Harry sits on a bench in the sun. Titanic's wake spreads out behind him to
the horizon. He has his knees pulled up, supporting a leather bound
sketching pad, his only valuable possession. With conte crayon he draws
rapidly, using sure strokes. An emigrant from Manchester named CARTMELL has
his 3 year old daughter CORA standing on the lower rung of the rail. She is
leaned back against his beer barrel of a stomach, watching the seagulls.
THE SKETCH captures them perfectly, with a great sense of the humanity of the moment. Harry is good. Really good. Ron looks over Harry's shoulder. He nods appreciatively.
TOMMY RYAN, a scowling young Irish emigrant, watches as a crewmember comes by, walking three small dogs around the deck. One of them, a BLACK FRENCH BULLDOG, is among the ugliest creatures on the planet.
"That's typical. First class dogs come down here to take a shit." Tommy tells them.
Harry looks up from his sketch. "That's so we know where we rank in the scheme of things."
"Like we could forget." Tommy laughes.
Harry glances across the well deck. At the aft railing of B deck promenade stands Hermione, in a long yellow dress and white gloves.
Harry is unable to take his eyes off of her. They are across from each other, about 60 feet apart, with the well deck like a valley between them. She on her promontory, he on his much lower one. She stares down at the water.
He watches her unpin her elaborate hat and take it off. She looks at the frilly absurd thing, then tosses it over the rail. It sails far down to the water and is carried away, astern. A spot of yellow in the vast ocean. He is riveted by her. She looks like a figure in a romantic novel, sad and isolated.
Ron taps Tommy and they both look at Harry gazing at Hermione. Ron and Tommy grin at each other.
Hermione turns suddenly and looks right at Harry. He is caught staring, but he doesn't look away. She does, but then looks back. Their eyes meet across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds.
Harry sees a man (Draco) come up behind her and take her arm. She jerks her arm away. They argue in pantomime. She storms away, and he goes after her, disappearing along the A-deck promenade. Harry stares after her.
"Forget it, boyo. You'd as like have angels fly out o' yer arse as get next to the likes o' her." Tommy tells him pratically.
THE SKETCH captures them perfectly, with a great sense of the humanity of the moment. Harry is good. Really good. Ron looks over Harry's shoulder. He nods appreciatively.
TOMMY RYAN, a scowling young Irish emigrant, watches as a crewmember comes by, walking three small dogs around the deck. One of them, a BLACK FRENCH BULLDOG, is among the ugliest creatures on the planet.
"That's typical. First class dogs come down here to take a shit." Tommy tells them.
Harry looks up from his sketch. "That's so we know where we rank in the scheme of things."
"Like we could forget." Tommy laughes.
Harry glances across the well deck. At the aft railing of B deck promenade stands Hermione, in a long yellow dress and white gloves.
Harry is unable to take his eyes off of her. They are across from each other, about 60 feet apart, with the well deck like a valley between them. She on her promontory, he on his much lower one. She stares down at the water.
He watches her unpin her elaborate hat and take it off. She looks at the frilly absurd thing, then tosses it over the rail. It sails far down to the water and is carried away, astern. A spot of yellow in the vast ocean. He is riveted by her. She looks like a figure in a romantic novel, sad and isolated.
Ron taps Tommy and they both look at Harry gazing at Hermione. Ron and Tommy grin at each other.
Hermione turns suddenly and looks right at Harry. He is caught staring, but he doesn't look away. She does, but then looks back. Their eyes meet across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds.
Harry sees a man (Draco) come up behind her and take her arm. She jerks her arm away. They argue in pantomime. She storms away, and he goes after her, disappearing along the A-deck promenade. Harry stares after her.
"Forget it, boyo. You'd as like have angels fly out o' yer arse as get next to the likes o' her." Tommy tells him pratically.