Spirit of the Titanic (2 page)

“Oh, my God! Samuel?”

It was Charlie, sounding absolutely horrified. I don't know how I managed to hear him. Although it occurred to me that he wasn't as far away as I thought. Keeping my eyes closed, I could only call back his name for an answer. “Charlie.”

“Okay, pet, you're okay. Just open your eyes and look at me. Can you do that? Just concentrate on me, nothing else.”

I wanted to do just as he told me to. In fact, I opened my eyes to do just that, to gaze upon his grimy face and greasy hair. Only when I looked up to see him, I found that he was surrounded by a dense crowd of men, women, and children. Their faces were so white that they were transparent and I could only make out dark circles in place of eyes and mouths. Some of the men seemed to be wearing top hats, while most of the women were poorly dressed, their hair all askew. I could see right through them, to the far side of the gantry. They had no legs, so they seemed to hang still in mid-air. Hundreds and hundreds of them — ghosts, phantoms, ghouls — whatever they were, they were horrible, terrifying me with their silent stares. It was perhaps to get away from them as far and as fast as possible that I instinctively let go of the ladder. And it worked: their empty staring faces got further and further away from me and I hardly noticed Charlie's scream. “Nooo!”

That calm, sunny day is one I'll always remember and can never forget because the twentieth of April, in the year 1910, was the day that I, Samuel Joseph Scott, died.

TWO YEARS LATER

M
y wish had come true. How I longed to be able to share my news with Ed, Charlie, and Jack but I couldn't. The three of them stood side by side with David, my replacement, in the crowd, as
Titanic
prepared to pull away from Belfast to begin her maiden voyage. It was all very thrilling and I found myself much carried away by the party atmosphere on board and on the docks below, waving gaily along with everyone else, in spite of myself; but, of course, my friends could neither see nor hear me. Nobody could.

The world hadn't ended or even changed much since I smashed up my skull that day, though Charlie's dark hair went grey in the weeks after my fall. He was the only one to look properly sad, telling Ed that he blamed himself for not coming down the ladder to grab a hold of me.

Ed was his usual practical self. “You can't say that, Charlie. No way. It wasn't your fault. If you had reached him, he might've taken you with him. It was just one of those things. When your time is up, that's it!”

Charlie didn't sound comforted by this. His voice wavered as he tried to get Ed to understand. “But you didn't see his face, Ed. He was scared, more than scared; it was like he could see something dreadful. He called out to me and I did nothing, absolutely nothing.”

Ed refused to be drawn any further. He kept it to himself that he felt I had simply been daydreaming as usual and missed my footing; he didn't want to fall out with his friend.

I was quickly replaced by a skinny 16-year-old who was no way near as fast as I was. On his first day Ed nobly held his tongue, while Charlie coldly informed a bewildered-looking David that he had “big shoes to fill.” After that, Charlie's only conversation with the boy was to shout at him, from time to time, “Watch your bloody step, why don't you!”

Within a week or two the others returned to their usual ways. Ed went back to his jovial bullying of Jack, who smilingly refused to be moved one way or the other. The four of them continued to meet every morning before the gates opened and then, once over the threshold, they made their way to where I was waiting for them, to watch them at their day's work.

I wanted to tell Charlie that I was okay, that he shouldn't feel sad for me, but I couldn't. I mean, I tried talking to him, whispering directly into his ear, but he could never hear me. Once or twice, however, he would stop what he was doing to look slowly about him, as if, perhaps, sensing I was there. This made Ed very nervous and the older man had to fight the urge to shout at Charlie to keep hammering.

Since Da's death Charlie was the only person that really listened to me when I said something, even something daft, and I did find it hard, in the beginning, to appreciate that he could no longer hear me now. It took a bit of getting used to, though perhaps not as much as you might think. To be honest, I didn't feel too sad over my ghostly state, if that's what I was. In some ways it wasn't too different from the life I had led before I started working here, when nobody had taken much notice of me anyway. So I didn't feel particularly lonely. What I did miss, however, was feeling that I mattered to someone. Da was lost to me and now I was lost to Charlie, but at least I could still enjoy his company, Monday to Saturday.

We continued to have our lunch together every day, same as always, only I had to do without my cheese sandwich and nobody knew I was sitting alongside them, listening to the gossip and laughing at Ed's rotten jokes.

In this way I learned many different things, like, for instance, Ed's daily silent disappointment with his wife's sandwiches that were either scrambled or fried egg between chunky slices of bread. He didn't like egg but wouldn't risk hurting her feelings by saying so. It was quite a revelation to find he had a soft side for someone else's feelings.

Charlie longed to take out his library book and read it as he ate, and he often wished he could find somewhere quiet to eat his lunch, away from the demands of Ed with his constant need to be the expert on every subject.

Meanwhile, Jack spent a lot of his time thinking about the girl who sold him his cigarettes at the corner shop. He could never be sure if she really liked him or not.

I wasn't terribly interested in David. If anything, I was jealous of him for taking my place and enjoyed finding fault with his work rather than learning more about him.

It wasn't that I could read their minds or hear the voices in their heads; it was more that I could sense what they were feeling and maybe it helped that I had known them before the fall. At night I maintained my supervision of the building of
Titanic
, hovering over the shoulders of the evening crew, none of whom was familiar to me. It was a peculiar thing to hear the more sensitive ones complain of feeling they were being watched.

As it turned out, I wasn't the only one to die on the ship. I watched a boy about my age end up like me, fractured skull and legs broken beneath his crumpled body. A year after the young lad's accident, his father, who was a rivet-counter, was counting away, 50 feet from the ground, balancing on flimsy scaffolding. I sensed what was going to happen and tried my best to warn the man, but he ignored the chill he might've felt on the back of his neck. Mourning his son was taking up all his energy, so that once he started counting he was completely switched off from any distraction or sensation. Sure enough, he imitated exactly his son's passing. As with the boy, I saw his spirit leave his body; a light mist exited his gaping mouth and flew upward until I could see it no more.

Why I was here, I didn't know. Why I hadn't yet met my father or God or my mother's parents, who had been dead for years, was mystifying. Nothing was how I'd expected it to be. To be sure, I was glad to be in a familiar — as well as my favourite — place in the whole world, still surrounded by my friends and colleagues. Nevertheless, I did worry, from time to time, that I was lost or had been forgotten about.

And then there was the conversation that I heard one winter's morning. I recognized the man as someone my father used to say hello to; he lived on the street behind us and was also a riveter. Peering out at Ed and Charlie from beneath the drenched peak of his cap, he nodded to them as he approached. “Aren't you the ones that young lad worked with, the Scott boy?”

His temper soured by the wet weather, Ed's reply was blunt and careless. “What of it?”

Obviously expecting a better show of interest, the man was taken aback with the unfriendly reception. “Oh. Well. I just thought you'd want to know that his mother died last night.”

Ed shrugged and turned away, pretending he hadn't looked at Charlie to see his reaction. Not that there was much to be seen. “Thanks, mate,” was all Charlie said, before stepping onto the ladder. I followed him and that was that. Maybe she was happy now. I hoped so. It didn't seem right to feel nothing more than, well, nothing more than this, but I suppose she had sort of given up, or died, the day she heard about Da. And I spent the next three years missing her, there and then, when she was standing right in front of me. So I had nothing more now to give.

Aside from the waving and the cheering, there was a certain amount of sadness in the air as
Titanic
bid farewell to Belfast. Most of the men who had worked on her had come to see her off and mixed in with their pride at what they had produced was just a little bit of sorrow at having to say goodbye to her. For the last two years she had been part of the landscape of Belfast. I certainly wasn't the only one who enjoyed looking for her at every opportunity. Her progression from bare skeleton, to empty ship, to her present magnificence had been watched, and shared, by the locals, near and far. Wasn't I the lucky one then?

All around me was the staff of
Titanic
, the new crew who had taken over from the draftsmen, riveters, carpenters, painters, and electricians. It was their turn now to tend to the ship. They were the maids, the stewards, the chefs, and, of course, the sailors. Nobody said anything, but I felt it keenly as the thousand-strong crowd, in their crisp new uniforms, looked out over the railings at the men who had built her; I was sure I heard the collective feeling, “She's ours now.”

As the ship's horn sounded out its final farewell, I experienced a ferocious wrench and I realized that this was it; I was leaving Belfast at long last. From now on everything was going to be different, except for dear
Titanic
. I felt bound to her alone. Like a parent I had watched over her birth and like my child she had to outlive my death. If I wasn't going to heaven, then I was happy to stay with her forevermore, though it would have been more perfect if Charlie could have come too.

“Da, are we going to America now?” The little boy was tugging excitedly on his father's jacket with one hand as he continued to wave the other at the crowd.

“Not yet, Joseph. Remember what I told you. We have to collect lots more passengers in England, France, and County Cork, and then we're on our way.”

Goodness! It was the man from the street behind us, the one who brought the news about my mother. What was he doing here? That must be his wife with the baby girl, while Joseph looked to be no more than six or seven. How small they looked, dwarfed by the large crowd of efficient staff and the overall brilliance of the ship.

His wife spoke in hushed tones. “Let's find our room, Jim; I can't wait to see it.”

“Alright, if everyone is sure that they've finished saying goodbye to poor Belfast.”

His wife's excited smile was tinged with a bitter sweetness. “I think it's Belfast that has finished saying goodbye to poor us,” she murmured.

Jim held her gaze for a second or two and a feeling of something powerful passed between them. I was fascinated. Then he bent down to pick up the suitcase at his feet, take Joseph by the hand, and declare cheerfully, “Come on, then. Let's go find where we'll be living for the next few days.”

As I watched them head off, I determined to meet up with them later — once I had taken my fill of the sight. I felt a lot happier in myself. There was something about Jim that reminded me of Charlie, who, in turn, had always reminded me a little of my father. He shared his sureness and solid sense of self. There was nothing to hide, only things to protect.

* * *

Da and I used to walk for miles on the days when my mother's moods were particularly bad. When she wasn't so bad, he used to take her out for walks instead. Naturally I preferred when it was him and me. One day he told me a story about something that had happened when I was a little baby, promising me it was absolutely true. Ma was giving me a bottle when there was a knock on the door. As the door was unlocked, and she didn't want to disturb me, she called out to whoever it was to come in. It was a handsome woman, a gypsy, wearing layers of colourful clothes with lots of noisy bracelets and earrings that cracked against one another as she strode into our tiny kitchen.

“Good morning, missus. I was wondering if you'd spare a bit of bread or a few pence?”

My mother was flustered and told her she had no money to give.

“But, perhaps, you'd have some bread for me? I've five hungry mouths at home and no husband to help me.”

Feeling slightly trapped, Ma was determined, however, not to let the strange woman go through her cupboards. The faster she gave her some food, the quicker the visit would be over. But what was she to do about me? I continued to feed hungrily, gulping down the milk I had been crying for all morning. The woman, seeing my mother's predicament, shot over to her. “Please, let me hold the child; don't take the bottle from him.”

With some reluctance my mother placed me in the gypsy's fleshy arms, hoping that the constant rattle of the jewellery wouldn't frighten me.

“Ooh, what a beauty!”

Here my father hunched up his shoulders and put on a dreadful high-pitched voice with plenty of hysterical cackles. He sounded like a mad old witch, making me laugh out loud and completely doubt whether any of this actually took place. Anyway, the story went that when my mother returned with the bread the woman was looking at me rather strangely. Ma panicked and reached for me instantly. “What's wrong? Is he alright?”

The woman didn't hand me over immediately. Instead she asked Ma what my name was. Wishing that she was brave enough to snatch me out of the gypsy's arms, Ma could only answer her obediently, “Samuel.”

“Aha! God's chosen one.” The woman nodded her head slowly, as if in complete agreement with whatever she was thinking to herself. “That's what Samuel means, and it's a fine name, for one like him.”

Ma was suddenly intrigued. “What do you mean, ‘one like him'?”

“This one is special. I can see the wisdom in his eyes as he stares directly into mine. He has been here before, many, many times.”

My mother, who hardly believed in anything outside of what she could physically touch, was impressed, nonetheless, by the woman's obvious reverence.

The gypsy continued to talk, almost to herself, as she gazed upon me in my state of blissful ignorance. “Yes, yes. He may have a long life or he may have a short one, but that's not what's important. It's what he's going to do. There's a reason for his being here. I can't tell you any more than that.”

* * *

There is another story too; my father only ever told it to me the one time and we never mentioned it again. I felt he was hoping for me to enlighten him in some way, but I couldn't remember a single thing about this episode. I was only three at the time. He woke up one night to hear me chatting away in my bedroom, with lots of giggling and even some lines of a nursery rhyme that I knew. Convinced that someone had broken in and was planning to kidnap me, he couldn't get to me fast enough. To his relief, I was quite alone and utterly delighted to see him.