So many links in the chain of a life. If Lucinda was living proof of the love I’d shared with Dorothea, Olympic forged shackles which dragged me down. I struggle to see the point where I might have broken the chain, unhooked myself from the sequence of events. Maybe only with Dorothea, in Hong Kong or Frisco or some such place: only then might I have avoided what was to come. But we each made our choices: hers the bank and bullion business out East; mine, White Star and the Atlantic trade.
I was ambitious, so I chose my career. I married Eleanor, a woman who supported that.
I thought about her, my love, my wife. Every marriage has its difficulties, but we’d been together 25 years, and mostly we’d been happy. For us, the worst time was the impending move south. Pulling in different directions, then.
I should have listened to Eleanor.
Even Mel managed to make me feel bad. We were in the garden one sunny afternoon. I was seated in my favourite wicker armchair with the papers, reading a piece about the Hamburg-Amerika Line. It outlined the business they were taking from British companies, emphasising the need for a south coast service.
As though she read my mind, eight-year-old Mel wormed her way in beside me. Looking intently into my eyes, she said, ‘Daddy, I don’t want to go to silly old Southampton… I like it here.’
I set my newspaper aside. ‘So do I, little girl, but it’s Daddy’s job.’
She pouted prettily, and said, ‘But your job takes you away all the time. Why can’t you just go there and do it, and leave us here?’
It was a child’s question, a child’s reasoning. ‘Because I want to be able to spend as much time as possible with you and Mama.’
Frowning, Mel studied me, her head on one side. For a moment, disconcertingly, she looked just like her grandmother. ‘But Daddy, you don’t spend hardly any time with us.’
That hurt, deeply. Feeling crushed, I drew her towards me, kissed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, my angel, but going away to sea, driving big ships – that’s my job, it’s what I do.’ Fishing for names, I said, ‘Your friends – Sarah, is it, and Bertie? Their fathers go away too.’
Such similarities cut no ice. She gave me the benefit of her grey, Atlantic gaze. ‘Don’t you miss us?’
‘Of course I do – I miss you all the time.’
‘I miss you too,’ she said, giving me a little hug and sliding off my knee. ‘But you know,’ she added over her shoulder, ‘I’m going to miss my friends lots more.’
That stung. Wondering what I’d done to her, I stood up as she closed the gate, watching her cross the path to join a group of neighbourhood children. Perhaps half a dozen young ones in the care of a couple of older girls. One of them waved to me. ‘We’re just going to the beach, Mr Smith!’
Automatically, I took out my pocket watch. ‘Be careful of the tide – half an hour, it’ll be coming in.’
‘We will!’
They were well-intentioned, but I didn’t trust them entirely. Going indoors I called to Eleanor from the front hall, saying I was going to have a walk, keep my eye on them. Closing the gate, I looked back at the long white Regency terrace: fifteen years of our lives had been invested here. Mel had never lived anywhere else. It seemed too cruel to drag her away.
In her withdrawing of warmth and approval, Ellie had been making her feelings clear for months, while I’d felt badly-used and resentful. It seemed all our domestic difficulties hinged upon the forthcoming move. The argument went round and round in my head, but every time I considered turning down the new route and staying in Liverpool, my desire for new ships, new challenges, won the day. Ambition had always fired me, and in the past Ellie had approved of that. She loved greeting me when I came ashore: enjoyed the excitement and euphoria of each safe return. It kept our love alive.
With each new liner she was keen to come aboard, see my quarters and the bridge, just so – as she said – she could imagine me there, doing my job and doing it well. She was proud of me, she often said so. It kept me going, refuelled my enthusiasm, made me want to find new challenges to conquer, just to see that sparkle in her eye. She’d reaped the rewards, too. She couldn’t just tell me to stop, take a step back. It wasn’t fair. More to the point, it wasn’t me.
Wedged in a cleft stick, I did not know what to do. Perhaps, as my daughter suggested, I should leave them here? It would mean travelling at either end of every voyage – a compromise that left me slack with dismay – but it was beginning to look like the only way forward. I missed Ellie, missed her badly. The Eleanor I was living with seemed another woman entirely, one who had taken all warmth into herself, leaving me out in the cold.
Preparing for bed that night, I tried not to think of the following day. Another Atlantic crossing, six days in New York, and then another week back again. I was tired – wearied, in truth – not so much by the challenges aboard, but by the trials at home. I hoped, tonight, that Eleanor wouldn’t turn away. It had been a long time and I wanted her so much. Wanted to know we were still one, and not poles apart.
To my surprise, she pushed back the heavy curtains and raised the blind. The weather had changed, and half a gale was rattling the window. Frigid air chilled us both. I wondered what was wrong.
‘Look out there,’ she said at last. ‘Can you see them?’
Bending, I could see our faces and the candles’ flame reflected in the glass. Moving closer, blocking out the room, I spied navigation lights beyond the darkness of the dunes. ‘Ships passing…’
‘Yes.’ She turned and looked at me. ‘You know, Ted, I watch them coming and going in all weathers. I think of you, and I pray for you – especially nights like this, when I cannot sleep for wondering how you are, and what…’ As her voice caught, she took a deep breath and turned away. ‘When I’m wondering what trials you are facing…’
Feeling bad, I laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Ellie…’
‘I’m afraid, Ted,’ she said bleakly, looking up at me. ‘Time goes by so quickly, you’re no sooner home than you’re away again…and it seems to me we’re like those ships – just passing. Sending signals when half the time nobody’s looking.’
‘Don’t say that, Ellie, please…’
‘It’s how it is, Ted. You have your ships – I have my life here. If we were moving to Southampton to be together, I’d go – willingly. Anything to be with you…’ She turned, and came into my arms, her eyes pleading. ‘I’m just afraid to be alone in a strange place. Not knowing anyone. Starting again, like it was when we first came to Liverpool – that’s how it will be. Can’t you see that?’
I said yes, I understood – and it was true, I did. Here she had friends, the support of other wives whose husbands also worked for White Star. Southampton was new territory; it would take years to build the kind of life she had in here in the village. It hurt, but I was beyond trying further persuasion: I knew I had to leave them here. We made up and we made love, and it was intense and heart-breaking, like a last farewell, as though next day’s leaving was for the far side of the world.
Neither of us slept well, and I was aware at one point that she’d risen and gone downstairs. But in the morning, just as I’d kissed my daughter’s solemn face and waved her on her way to school, Ellie came softly to my side.
‘Have we time for a walk?’ she asked. I nodded and she called the dog. After last night’s storm it was a fine, if windy morning with white horses racing in the Estuary. Watching the brown and buff sails of vessels bouncing across the waves, I thought of my passengers and hoped they were good sailors.
We passed the Ismays’ old house with its view of the green Wirral, and the headlands of North Wales beyond. I wondered what old Mr Thomas’s reaction would have been to this new move. It was important for the company, but did I really want it? Logic said yes; but, recalling last night, I was suddenly unsure.
‘It’s not really fair, is it?’ Ellie said suddenly. ‘Of course the whole thing’s unfair, Ted, but I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it.
‘I mean the practical side of things,’ she added, meeting my quizzical gaze. ‘I know you’ve been saying it for months, but I got the Bradshaw out and checked the journey myself. You’re right, it will take four trains and the entire day to get from here to Southampton Docks.’ As I nodded, hardly daring to breathe, she went on, ‘And of course, as soon as you board, you’ll have the ship to take out to sea… Or perhaps you’ll have to travel the day before, cutting short your leave? So I thought – realized,’ she added sadly, ‘that it was wrong of me to expect you to do that.’
Disbelieving for a moment, I had to ask her to explain, and when she said, ‘Well, there’s nothing for it, we’ll just have to move – all of us,’ I was so relieved I couldn’t speak. For a moment, as she gazed at me, tensely waiting on my reply, I couldn’t even move. But then I did, enfolding her silently in my arms.
~~~
Very quickly, we started looking for a home in Southampton. Although we would have loved something similar to the house at Waterloo, with views of the sea and open country to hand, it was not to be. Having turned several down, almost at the last minute we were shown a house on the northern edge of town, just a few years old, large with every modern convenience, close to Southampton’s wooded Common, yet within a few minutes’ walk of shops on the Portswood Road. The house, red brick with gables and turrets and deep bay windows, was much bigger than our old home. It was also more expensive, but with its large, private garden at the rear – terraced and south-facing – it was the best we’d seen.
I worried that it was too big, that Mel and Ellie would rattle round in such a place, but, ‘I love the bathroom,’ Ellie breathed. ‘Imagine – a shower-bath! And water-closets upstairs and down – what luxury!’ She looked up at me with shining eyes. ‘Oh, Ted – could we?’
With more than a dozen rooms it would cost a fortune to heat the place, but it was the brightest smile I’d seen on Ellie’s face for months. The asking price was just affordable, although it would take most of our savings and I hated not to have money behind me. On the other hand I wanted her to be happy. For what felt like an age the pros and cons went back and forth in my head, while Ellie fairly bounced with expectation. At last my anxiety burst forth into laughter. ‘Yes,’ I said, shaking my head at the folly, ‘yes, of course we will…’
~~~
Having handed over my old command, I prepared myself for a journey to Belfast. While I stood by for the final few weeks of the new ship’s fitting out, Ellie was packing for the move south.
I got home in time for moving day. The house we’d loved was as bare as the day we bought it. Taking a final look round, somehow it felt very sad, as though we were leaving our best years behind. In what had been our bedroom, looking down at the neat little park with the untamed dunes beyond, for a moment I wondered what we were doing. All these years I’d lived within sight and sound of the sea. It seemed inconceivable that I should give it up.
‘I shall miss this.’
‘Me too,’ Ellie confessed.
‘I hope we’ve made the right decision,’ I muttered, turning to take her in my arms.
‘Why, Ted,’ she whispered, ‘of course we have.’ But she couldn’t quite meet my eyes when she said it, and a moment later I saw her wiping away tears.
~~~
Despite my forebodings, we became familiar with our new home. If Mel and the family dog missed their daily frolics on the beach, at least our garden here was bigger and more secluded. We were surrounded by trees, and when Ellie suggested naming the house Woodhead, after the Penningtons’ farm, I wasn’t sure if she was really reminded of her childhood home, or because she was homesick.
Between trips, as a family, we took advantage of train rides through the New Forest, and I must say, compared to the austere watering places of the Lancashire coast, the quaint little port of Lymington had an old-world charm that captured all three of us. Even better, from there we could take the ferry to Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight; and, as Mel declared, that was almost like going abroad.
As for me, that summer, each time we came up Southampton Water, I found the intense greens of the woodland on either hand a pleasant shock to eyes attuned to the tones of blue and grey. It was uplifting to the spirit.
I grew used to the new ship, the new port, the new passage in and out. Passing the Hamble with its fishing boats, and the Royal Hospital at Netley, I often thought of Majestic and my time in South Africa. It seemed such a short time since, and yet, as I fingered my service medals I realized it was almost ten years ago. Time seemed to be speeding up. Certainly, between voyages, my days flew past like swifts on the wing. Before we knew it, we were celebrating Mel’s tenth birthday and our first anniversary in the new house.
~~~
Ellie took frequent trips home to begin with, but gradually the visits became less. She and Mel settled in, made new friends. Life was sweet.
But then came Olympic, and with it a class of ships named to evoke the gods of ancient Greece. Olympians, Titans, masters of the universe. Grand in name, grand in concept; but like many such ideas it came to birth at a bad time. Industrial unrest, the financial world still jumpy, meant the fight for domination of the Atlantic trade was increasingly centred on profit and loss. Faced by commercial rivalries, Bruce Ismay, backed by JP Morgan, was determined to grab the world’s attention. This new class would be bigger and better than anything else afloat. The rich and famous would clamour for tickets, eager to be seen and photographed against backdrops so luxurious their friends would scarce believe they were afloat. Gods indeed. With White Star’s best crews working night and day to maintain the illusion.
At 45,000 gross tons, Olympic, the first of the new trio on order, would be almost double the tonnage of the previous Big Four. By far and away the biggest ship in the world, she was already on the drawing board before they thought to consult the men who would be handling her. My early effervescence quickly gave way to a not inconsiderable anxiety.
It came down to practical and unromantic issues. I had to explain to Bruce – and to Lord Pirrie in Belfast – that the increase in length and depth presented their own peculiar problems. Handling something so big would be a huge challenge, for me as well as the pilots. The approaches to most ports were generally along narrow channels, dredged to keep them clear. As it was, Southampton’s Bramble and New York’s Sandy Hook required some tricky navigation to avoid grounding. A new vessel with much deeper draft would be looking for a lot of dredging. Port dues would be more expensive.
Then there was the length of the berth to consider. Not a problem at the new White Star dock in Southampton, but Pier 59 in New York was only just big enough to accommodate the current big liners. Discharging passengers and cargo from a vessel whose proposed length was close to 300 yards from stem to stern would be impossible from the present pier. The New York Dock Commissioners would have to be consulted; although as far as I understood it, the ultimate decision rested with the US War Department.
‘And if they refuse?’ Bruce demanded, suddenly anxious because he hadn’t given that aspect much thought.
‘Well, we might have to move.’
‘Where to?’
I shrugged. ‘Brooklyn, probably.’
‘Brooklyn?’ It might have been Outer Mongolia.
‘Or Staten Island.’
‘Oh, please, EJ, be serious.’
‘I am, sir.’
‘No, it won’t do. We must remain on the Hudson – our passengers won’t tolerate having to travel into town from such outlandish places…’
Such matters were perhaps not the concern of Harland and Wolff – their job, after all, was simply to build a seaworthy vessel. But Bruce’s conviction that he just had to express a wish and all would fall into place infuriated me. I knew my job, and I knew the officials of the Port of New York. White Star was just one company amongst dozens. They would not be told, by Bruce Ismay or even JP Morgan, what they must or must not do. Applications would have to be submitted with due formality, and in good time.
I knew it would be a last minute job. The unresolved situation made my blood boil. I would be the one held to account if things didn’t go well for the maiden voyage. There we were, with the world’s biggest ship in the final stages of her fitting out, and across in New York the new pier – for which we had temporary permission only – was just begun.
By the beginning of May, 1911, I had spent the greater part of two months standing by ashore, dividing my time between Southampton and Belfast. Discussing draft depths and dredging with George Bowyer and the Harbour Master at one end, and getting to know the ins and outs of this massive new ship at the other. Cargo holds, lifting gear, winches, anchors, chain lockers, capstans; fresh water tanks, pipes and electricity circuits; cold rooms, dry stores, galleys and laundries, Royal Mail post rooms and crew accommodation, all to be checked and fixed like a mental map. New navigation instruments to be installed, telegraphs to test and compasses to correct, maintenance manuals to read and certification to be sure of.
The Chief Engineer was with me, and two White Star Superintendents – but, as we kept saying, Olympic was a huge ship, 882 feet long and immensely deep. ‘Who needs the gym and Turkish bath?’ was a regular complaint as one or other of us arrived, gasping, having climbed nine decks and innumerable flights of stairs from the engine room to the bridge. The alleyways seemed to go on for miles.
Sailing day – the 31st of May – was getting closer, and the date for the maiden voyage, two weeks later, was already emblazoned across every major newspaper in the known world. Pictures were appearing in illustrated periodicals, showing Olympic in various stages of completion, her iron hull painted white to show more clearly on the photographs. She was a graceful ship with long, elegant lines and a lovely 18th century stern, and I couldn’t wait to get these interminable preparations over. After all the hard work I wanted some pleasure, to get away to sea, discover how she would handle.
It didn’t help that Bruce was fretting like an expectant father, suddenly afraid that our civic welcome in New York would be spoiled by unsightly scaffolding on an unfinished pier. Meanwhile he was busily contacting Lord Mayors’ offices and organising grand send-offs from both Liverpool and Southampton. As if that were not enough, additional pressure was suddenly applied by the threat of a general strike. And the heart of the trouble was being fomented in Liverpool.
The day we sailed from Belfast for our courtesy visit to Olympic’s port of registry, the new Transport Workers Federation held a massive demonstration, marching through the city to St George’s Hall. The Sailors and Firemen’s Union, together with the Union of Ships’ Stewards, Cooks, Butchers and Bakers had called a strike and the TWF was calling for the support of all transport workers. The march was evidently a ploy to attract publicity just as a civic welcome for White Star’s grand new liner was going on. Certainly it took the edge off things, and needless to say, Bruce was furious. You’d have thought it was personal.
It was certainly cleverly organised. But there was a vast amount of trouble that day, and with a hand-picked crew we only just managed to escape the consequences.
A few days later, on the 14th of June, with the aid of 5 tugs, our pilot, George Bowyer, took us gingerly out of Southampton’s White Star dock. I was with him every inch, but he was so careful I did begin to wonder whether we’d ever get under way. Finally we did. With all Southampton and half the world’s press turned out to cheer us, the excitement was overwhelming; and with every ship in the harbour sounding as we turned and moved forward, it seemed the noise would raise the dead.
As everyone said, the view from the bridge was like gazing down from Mount Olympus. I looked back to see the old walled heart of the city spread out like one of those medieval maps, dotted with rooftops, towers and spires. Steaming down Southampton Water in daylight was another new experience: everything seemed so much smaller. We took the turns around Calshot Spit and the Bramble like a duchess curtseying to royalty. Ahead, on the Isle of Wight, Cowes, with its hundreds of onlookers, looked like Lilliput as we came round into the Solent.
Friends of ours had driven Ellie and Mel down to Stokes Bay, from where they could see the extraordinary array of warships gathered in the eastern channel at Spithead. We were only a matter of three weeks away from the Coronation of our new king, George V, and in the last few days, while we had been taking on stores and cargo, dozens upon dozens of British and foreign warships had been arriving at the anchorage between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. More were yet to arrive for the Coronation Review, but the sight was already awe-inspiring.
George had warned me, but for a moment I simply gaped; and then he said: ‘Hope they’ve left us room to get past…’
Mr Murdoch, my 1st Officer, had drilled the most junior deck officer in the etiquette of salutes between naval and merchant vessels. It was a pleasant formality, generally. But in this instance there were rather a lot of navy ships before us.
‘Right, young man,’ I said to the 6th Officer standing just a few feet away, ‘off you go. Don’t forget – you dip our ensign first, and don’t you dare raise it again until the other fellow’s dipped and raised his…’
‘Yes, sir. Every single one, sir – Mr Murdoch said, sir.’
‘Off you go, then.’ I couldn’t help but smile as he hurried away.
George chuckled. ‘You’ll need new ropes, Captain, by the time you’ve saluted this lot!’
‘Worth it, though!’
I was as proud as the King himself as we progressed between the rows of warships at anchor. With whistles blowing their distinctive whoop-whoop, every single one responded to the dipping of our blue ensign, ratings stood to attention as we passed, the officers saluting. Our passengers were out in force on every deck, their voices a wordless babble of excitement. This was a maiden voyage with all the extras.
Looking through binoculars towards the Island, I could see Ryde, thronged with onlookers, while across on the Portsmouth side the crowds were almost as thick. I searched for Mel and Ellie; suddenly, right on Gilkicker Point I spotted the open-topped car, bonnet gleaming in the sunshine, with figures standing up and waving. I waved back, hoping they could see me, knowing they’d be thrilled by this display of courtesy to a wonderful new ship.
As we reached the Nab, George Bowyer left us, his handclasp warm and firm. ‘Have a safe voyage, Captain.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bowyer…’
Watching the pilot cutter drop back and the warships recede as we picked up speed, I heard Bruce call to me from a few yards away on the Boat Deck.
‘… but we won’t be able to lay this spread on again, more’s the pity.’
I looked at him, still thinking of George and the admirable job he’d done, easing 45,000 tons of ship and cargo around the inverted S of the Bramble, not to mention our slow passage before all those warships.
‘The Coronation, EJ – the Naval Review. Can’t arrange one of these for every new ship, you know…’
I told myself that Bruce was Bruce and turned away.
~~~
Maiden voyages can be difficult, I knew that from experience, and the sheer size of Olympic was a problem in itself. The crew – sailors and firemen alike – kept getting lost, while the stewards – our front line where passengers were concerned – seemed to take an age to find their way around. Bruce was annoyed by the number of complaints.
To balance that, with mainly fair weather and little fog, we averaged just short of 23 knots on the crossing. A speed to be proud of. Arriving early off Sandy Hook, we picked up the pilot at first light, and took the turn into the Ambrose Channel with care. While our passengers were enjoying breakfast we proceeded in stately fashion through the Narrows, which since my previous trip seemed so much narrower, as though a giant had been out and pulled Brooklyn and Staten Island together. I was sweating like a man in a fever by the time we got through. Fortunately, I’d cooled off by the time we reached the Quarantine Anchorage. Port Health officials boarded; and with the crew examined and cleared, we were able to proceed to Manhattan.
Passing Liberty and Ellis Islands as our First and Second Class passengers were being cleared, fifteen minutes later we were passing the Castle and Battery Park. At the foot of Broadway, where the old shipping offices had stood for most of my life, I could see the bulk of the new US Customs House, flanked by a variety of tall buildings. Crowds of cheering sightseers lined the shore like foamy waves, eager to greet Olympic, the world’s biggest and greatest ship. Overwhelmed, we felt like gods indeed.
With horns and whistles blowing, it might have been a royal procession as Olympic headed a fleetof tugs and small boats up the Hudson River to White Star’s Pier 59. The pilot had assured me it was fine, but it wasn’t until I saw the pier for myself – looking complete and perfectly sound – that I was entirely convinced. Coming in, amidst orders being called back and forth, I prayed we wouldn’t disturb so much as an inch of its paintwork as the tugs nudged us gently alongside.
Against the barriers a great crowd was waving and jostling, impatient for us to tie up. Avid with friendship and curiosity, they flooded around the passengers as they disembarked, almost as though they would swallow them whole. Watching from the bridge, a strange sensation seized me. Maybe I was simply overtired – it had been a long night on the bridge – but I felt unnerved by all that humanity. I longed to escape, recover my balance, but as soon as US Customs and Port Officials were done, newspapermen flocked aboard. For the next hour or so, at least a dozen of these scribblers were constantly on hand.
‘How many dinners do you serve, sir, on an average day?’ This to Hugh Latimer, the Chief Steward.
‘Sir – Captain Smith – how far do you walk to conduct your daily inspections?’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘at a sixth of a mile long, and taking into account our walks fore and aft, and up and down eight decks, I should think we walk two or three miles at least – although we haven’t actually measured it. Keeps us fit!’ I said with a smile; but while O’Loughlin and McElroy indulged in their usual witty repartee, I was itching to get away.
One fellow, having asked about the ship’s dimensions, went on to press about lifeboats and safety at sea, and how would we deal with, say, a collision in fog, which had claimed so many lives in the past? I don’t recall the questions exactly, or quite how I replied, but I was reminded of how – thanks to the modern miracle of wireless – passengers on the Republic had all been saved after a recent collision. The Master had escaped with his life just before she went down. I’d been standing by aboard Baltic as his passengers were brought into New York.
That extraordinary story had captured the attention of the world’s press, and I wanted to emphasise the progress we’d made in recent years. Also, I’d just been given command of the world’s newest and biggest liner. The modern design, with watertight compartments in the engine room, was another step forward in shipbuilding.
Maybe I was too confident in my reply. Next day, in black-and-white, I was reported as having said, ‘Modern shipbuilding has gone beyond the absolute disasters of yesteryear,’ and, ‘Whatever happens, there will be time enough before the vessel sinks to save the life of every person on board…’
Whatever happens? I never said that – I was still seaman enough and superstitious enough not to tempt fate with such a statement. Re-reading the piece, I wanted to grab the idiot who’d written it and give him a good talking-to.
‘It’ll be wrapping tomorrow’s hot dogs,’ McElroy said easily, ‘don’t let it bother you, sir. They write what they please and call it news.’
‘But folk believe it,’ I retorted. ‘How often have you heard a man utter complete nonsense, before telling you it must be true, he read it in the paper!’
But newspaper coverage was good for business, as Bruce Ismay was never slow to point out. Americans had evidently taken to this new ship. Our passengers for the return journey were almost twice the number we’d had coming out, and when it came time to leave we were given a marvellous send-off. Thousands lined the sidewalks along the Hudson, and Battery Park saw thousands more, waving flags, handkerchiefs, scarves. It was a tremendous sight, giving a great boost of pride and confidence and satisfaction.
I hoped enough of the crew could see it: after all their trials on the way out, they deserved this accolade.
~~~
Back home it was a different story. By the time we arrived in Southampton, the Shipping Federation had caved in and acquiesced to the seamen’s demands, but then the dockers went on strike, followed by the railwaymen, making travel impossible. That hot summer of 1911 was a nightmare of discontent. According to the newspapers, revolution was in the air. It was easy to believe. In Liverpool in August men took to the streets again, the Riot Act was read, police were armed and troops called out. It was all rather ugly, a minor war in fact, with several strikers brutally attacked and killed.
Ellie’s sympathy was rekindled. She knew how poor these families were, even with a man in work – without work, their situation was unthinkable. I had been used to taking a tougher attitude, my argument being that I’d come from nothing and pulled myself up by my bootstraps – so why couldn’t the rest of mankind? But Ellie insisted that the value of what people earned had gone down, while the cost of living had gone up.
‘Even I can see the difference in what we spend, and we’re not poor.’
‘No wonder costs have risen,’ I retorted, ‘when the dockers won’t lift a finger and food is rotting on the quays. If that’s not a sin, I don’t know what is. Do you know we’re having to load food at Cherbourg? There isn’t enough in Southampton to complete a stores list. Of any quality, that is.’
That stopped the debate. ‘Really, Ted? But that’s terrible.’
‘Yes, it is. Worrying. Time the government got it sorted out.’
The government was battling it out, but no sooner was peace achieved in one part of the country, than disputes and rioting broke out elsewhere. Everyone remarked on the use of guns; even our American visitors were unsettled by the belligerent atmosphere in the country as a whole.
Come September, two trips later, in the midst of worrying about strikes and stores and diminishing passenger numbers, something happened which blew all else to the distant horizon. Just as we made that difficult turn by the Bramble, out of the haze off Cowes appeared a warship, HMS Hawke. And that was where my career, largely uneventful, began to take on a different hue.