Chapter Seven
Marco
9 April 1912, London ENGLAND
Marco Lorenza’s head hurt. The restaurant staff had stayed late toasting those who would be joining Giuseppe on the maiden voyage of the Titanic and he had been forced to join in their revelry, even though he was not going to share their bounty. It was expected to be financially very lucrative, this first voyage of the Olympic class liner, as the first class passengers would be splashing their money around celebrating the historic voyage. He’d felt more than a twinge of disappointment not to be one of their number. Not only could he do with the money, but to be part of that journey would make for stories he could tell his children and his grandchildren.
Not that he had any thought of marriage and children yet. He was only twenty-eight and nowhere near ready to settle down. There was still so much of the world to see, so many experiences to milk of their novelty. And he needed to be financially secure before he took on the responsibility of a family.
He had seen what settling down young had done to his parents. Old before their time, weighed down with debt and the responsibility of five children, all before they were thirty. They were role models of what life could do to you if you let your heart rule your head. Was it any wonder that his father had involved himself in the worker’s demonstration and riots of ’98 in their home city of Milano. He had been so angry at the injustice. His children starved while the rich factory owners with corrupt politicians in their pockets used their workers like so much meat and gristle to be chewed over and spat out when they no longer had the strength to be of value.
No, he didn’t blame his father for getting involved in that demonstration. He would have gone along, too, had his mother not insisted he stay home and help with the younger children. She had recently given birth to her sixth child and the demands of motherhood were dragging her down. Maria, his ten-year-old sister, couldn’t manage her three younger, hellion brothers alone. So he’d stayed to help with his younger sibling, and his father had been killed. Shot dead by the police sent to break up the demonstration.
Shaking his head at that memory, he went to the stained sink in the corner of his room and poured himself a cup of water to wash away the stale alcohol and the bitter taste of memories from his mouth. When he looked up from the sink and saw his heavy eyed, unshaven face in the cracked surface of the mirror, he sighed heavily.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. Working twelve hour shifts in a Ritz restaurant; making barely enough to cover his room in a rundown boarding house in Greek Street, Soho; only able to send a few shillings home to his mother to help her make ends meet.
But back then, he’d had all the insanity of youth telling him life owed him more. Grieving for his father, angry that he had not been there to save him, he turned his fury on anyone who drew his attention.
His mother had been first. He saw her marriage to the foreman of the plant – his father’s bitterest enemy – only months after his death as a betrayal. He’d raged at them both, refusing to accept their bond. Time and again the bastard had beaten him into submission, but he’d always come back for more. Finally, after one brutal beating that came close to killing him, his mother had begged him to leave. He was only making it worse for her and the little ones, she said. Mario was a good provider, she told him, and there was no other way for her to support her children. If he could not understand her sacrifice, then he needed to go.
The angry child he had been back then couldn’t understand her. To him, her rejection had been the cruelest blow of all. And so he had gone, determined to make his fortune and then return to take his mother and siblings away from that life.
He grunted bitterly at his own naiveté.
Life, he found out the hard way, was not the stuff of dreams and fairy tales, and he was no hero who fought unbeatable odds and won. No, he staggered from one low-paid position in one foreign city after another, his only gift a talent for languages, which at least gave him employment wherever he went. Some might say that his good looks were also a gift, but they were more curse than gift, getting him in more trouble over the years than he wanted or needed.
It had started at fourteen as a lone, pretty boy cast adrift in the world. Men befriended him, and in his innocence, he did not understand why. When he discovered what they wanted from him, he was forced on several occasions to fight his way to freedom. Years on the streets of Milano had taught him to fight, and he had needed those dirty street-skills to escape the depravity of those men’s attentions. In retrospect, he wondered how he had gone his whole youth without knowing about such unnatural activity. He imagined his father had kept such men away from his children. No one had wanted to cross Angelo Lorenza back then.
And when he was old enough that he no longer attracted the attentions of those types of men, his good looks had drawn the enmity of those who envied his easy charm with women. Not that he had ever gone out of his way to attract women, they just came to him: pretty and plain; old and young; rich and poor. They were drawn to his looks like moths to a flame. Once he had satisfied his lust with the novelty of it, by eighteen such attentions only served to annoy him. None of them were interested in him. They saw no deeper than his tall, muscular body, his classic profile and wavy black hair.
Rejecting women’s attentions only served to draw enmity of a different kind. No, his looks were more hindrance than help on his quest to explore the world and make his fortune.
For instance, even though he was one of the hardest working waiters at Gardi’s Restaurant on the Strand, he was not selected for the Titanic job because he “caused animosity amongst the staff.” Women would seek tables in his area and leave large tips that made the other waiters jealous. It didn’t matter that he always behaved in a professional manner with patrons. It didn’t matter that he shared his big tips with the rest of the staff. They resented him and he knew no way to change the situation.
A few times over the years he’d found a workplace he liked and made friends of some of the staff. But then his other liability would kick in: his itchy feet. Staying anywhere for any length of time was impossible. Boredom would set in and he would start looking for new sights to see, new experiences to explore. Novelty was his most demanding mistress and he could do nothing else but meet her needs, even when it cost him the friendship and comfort of a position he enjoyed.
And it was that mistress who drove him now after a year in London. He was tired of the wet, miserable weather, the superior looks the English threw at anyone who was not their kind. He hated their coldness and impeccable politeness that cut as deeply as any abusive comment. And he hated the dingy room where he tried to sleep while the sleaze of the city endeavoured to keep it from him with their noise.
Marco drew out his cheap pocket watch to check on the hour. He was on lunch shift, which started at eleven o’clock and it was already ten. It was way past time he bathed, but the bath in his building was almost worse than not bathing at all. The water was rusted and rarely hot, the bath required disinfecting before use, and the floor was so disgusting that he wore a second-hand pair of slippers to the bathroom and left them at the edge of the bath to put on as soon as he stepped out of the water. For this reason, they were now somewhat mouldy and smelled almost as bad as the floor.
Marco settled for a wash at his basin, even though it would not do the job as well as he wanted. Cleanliness was almost a fanatical need for him. He assumed he got it from his mother, who had kept a spotless house and clean, tidy children, no matter how empty their stomachs were. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” she had told him on many occasions. And though his belief in God was sorely tested after all the misfortunes in his life, the rule of cleanliness still held true.
By the time he walked the three quarters of a mile to the Strand, umbrella held over his uniform to keep off the worst of the drizzle, his mood was anything but good. They would have to start new staff to replace those who were going on the Titanic, and the training of the new waiters would fal
l to him. Some of the new recruits would have no English, and that would cause problems with the patrons. It would then be his problem to fix.
As he hurried into the kitchen from the back entrance alleyway, Giuseppe Gardi himself caught his eye and motioned for him to come with him. He followed, without question, the tall, dapper figure into his office.
‘Enrico has not taken up the offer of work on the White Star Liner as expected and I am one man short. Do you want it?’ Gardi demanded abruptly, as soon as the door was closed. His waxed moustache twitched with obvious disdain.
Marco felt his flagging spirits lift. It was the answer to his prayer and his mistress purred her delight.
‘Sí, signor. I would be happy to take the position.’ He kept his voice calm and polite, because if he gave any indication of his joy, the man was just as likely to withdraw the offer. Keeping his staff happy was at the bottom of the Restaurant Manager’s list of priorities. In fact, he seemed to delight in making their lives a misery wherever possible. It had only been that he was away dealing with last minute matters concerning the voyage the night before that the staff had been able to hold their impromptu Bon Voyage party. No such event could have taken place otherwise.
‘Then get out of here and make your way down to Southampton by this evening. You can stay overnight with some of the others at Bowling Green House in Orchard Place. It is a residence for Italian nationals and very convenient for the harbour. You will need to be at the docks by nine o’clock, at the latest. The ship sails at midday, and we will start serving shortly after that.’ He handed Marco a letter acknowledging his position. Then, with a negligent gesture toward the door, he dismissed him.
Who would replace him for the luncheon sitting, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. He was about to embark on the greatest adventure of his life. Once he arrived in America, he would stay. He had always wanted to see the Wild West and the cowboys and Indians. This was his opportunity. And if he made enough in tips on the voyage over, he might be able to have enough for his transport west without recourse to employment straight away. He didn’t want to get caught in New York as so many others like him had done before.
America… the land of opportunity! He had yearned for those fair shores since he was a child, but the cost of such a journey was more than he could raise. Even on the cheapest vessels, it cost almost a month’s salary for a steerage class ticket. He had never been able to save that sort of money when he sent every spare penny back home to his mother.
Not that she needed his help so much now. His brothers were all working and his sister Mary was married with children of her own. Only the baby, Rosa, who was now fourteen, was still at home. That his mother had several more children to her second husband was not his concern. He owed them nothing, but helping his mother still remained a priority. It was almost an act of contrition, continuing to send her money. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for his selfishness and cruelty back then, but no words could do his feelings justice. So he sent the money in their stead, and she accepted it for what it was and wrote him long, loving letters every chance she got.
But now he need not concern himself with raising the fare. He could travel for nothing and use his earnings to pay for the rest of the journey west. The West had made many men rich. Maybe now he’d be one of them.
‘Marco, where’re yer off te?’
The high-pitched voice of a child drew his attention as he hurried down the alley. He stopped to look back at the grubby, little urchin standing beside the garbage bins outside the back door of the restaurant.
‘Micky, you’re out early,’ he said, by way of greeting, smiling at the eight-year-old child with filthy face and ragamuffin clothes. The boy’s accent marked him as Irish; one of the many who had flooded into London while famine held their homeland ransom. Marco knew the lad earned his living as a thief on the streets around the Strand, and that he used that money to support his family who lived together in one room in a tenement not far away.
‘Aye, me dah threw me out early-like because pick’ns were so bad yest’de.’ He scratched at his lice infested hair and gave a little, apologetic shrug. Sometimes the boy’s accent was too broad to understand; today was no exception. But, though he didn’t catch all the words, Marco got the gist and felt his heart go out to the child. His own father had been a good man. Micky’s wasn’t. And Micky was in an impossible position.
‘Where yer off te then?’ Micky asked again, wandering over to him on scrawny legs that didn’t seem strong enough to support him.
‘The Titanic. I have to go there straight away. It leaves tomorrow.’
‘That big boat ye yabbered on about? Thought they didn’t want yer fer that,’ he said, his face suddenly alive with excitement. The lad was one of the few friends he’d made in his time in London and the only one he’d shared his disappointment with concerning the missed opportunity to sail aboard the Titanic. Now his little mate was happy for him, even though he would have to have realised that his free meals would come to an end with Marco’s disappearance.
‘Sí, I was not going, but someone has dropped out and they have no one else. So I go.’
‘Aye, there’ll be fair pick’ns on board that mewty craft, I’ll be thinkin’!’ The boy was almost jumping up and down in delight for him. It warmed his heart that the lad cared enough to be so unselfish in his joy for him. He reached into his pocket and found the few shillings he had there. He needed enough for his train ticket to Southampton and his accommodation for the night down there, but surely, he had enough to give the lad a few pennies for a meal?
Then he thought about his accommodation. His room was paid up until Friday and he wouldn’t be able to carry all his possessions with him on the ship. Maybe the lad could use the space and his belongings.
‘Come back to my place and I will give you what I do not need. I do not plan to return.’
The boy’s face became closed and suspicious. Marco was shocked by the boy’s reaction. But then, surely Micky had been subjected to the kind of attentions that had plagued his own youth. It was only sensible that he was cautious of older men.
‘Do not worry, Micky. With all the women I have, my hands are full enough. I do not need to trouble a boy such as you.’ He spoke gently, but with humour, and was pleased to see the lad’s chagrin.
‘It ain’t that. I know you ain’t one of those types. I just don’t like takin’ charity is all.’ The boy slouched his shoulders and kicked at the dirt with his holey shoe.
Marco should have realised it was his pride that was in the way, not his fears. Even getting the boy to take a meal with him had been an act of diplomacy. He would stand outside the kitchen with his own plate piled high with leftovers and offer the lad bits and pieces off it as they talked. Eventually, he’d introduced a separate plate, saying it was a serving someone had sent back. Only when he was sure it wasn’t charity would the boy agree to take what was offered. Micky never begged, no matter how hungry he was, and that was probably the reason Marco liked him so much.
‘Not charity. Just a way of getting rid of what I cannot carry. You would be doing me a service as I have no time to sell it.’
‘Then I’d be more’n happy to help yer out, me boyo.’ His grin revealed stained and missing teeth. No matter how many times Marco had seen that cheeky grin before, the sight made him cringe. His mother would have been horrified by the little boy’s hygiene.
As they walked along, companionably, sharing the umbrella that kept the worst of the rain off them, Marco felt a pang of regret. He would miss the lad and would worry about what became of him. If his father didn’t beat him to death or the police catch and imprison him, then he’d die of hunger or disease, like so many other children in this city. Not for the first time, he felt the anger and frustration such unfairness inspired. Why should a child like Micky starve on the streets as rich men walked by, uncaring? It was probably the reason he did not condemn Micky’s career choice. It was one way to balance the discrepancy.
> By the time he had changed into his street clothes and selected what he’d need to take with him, it was well past midday. He shared with Micky some fruit he’d taken from the restaurant the night before and then said his farewells, telling the lad he could use the room until the end of the week. The tears in the boy’s eyes as he waved goodbye were the best gift he’d received in years.
It was just after six that evening when Marco’s train steamed into Southampton Docks Station. By that time, his sadness over leaving Micky had been replaced by overwhelming excitement. He found it hard to believe that his life could change so completely in a matter of hours. It seemed like a million years ago that he had woken up that morning, hung over and depressed because of the state of his life. And now, at the other end of that same day, he was as excited as a small child who was taking his first journey away from home.
It wasn’t as if harbours and travel were a novelty to him. He had seen so many of them in the fourteen years since he left Milano that they should have lost their appeal. But there was something different about this trip. He could feel it deep in his bones. It wasn’t just the unexpectedness of the trip, or even its destination, or that it was the maiden voyage of the largest ship in the world – the unsinkable RMS Titanic. It was something else entirely.
The only way he could describe the feeling was to say he was finally stepping into his destiny. Until today he had been floundering around on the edges of his life, never sure which way to go. Now the way was clear and straight, and he was determined to greet whatever came with courage and intelligence. He hoped he had enough of both to do the job.
After fighting his way through the milling crowds on the station, he started looking for someone who might point him in the direction of his accommodation. He spotted a wagoner who looked like he might be a local loading his wagon with goods from the train.
‘Which way to Orchard Place, please?’ he asked the man politely
The middle-aged man gave him the disgusted once-over he was used to receiving from the English who resented foreigners, but he was good-natured enough to point off to the left. ‘Follow Canute Road up to Queens Park. It’s one o’ the roads off the park.’
‘Thank you most kindly, sir.’ He was in the mood to be magnanimous, and along with his polite gratitude, he gave the man his broadest grin. For a moment, the man seemed stunned by his smile, but he quickly recovered, clearing his throat and dismissing the thanks with a grumble as went back to his task.
Throwing his leather valise over his shoulder, Marco started the next stage in his journey with long, jaunty strides.
Life seemed very fine!