Chapter 13
Tommy
Somewhere in the Atlantic
April 12, 1912
A musty haze filled the third class dining saloon, even though Tommy knew that this bustle of passengers in steerage were the first to use this room. Dinner service had ended several hours ago, but a makeshift band had been formed in the far corner and many of the men had brought their finest tobacco with them to smoke. Tommy himself had managed to convince Fabrizio to let him smoke one of his Italian cigars as they played a game of cards together.
"That's real good," Tommy said after taking a long drag, shouting over the music. He'd also had several beers at this point which was only adding to the confusion and noise around them.
"Us Italians only make the best," Fabrizio said through his own cigar. The two of them were playing with Fabrizio's Swedish roommates, both of whom were new to this particular card game and were frustrated they were losing.
"Too bad Jack left," Tommy said, throwing his cards down in defeat. Fabrizio let out a cheer, collecting the pile of coins on the table. "Ah, but that's Jack," Fabrizio said as he counted the money. One minute he's at the center of it all, the next moment he's isolato." He suddenly laughed, scooping the coins into his pocket. "Maybe you should ask that ragazzo from second class to come down here and help you!"
Tommy scowled, downing the rest of his beer. "I'm out," he said. "I can't afford to spend no more."
"Suit yourself," Fabrizio said, shuffling the cards noisily on the tabletop.
"I'm going up for a bit of air meself," Tommy said.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Fabrizio asked, raising an eyebrow as Tommy stood unsteadily. The room began to spin and he could feel the shifting of the ship beneath his feet, causing him to stumble slightly.
"I'll be alright once I get some air," he said. Why was it so hard to speak? He fumbled his way through the crowd, narrowly avoiding being hit by many of the dancers spinning around the room and elbowing his way through couples kissing in dark corners. The cigar pursed in his lips was nearly gone and he took one last drag before crushing it under his heel as he left the dining saloon. When he ascended the stairs, he looked left and right down the long hallway the stewards called Scotland Yard. He'd struggled to orient himself on this massive vessel over the last couple of days. But now with his muffled state of mind, he was completely at a loss of where to go.
He was able to find a stairwell and remembered he needed to go up to gain access to the poop deck. He passed by several stewards and even an officer who raised an eyebrow at his uncoordinated appearance. He knew he must've been a sight, with sweat on his face, his vest unbuttoned, and the swaying of the ship making his already drunken ascension even more pathetic. He continued upwards but stopped at D-Deck, looking in awe at the stairs that continued upwards. The stairs transformed from the barebone metal and wooden fixings to beautiful stained wood with ornate engravings all over it. As he looked up to the next landing, he could hear a gay buzz of talking, music, and the clatter of silverware against plates. The blood drained from his face as he realized he had wandered into the first class section of the ship!
He looked around, making sure no one had seen his intrusion, and began to make his way back down when something caught his eye. His hand was resting on one of the large wooden banisters of the staircase and there was something oddly familiar about it. As he studied the color and grooves of the wood, he almost laughed aloud upon recognizing it was made from Irish oak. And not only that, but the cabinetry he had worked for in Belfast had helped make this very staircase! He looked closer at the detailed engraving and saw his own work, the initials T.R. so small you could barely see them. He took a moment to run his fingers over the images and designs he had created, unashamedly admiring his work. When he would arrive in Boston, he knew he would continue to work with his hands, building cabinets just like he did in Belfast.
A pair from first class appeared in a nearby hallway, tearing him from his thoughts. He nearly ran back down to E-Deck to avoid being seen, but there was something familiar about one of the passengers that made him peek his head back up to the D-Deck landing.
Down the hallway, he saw a man and a woman talking in hushed voices. The man certainly was a first class passenger with his expensive tails and shoes. Even the cigarette he was smoking was probably more expensive than Tommy's pocket watch. The woman was finely dressed as well, but her hair that was tied in a plain knot at the base of her neck gave her class away. Even her dress, which was more beautiful than any of the dresses he had seen downstairs in the dining saloon, wasn't up to par with the skirts and bodices he had seen many of the first class women walking around in earlier that afternoon. His vision was blurring and he had to grip the railing tightly to support himself, but when the woman turned her head to reveal her face, he froze.
It was Callen's stepmother, Nellie. What was she doing up here in first class? Callen had told him they had second class tickets. Was she lost like Tommy?
The more he watched them, he felt his grip tighten around the railing. Nellie never lost eye contact with this well-dressed man, even blushing as he spoke in a hushed voice. Hadn't she looked at Tommy the same way earlier that morning? Tommy had tried not to make it apparent in front of Jack and Fabrizio, and especially with Callen present at that afternoon's game, that he had been smitten with this woman from second class the first moment he had seen her on Titanic's decks when he was trying to get through the health inspection in Queenstown. But perhaps she had fooled him and was like this around all men. He felt his blood begin to boil when he saw this man lean towards her and whisper something in her ear, pressing something into her hand. He couldn't help but smack his fist down on the railing when he saw this. God, he missed Cara right now. She would have never been the love of his life but she had been a simple lass, straightforward with her feelings.
"Hey! You can't be up here!"
Tommy nearly lost his footing on the stairs. Thankfully, Nellie was so enthralled in conversation with this first class man that she hadn't noticed Tommy's spying. He looked up to see there was a steward on the landing of D-Deck right above him, his arms crossed with a scowl on his face.
"You can't be up here," the steward said again. "Get back to steerage."
Tommy merely stared at him, trying to hide an amused smile. People like this bloke always abused any little power he was given. Tommy sized him up, knowing full well he was a good four stones heavier than he was and had a height advantage as well. But he relented, knowing that getting into a brawl with a steward would have him ending up with the master-at-arms and a hefty fine from The White Star Line.
"Alright, alright," Tommy said, descending the stairs as fast as he could in his current state. "There's no need to be a prick about it."
"If I see you around this part of the ship again, you'll be fined," the steward called after him. Tommy merely ignored him, making his way down to Scotland Yard once more. He took the flask he carried with him and took a long swig, knowing full well that was probably the last thing he should have done at that moment.
Tommy drank like any normal teenager in Dublin did after his brother died, numbing the pain of his death so he could never meditate on it for too long. There had been many blokes like him at that time, orphaned and too old to be taken in as a child. After they all worked a full day to scrape out a living, they would meet in Dublin's back alleys to drink all the beer and spirits they could get their hands on. It wasn't long until Tommy could no longer suppress his hatred for the English, and these drinking gatherings quickly turned political.
The Irish Revolution had subsided in Dublin after his brother was killed. Many of those who had led the original movement admitted their defeat under the suppression of the monarchy. His brother had religiously attended these underground, revolutionary meetings after their parents died and had often brought Tommy with him. When these drinking gatherings needed a safer place to discuss a revival of the revolution, the meeting place had been decided in the basement of Tommy's flat.
Just a little over a year ago, there had been two young lads who had just joined their movement who Tommy had taken under his wing. Cian had been eighteen and Nathan nineteen, cousins who had lost their fathers to the revolution. Tommy had spent the last twelve years expanding these meetings to more influential members of the revolution and was at last able to move the meetings from his flat's basement to the Dublin City Hall, where they spoke openly about how to bring their demands to Parliament. Cian and Nathan had worshiped Tommy, often spending nights in his flat as they were orphans with no steady place to live and moving from odd job to odd job while attending university. Tommy had been lucky in that regard as an orphaned teenager years before: he'd had a skill.
A year after his brother's death, Tommy had grown tired of his work as a stock boy for the local grocer. There was a cabinetry across the street from the farmers market and every evening when he walked back to the grocer, Tommy would marvel at the displays in the building's window. The head cabinetmaker was thankfully an observant man and had noticed Tommy's carvings he made at his grocer's stand on several occasions. When Tommy was fired from the grocer for being too cheeky with the owner, the cabinetmaker had taken him in. Tommy had found himself on the brink of inheriting the cabinetry as his master was growing old. Tommy had never been rich, but he managed to do well for himself and was able to care for these young revolutionaries who showed up at his meetings with only the clothes on their backs.
Tommy, Cian, and Nathan had been meeting with revolutionary extremists outside of the City Hall and had planned an attack on an English official who visited Dublin in 1911. Overflowing with hatred for the English and desiring nothing else than to avenge his brother, they devised an assassination plot. Little did Tommy know at the time that this infamous plot would lead to these two lads' deaths.
This had been too much for Tommy. He knew he'd have to leave Dublin. He'd been surrounded by the revolution for too long. He had hoped after his brother's death to inspire and lead another attempt for Irish independence, but he had failed to protect those who were most vulnerable in this movement. If he stayed, more lads would be killed like Cian and Nathan, and Tommy also feared he would meet the same fate. So he gave it up, moving to Belfast where he knew great ships were being built and passage to America was growing increasingly more popular with the violence building in Dublin. Titanic had been the opportunity for his escape.
But through all of this, the drinking had never stopped. He frequented pubs and even carried this very flask with him while he worked at the port cabinetry in Belfast. It made the terrible memories more bearable and made him feel less pathetic for his role in those lads' deaths. He'd distanced himself in Belfast, even more so than he'd done in Dublin after learning of their hanging. There were no revolutionary meetings, no more attending mass, no friends… only the occasional girl when his bed was too cold at night.
The fire in the liquor washed over him and he clumsily wiped his mouth as he reached for the stairs leading to the poop deck. The signs on the railings blurred together to the point where he couldn't make any sense of them and he let out a cry of frustration, banging his head on a nearby wall.
The image of that second class girl with that man from first class made his stomach bubble with jealousy. He was stupid to think any woman could find him appealing. He was deplorable, his self-pity so delusional that he let out another cry, hitting a nearby bench so hard it ripped away from the carpet.
"Oi! What do you think you're doing?"
The thick Welsh accent made him jump. He turned to see a lanky officer walking towards him, a scowl on his face.
"Bugger off," Tommy said, fumbling to put the flask back in his pocket. The officer was too quick and grabbed it before it could be hidden from sight.
"I could fine you for damaging White Star Line property," the officer said, before waving the flask in his face. "And report you to the master-at-arms for public drunkenness."
"Then you'll have to arrest the whole lot of them downstairs," Tommy said with a jab of his thumb, motioning to the third class dining saloon below.
The officer pondered this for a moment, before thrusting the flask back at Tommy and repositioning the bench so it hid the tear in the carpet. "Just a warning, then," he said. "But if you get into any more trouble, I'll have to report you."
Tommy shrugged, purposely bumping into him before retreating back down to G-Deck. The alcohol was taking its toll and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He was pleasantly surprised to find his room empty when he returned despite the late hour. His bunkmate was nice enough, but they had barely said anything to one another since Tommy's boarding. As he readied himself for bed, he noticed the sheets on his roommate's bunk were pristine and untouched. Now that he thought about it, Tommy couldn't remember his bunkmate sleeping in their room last night either.
Perhaps he's found himself a lass, Tommy thought as he nearly fell into his own bunk.
While tossing and turning waiting for sleep to come, he once again missed Cara. It was so lonely sleeping in a bed by himself, no matter how small. As he threw the covers on and off his body, he thought of Nellie and that first class gentlemen again.
At least she's got someone to keep her warm at night, he thought before letting his drunken state finally consume him as he abandoned himself to sleep.
Again, can you tell Tommy is loosely based on Tom Branson from Downton Abbey? Also, had to give my favorite officer aboard a little shout out. ;)
