so high his blood may have boiled. He left earlier to return to his lodgings and sleep it off.” The old sailor paused long enough to signal to the barman then continued. “It’s rare I meet a man who reminds me so much of my own youth. It has been an honour to make your acquaintance, Belfast, and I wish you God-speed on your journey. Will you join me in a last drink before we go our separate ways?”

  Doffing his cap respectfully to the ancient mariner, Patrick replied with a smile, “I would be honoured, although I’ll be payin’ as you lost all ya money to me four kings.” Again, the tobacco-stained moustache tilted upwards at the ends as the gnarled old sailor’s deep laugh boomed a
cross the crowded pub.

  Four

  Sixth officer James Moody stood silently on the Poop Deck of the Royal Mail Ship Titanic. The day had dawned fine and clear; the early morning sun, although bright, had yet to warm the air, and Moody was glad he’d chosen to wear his heavy overcoat. He looked at his pocket watch and patiently waited for the second hand to tick round towards the hour. In the distance a church’s bells began to peal, announcing the approaching hour as the hand on Moody’s pocket watch ticked on past the Roman numeral IX.

  “Stand by, Mr. Callahan!” Officer Moody issued the command in a loud, clear voice despite Mr. Callahan standing only a few feet away.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Mr. Callahan’s accent identified him as American, indeed the one fact Officer Moody knew about Callahan was he was the only American enlisted on the ship’s crew. The distant bells stopped ringing for a moment, then the first dull chime rang out across the harbour, signalling the hour.

  “If you would be so good, Mr. Callahan?” Moody watched as the American expertly hoisted the Blue Ensign up the flagpole. As he tied off the lanyard, Moody briefly saluted before wheeling away just as the church clock struck for the eighth and last time. He was due to meet with Captain Smith in fourteen minutes to collect the Captain’s report verifying the ship’s readiness for sea, and Mr. Moody was not in the habit of being even one minute late for a meeting.

  As he walked briskly across the Poop Deck heading for the Captain’s quarters located just aft of the Bridge, Officer Moody stole a glance over the handrail at the quayside far below. Even at this early hour, the White Star Dock around Berth 44 was crowded with smartly dressed well-wishers and rougher looking navvies, all eager to watch the world’s largest vessel set sail on her maiden voyage. A band was setting up on a raised dais close to the main gangway and occasional notes of disjointed music floated up to Moody as the musicians tuned their instruments. He sensed he was about to embark on something momentous, something people would tell their grandchildren about in years to come, and a soft tingle of pride ran down his spine.

  “Gee, will you take a look at that? We don’t sail for another four hours and the passengers don’t board for two.” Able seaman Callahan walked quickly, half a stride behind Moody, matching the young officer’s pace.

  “I’ll remind you, Mr. Callahan, you are here to do a job, and to do it professionally.” Moody’s pace didn’t falter, as he firmly fixed his gaze straight ahead. “We will all be under great scrutiny: from passengers, the company, even our peers. You will do well to remember that and act accordingly, not gawk at the crowds.”

  “Yes sir, I apologise. I’ve never before born witness to anything as spectacular as today’s events and, for a moment, it got the better of me.” Mr. Callahan’s tone matched his apologetic words, and Moody sensed his chastisement may have sounded a little too harsh.

  Lowering the volume of his voice, Moody looked directly at the American, his eyes sparkling with excitement “Neither have I, Mr. Callahan. Neither have I.”

  Mrs. Bridget Grafton modestly pulled the crisp Egyptian linen sheet up to her neck as her husband of barely two months collapsed beside her on the bed, a slight wheeze evident in his laboured breaths. She had awoken less than five minutes before to find him knelt between her legs fumbling with the cord of his pyjama bottoms, and out of some sleepy wifely duty, or just plain pity, she’d finally relented. After all, it was his honeymoon too and only the second time she had allowed his obvious excitement to get the better of her. Now, lying next to him in the hotel’s king-sized bed, she realized he’d not once kissed her or shown her any real affection, just basic, and frankly, disappointing sex.

  She listened to his wheezing breath for a minute or so before venturing to speak. “Could you ask Violet to draw me a bath.”

  Rising from the bed without answering her, Captain William Grafton refastened his pyjama trousers before donning the Oriental styled housecoat Bridget had bought him at an exclusive London tailor. Once suitably dressed, he gave the call bell’s sash a sharp tug, summoning their maid. There was a brief pause, followed by a gentle knock on the bedroom door. “Come in,” William responded with the confidence of an upper-class English gentleman schooled at Harrow and educated at Cambridge. At fifty years old, he was the sole heir to the Grafton steel empire reportedly worth £100 million, and almost thirty years the senior of Bridget, who had only celebrated her debutant ball the previous spring. Captain Grafton was a man with a reputation for getting what he wanted and when introduced to the belle of the ball, he had known exactly what he wanted. A whirlwind romance followed, attracting much gossip on both sides of the Atlantic. Many people in London’s society had openly expressed their shock at his choice of a woman young enough to be his daughter, fearing the marriage was doomed to fail. But they quickly became one of society’s golden couples, the wealthy dashing Captain and the beautiful and outspoken American with Boston new money connections.

  “Good morning, Violet.” William barely looked at the servant as she entered the room. “Could you please draw a bath for Mrs. Grafton and have Cecil meet me in my dressing room in five minutes?” Then he walked into the connecting bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind him.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Grafton. I trust you slept well.” Violet smiled at her mistress. Bridget wasn’t sure if she detected a hidden meaning in the words, and she wondered if the maid had overheard her and William’s hurried love making.

  She chose to assume not and stretched, letting out a fake yawn before replying, “I’m sailing home on the Titanic today, Violet, of course I didn’t sleep well; I’m far too excited.”

  Violet smiled politely, a faraway look in her eyes that Bridget thought both odd and a little rude. Despite the two women being so close in age, they had failed to strike up any form of relationship since Captain Grafton had taken it on himself to employ Violet as his wife’s personal attendant.

  Bridget remained lying in the warm, comfortable bed while Violet, excusing herself with a perfunctory curtsey, began running the bath. Taking a glance at the wall clock, Bridget noted she had almost an hour before the South Western Hotel stopped serving breakfast and at least two before they needed to make the short cab ride to the White Star Pier. After a few minutes, Violet returned to the bedroom and began laying out Bridget’s clothes for the day. Bridget turned lazily onto her side and, propping up her head with a delicate arm, asked, “Have you finished packing?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Your suitcases for the voyage are already in the lobby. I will escort them to your cabin in advance and unpack for you whilst you and Captain Grafton are at breakfast.” Violet continued bustling around the bedroom gathering the last of Bridget’s possessions together.

  After a few minutes, Bridget finally threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed. She walked into the spacious bathroom pulling her nightgown up over her head, casually discarding it on the linoleum covered floor before stepping into the bath. Sinking into the warm, lavender scented water, she stretched out her still sleepy muscles, letting the water’s warmth soothe out the night’s knots. She stared down at her slightly rounded belly and gently rubbed the developing bump, allowing the water to lap back and forth across her body.

  Violet stood in the doorway, the discarded nightgown in her hand. She had seen her mistress naked many times in the last few months and had herself noted the growing bulge and slight swelling of Bridget’s breasts. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Ma’am, but you’ll find it hard to disguise your pregnancy much longer. I fear you’ll be ‘aving to tell Captain Grafton sooner rather than later.”

  “What makes you presume I’ve not already told my husband of our impending good fortune?” Bridget asked, casually making small ripples in the bathwater with her hands.

  “Because ...” Violet paused pursing her lips, obviously unsure whether to proceed with her observation.

  “Because?” Bridget repeated, turning slightly to face Violet. She looked troubled, her expression reflecting her i
nner turmoil. Then her verbal dam broke, the words flooding out unabridged.

  “Because he would not treat you in the manner he does if he knew you were carrying his child.” Violet’s speech was rapid, and she hardly drew breath before continuing, “I mean the way he treats you when he believes you to be alone.”

  “I’m at a loss to understand what you are gibbering about. Your master is a well-respected gentleman who always behaves impeccably,” Bridget replied angrily. Mortified, she turned away to hide the telltale flush colouring her cheeks, waving a dismissive hand at Violet, signalling their conversation was at an end. How dare she be so presumptuous to make suppositions about her employer’s marriage? But what really irked her was the accuracy of Violet’s words.

  Bridget sank deeper into the soothing, warm water and pondered her predicament. She knew she would have to tell William soon, but the timing needed to be just right.

  Five

  Like all seaports, Southampton was a chaotic collection of quays and piers, warehouses and cranes, and in the harbour, tugboats and tenders crisscrossed the grey-blue water leaving frothy, white wakes. At the centre of this chaos floated the majestic hull of the Titanic, her white superstructure glistening in the sunlight. Three of her four mighty funnels smoked lazily as the plumes drifted away on the gentle breeze. She had sailed into port the previous week, quickly becoming the harbour’s focal point as she took on a seemingly never-ending list of supplies. Even now, just a few hours before her scheduled departure, the firemen and stokers were busy loading and trimming the last of the coal.

  Into this maelstrom strode Patrick. He carried a battered suitcase, which contained almost everything he owned, and a hastily purchased secondhand valise. Inside the valise was Pandora. He’d always liked the name Pandora and it seemed a suitable name for a grumpy, ill-tempered, bag dwelling monkey. He had covered the valise in old hessian sacking he found behind one of the large warehouses so as not to draw attention to it, and he hoped, subdue Pandora.