Free Women and Children First by Gill Paul Page A

‘Thank you very much, ma’am,’ he said quietly. ‘It means a lot to me.’
    ‘You’re very welcome, Reg. I’ll see you at breakfast.’
    Reg could feel that there was some kind of banknote in his palm but he didn’t dare check which denomination, so he put it directly into his trouser pocket and finished clearing his tables, then set them for breakfast. It was only later when he went to the lav that he fished it out and nearly fell backwards with shock. It was a five-pound note. He whistled out loud. He’d never even held one of these in his hands before, never mind one that was his to keep. It was green, with a picture of King George on it. Straight away, he decided not to tell anyone, not even John, because it would make the others jealous. They might even report him and he’d be forced to hand it back. He would keep it in his trouser pocket and never be separated from it. There was too much chance of pilfering if he left it unsupervised with his few possessions in the dorm for even five minutes.
    Good old Mrs Grayling. What on earth would he say when he saw her the next morning? How could he ever thank her? Did she have any idea that it represented more than a month’s wages to him? Reg felt his cheeks grow hot with excitement. With money like this, maybe he could get a stall and sell meat pies to the seamen who came ashore at Southampton. The Seaview Café wouldn’t be happy about the competition, but all was fair in love and business. Where would he make his pies, though? His mum would never let him use her kitchen and he’d have no income to pay rent on a place of his own. Was there anything else he could do?
    He wished he could ask advice from some of the millionaires on board. What gave Mr Straus the idea of setting up Macy’s department store in New York? Why did Mr Cardeza decide to get into manufacturing blue jeans? How had Mr Grayling raised the money to invest in South American copper mines?
    But then none of them had been born in a two-bed terrace in Albert Street, Northam, with no father to look after them and no money. Someone had surely helped them take the first step up the ladder. The likes of the Astors and Guggenheims and Vanderbilts were a different kettle of fish because they had inherited their wealth, but how could you leap from poverty to business success? He needed to have a good idea, and save money until he had enough to start up. Think about what people need and don’t yet have, he urged himself, but no matter how hard he concentrated, that crucial bright idea wouldn’t come. He didn’t have the technical know-how to invent a way of transmitting telephone calls from New York to London. All he knew was the restaurant trade.
    He lay on top of his bunk fully dressed, listening to the sounds of all the other stewards in the dorm chatting quietly to each other, their voices disappearing one by one as they drifted off to sleep. Reg knew he wouldn’t sleep for ages because he had too much on his mind. He felt restless and unsettled. He was twenty-one years old and still waiting for his life to begin, but he didn’t know how to get started, didn’t even know what it was he really wanted. John wasn’t ambitious like him, and he was probably a much happier person as a result. All John wanted was to find a good woman to marry, and maybe to make it up the ranks to be a sommelier or chief steward one day – although privately Reg couldn’t see that happening because he was too broad in his accent, too coarse in his looks. They liked their head waiting staff to be easier on the eye. Reg could have done it, but he was insubordinate at heart. He followed the White Star Line rules but sometimes felt as though his head might explode. He’d rather be his own boss one day.
    Maybe too much contact with the rich had spoiled him, giving him airs above his station. Face facts: the only thing he was good at was waiting on table; the only money he had was a five-pound note. He should accept his