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Abstract

not to feel desperate.An officer grim, white-faced, shouted, ‘Women and children this way!’ So with a tide of other nursemaids and Second Class matrons, she was corralled towards Lifeboat No 5 and helped inside that fragile cradle dangling in peril, above a dark abyss.It took an age to lower them, and with every unceremonious jolt, she was more afraid of what might lay in wait beneath. She sat there, huddled on a narrow bench with strangers barely saying a word, her weary arms the poor child’s only bulwark, and when they finally touched the water, and the men pulled at the oars, she could hear the women’s quiet sobs as if hope was lost for good and their worst fears could no longer be stowed away.Soon the oarsmen of No 5 decided they had gone far enough and they just sat there, resting — while the boat gently rocked, listening to the great ship’s farewell music before the lights went out. And then the terrible thing happened that everyone said was impossible— the big proud ship went down, breaking up with an agonised groan, as if a heavy prison door barnacled with ice, was closing far below in the fathomless depths. There were other sounds too, that would later echo in her dreams, the cries of lost souls half-swallowed by the black ocean. And she was glad of the small child in her arms —cold, but more or less oblivious, so she hugged him tight and when he became restless and wriggled to much, she let him chew and drool on the top button of her coat.When dawn broke, the crew of the tiny boat saw another ship on the horizon, bearing towards them with purpose — their salvation in her sights. And soon they were pulled astern and hauled on board along with other survivors. Her arms were now frozen around the child so they were scooped up as one by two burly deckhands, and somehow, a seam of her coat was ripped — but no matter, she was just thankful to be placed on solid deck once more. And much later she learned the ship’s name — Carpathia.She stood there on weak legs and a little dazed as people gathered round. Then a woman she didn’t recognise, draped in heavy shawls came up to her, calling out ‘Alfred!’ and prised the child from her arms — and the toddler began to scream. And with her mouth set grim his mother — from Second Class presumably — shock and relief written plainly on her face, walked away with her child stray. The stewardess was glad, but couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss and emptiness glide past — like the shadow of an iceberg.She was given some hot soup and then tea — which must have had brandy in it as it burned her throat — and while she sat shivering in a deck chair with a blanket over her shoulders, some ladies approached with a dark bundle — a fur coat.‘We were supposed to be bound for sunnier climes — but I brought this along just in case and I’m now glad, as you have need of it,’ said one of the ladies — and they kindly helped her divest herself of her torn worsted, before sinking with gratitude inside this new luxurious skin, lined with satin.Years later, this Carpathia coat soon spun it’s own meandering myth, in the family of her nephew and niece, and further on, down the years.<p id="753c"

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‘That’s her coat. The one she wore on the Titanic!’‘Whose coat?’‘You know — what’s-her-name — oh, mother’s favourite aunt. The one who was a stewardess on the Titanic — and survived — the kindly one who never married — or went near water again.’There was the group photograph of course— valuable proof of this unfamiliar relative, wearing the fabled coat and standing with the other surviving stewardesses on the deck of the saviour ship.She had never told her niece the whole story and besides, so much time had passed it didn’t really matter. And she kept wearing the coat for many winters after. The Carpathia coat, given to her by one of the Kalman sisters — who stayed in touch for a while. But as the years passed by and she became more frail, the coat became too heavy for her to bear.Just before she handed it down, while extracting some spent mothballs from the pockets— she discovered trapped in the deepest depths of the lining, a long lost souvenir from that terrible night — an orphan button, bedraggled thread still attached and engraved upon its rim, two tiny teeth marks.Alfred’s! Salvaged from her old coat — she’d clean forgotten about that—it was hanging by a thread and she’d torn it off. No doubt Alfred’s own memories of that terrible night had been washed far out to sea by now. There was likely no one still around to tell her lost boy of his time on the doomed Titanic, when a young stewardess from First Class had found him wandering the deck and taken him under her wing.This is loosely based on the stories of Violet Jessop and Mabel Bennett who were two first class stewardesses on board RMS Titanic — but I’ve given the main elements a big twist. Mabel’s coat was auctioned in 2017 for £150,000 — twice the estimate. In the photograph taken of her standing with other surviving stewardesses on board the rescue ship, Carpathia — her fur coat — surely a luxury item — stands out, and that set me thinking. Violet Jessop was handed a babe in arms to look after by one of the stewards, while she was sitting in Lifeboat No 5. When they were taken on board the Carpathia, she had it snatched from her by the mother — who offered no word of thanks.A total of 53 children under 14 years of age perished in the Titanic disaster. 52 of them were from Steerage Class. My fictional Alfred, carried to the lifeboats by my First Class stewardess with no name, reflects the fact that no children from Second Class were lost in the disaster. The only child to perish from First Class, along with her parents (Mr & Mrs Allison from Toronto) was Helen Loraine. She was two years old and her body was never found. Shortly after the collision, the Allison’s nursemaid, Alice Cleaver, had taken their baby son,Trevor, straight to the lifeboats. Unfortunately, Mr and Mrs Allison were unaware of this and remained behind on the promenade deck with Helen, waiting for the nursemaid to join them, unaware that she had already departed from the ship with Trevor and other members of the household. Presumably the family waited too long — as each precious lifeboat left the ship — some of them barely half full.**</article></body>

The Carpathia Coat

A fiction piece (which started out as a poem) based on the stories of two First Class stewardesses who were on board the RMS Titanic when it hit an iceberg shortly before midnight on April 14th, 1912.

A coat of muskrat, pelt a little flat in places, lining torn, altered some time in the 1950’s. The label says ‘Worn on the RMS Titanic by a First Class Stewardess’ — Mabel, Violet, Alice, Mary?

We can’t quite remember, but the ship’s name — of course!

She was in her nightdress when they called everyone to the boats. Her charges had already retired to their staterooms — their mild surprise and puzzlement at this interruption gradually mounting to a general consternation that wove its way through the hushed corridors of First Class, making all the service bells ring at once. She hurriedly put on her uniform and she was soon on duty, fetching wraps and fur stoles to drape around her charges as they grumbled at the inconvenience of such a thing happening — an awful lot of fuss in the wake of the slightest of shudders. Everyone knew the ship was unsinkable.

The chief steward warned her this exercise was likely to last into the early hours, so she threw on her gabardine coat of worsted wool — a hand-me-down and three winter’s old, buttoning it tight. Most of the passengers seem reluctant to venture out on such a chilly night, yet she was careful to set an example as she shepherded her stately herd towards the unknown. As they progressed at a leisurely pace onto the promenade deck, she didn’t really think about the other ones, the souls confined way below the water-line — those invisible masses —or where they would be told to go.

They were giving out bulky cork-filled vests to wear and there seemed plenty of them— but she gave hers away to a foreign-looking gentleman with lop-sided pince-nez, who seemed to be without and was already listing after too much port. As he tipped his hat and thanked her kindly, she never forgot his sad brown eyes with dark circles around them.

She was standing near the boat deck when a child toddled by, little fist screwed up near his eyes— crying, disowned by a milling crowd too preoccupied — so she scooped him up in her arms and tucked him half inside her coat, his small body warmer than any cork or canvas float and she tried her best to comfort him, as she looked around for his mother. Gazing out into the darkness, she glimpsed those mysterious shapes — icebergs — sinister small islands with looming mountain ranges, not far from the ship — yet somehow aloof — working their own silent passage south.

A flare exploded in the clear night sky — a firework bereft of any ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ a bloody gash hanging high above the great ship, making the general assembly even more restless as they circled the deck, trampling a litter of icy shards, scattered there like broken stars. The small child clutched at her and whimpered ‘Mama’, burying his head against her neck. She was trying so hard not to feel desperate.

An officer grim, white-faced, shouted, ‘Women and children this way!’ So with a tide of other nursemaids and Second Class matrons, she was corralled towards Lifeboat No 5 and helped inside that fragile cradle dangling in peril, above a dark abyss.

It took an age to lower them, and with every unceremonious jolt, she was more afraid of what might lay in wait beneath. She sat there, huddled on a narrow bench with strangers barely saying a word, her weary arms the poor child’s only bulwark, and when they finally touched the water, and the men pulled at the oars, she could hear the women’s quiet sobs as if hope was lost for good and their worst fears could no longer be stowed away.

Soon the oarsmen of No 5 decided they had gone far enough and they just sat there, resting — while the boat gently rocked, listening to the great ship’s farewell music before the lights went out. And then the terrible thing happened that everyone said was impossible— the big proud ship went down, breaking up with an agonised groan, as if a heavy prison door barnacled with ice, was closing far below in the fathomless depths. There were other sounds too, that would later echo in her dreams, the cries of lost souls half-swallowed by the black ocean. And she was glad of the small child in her arms —cold, but more or less oblivious, so she hugged him tight and when he became restless and wriggled to much, she let him chew and drool on the top button of her coat.

When dawn broke, the crew of the tiny boat saw another ship on the horizon, bearing towards them with purpose — their salvation in her sights. And soon they were pulled astern and hauled on board along with other survivors. Her arms were now frozen around the child so they were scooped up as one by two burly deckhands, and somehow, a seam of her coat was ripped — but no matter, she was just thankful to be placed on solid deck once more. And much later she learned the ship’s name — Carpathia.

She stood there on weak legs and a little dazed as people gathered round. Then a woman she didn’t recognise, draped in heavy shawls came up to her, calling out ‘Alfred!’ and prised the child from her arms — and the toddler began to scream. And with her mouth set grim his mother — from Second Class presumably — shock and relief written plainly on her face, walked away with her child stray. The stewardess was glad, but couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss and emptiness glide past — like the shadow of an iceberg.

She was given some hot soup and then tea — which must have had brandy in it as it burned her throat — and while she sat shivering in a deck chair with a blanket over her shoulders, some ladies approached with a dark bundle — a fur coat.

‘We were supposed to be bound for sunnier climes — but I brought this along just in case and I’m now glad, as you have need of it,’ said one of the ladies — and they kindly helped her divest herself of her torn worsted, before sinking with gratitude inside this new luxurious skin, lined with satin.

Years later, this Carpathia coat soon spun it’s own meandering myth, in the family of her nephew and niece, and further on, down the years.

‘That’s her coat. The one she wore on the Titanic!’

‘Whose coat?’

‘You know — what’s-her-name — oh, mother’s favourite aunt. The one who was a stewardess on the Titanic — and survived — the kindly one who never married — or went near water again.’

There was the group photograph of course— valuable proof of this unfamiliar relative, wearing the fabled coat and standing with the other surviving stewardesses on the deck of the saviour ship.

She had never told her niece the whole story and besides, so much time had passed it didn’t really matter. And she kept wearing the coat for many winters after. The Carpathia coat, given to her by one of the Kalman sisters — who stayed in touch for a while. But as the years passed by and she became more frail, the coat became too heavy for her to bear.

Just before she handed it down, while extracting some spent mothballs from the pockets— she discovered trapped in the deepest depths of the lining, a long lost souvenir from that terrible night — an orphan button, bedraggled thread still attached and engraved upon its rim, two tiny teeth marks.

Alfred’s! Salvaged from her old coat — she’d clean forgotten about that—it was hanging by a thread and she’d torn it off. No doubt Alfred’s own memories of that terrible night had been washed far out to sea by now. There was likely no one still around to tell her lost boy of his time on the doomed Titanic, when a young stewardess from First Class had found him wandering the deck and taken him under her wing.

This is loosely based on the stories of Violet Jessop and Mabel Bennett who were two first class stewardesses on board RMS Titanic — but I’ve given the main elements a big twist. Mabel’s coat was auctioned in 2017 for £150,000 — twice the estimate. In the photograph taken of her standing with other surviving stewardesses on board the rescue ship, Carpathia — her fur coat — surely a luxury item — stands out, and that set me thinking. Violet Jessop was handed a babe in arms to look after by one of the stewards, while she was sitting in Lifeboat No 5. When they were taken on board the Carpathia, she had it snatched from her by the mother — who offered no word of thanks.

A total of 53 children under 14 years of age perished in the Titanic disaster. 52 of them were from Steerage Class. My fictional Alfred, carried to the lifeboats by my First Class stewardess with no name, reflects the fact that no children from Second Class were lost in the disaster. The only child to perish from First Class, along with her parents (Mr & Mrs Allison from Toronto) was Helen Loraine. She was two years old and her body was never found. Shortly after the collision, the Allison’s nursemaid, Alice Cleaver, had taken their baby son,Trevor, straight to the lifeboats. Unfortunately, Mr and Mrs Allison were unaware of this and remained behind on the promenade deck with Helen, waiting for the nursemaid to join them, unaware that she had already departed from the ship with Trevor and other members of the household. Presumably the family waited too long — as each precious lifeboat left the ship — some of them barely half full.