End of the Line

Chapter Nine. The Voyage

Chapter Nine

The Voyage 

Early August, 1920. Bill was almost six, and with bent knees could squeeze into his trunk. Canvas, secured by nailed on ribs of wood, covered the metal box. Some left over wallpaper lined the interior. It was shabby, but it was his, and he could pack it with anything he wished. His collection of tin soldiers, several handmade toys, a favourite seashell, and some hand me down clothes, barely half filled the trunk. Family used the rest of the space for bed linens, blankets, towels, and fragile pieces of porcelain taken from the mantelpiece. Once packed, Pop shipped the trunk ahead. Bill didn't see it again until they reached the farm. 

The train journey to Liverpool was Bill's first. By chance, the family found an empty third class compartment, just large enough for the eight of them. It had plenty of rack space for the luggage that contained essentials for the voyage. It was a hot day. The windows on both sides of the compartment, when lowered, allowed Bill, if he strained on tiptoe, to peer outside. He spent the early part of the trip with his head out of the window, oblivious to the smoke that blackened his face and the occasional sting from stray ash. He was playing a personal game of chicken ,waiting for trains to approach from the opposite direction, and seeing how long he dared to keep his head out before they whooshed by. 

Unfortunately, Bill had not heeded his father's advice before leaving. The sight and sound of the rushing waters of the ebbing tide as they crossed a long viaduct had a predictable effect. There was nowhere to go. This had happened to him once before, at the barber shop, where he had wet himself in the chair. Never again did he want to be so embarrassed. He tried to resist the urge. Crossing legs and holding hands against his private parts, Bill desperately attempted to stop the flow. Dan noticed his reddening face and correctly interpreted the signs. With a laugh, he moved over to Bill, lifted him up by the armpits, and held him by the open window. There Bill relieved himself. That brought an end to his game of chicken. 

Liverpool was the largest city Bill had ever seen, a blur of closely packed houses and factories, all with smoke belching chimneys. At dockside he spotted through the smog a giant bird sitting atop a towering building. It didn't move. Its eyes seemed to be locked on their ship, the Empress of France. No wonder! The boat was huge, with two immense funnels and two incredibly tall masts. 

Climbing up the gangway Bill stared straight ahead, too scared to look down from such a dizzying height. Once on board he stepped through a door into a stairwell, and went down three flights of stairs to a third class cabin, to be shared by six of them. Dan and George berthed elsewhere.  

For once Bill had his own bed, and chose the top bunk on one side of the cramped quarters. His mother took the bottom and Mary the middle. For safety reasons Betty took the bottom bunk on the other side, so Bill ended up across from Belle. From his lofty perch, Bill gazed out of the porthole that was their only window to the outside world. It looked out on to the harbour wall. There was an iron ring in the wall, at least some of the time. Why did it keep moving? 

Dining, even in third class, was quite an experience for Bill. He had never been served by a waiter before, and never had a choice of food. Uniformed staff seated the whole family at a large round table with room for twelve. Four seats were unoccupied. Apparently, other passengers were to board the following morning at Greenock. Bill looked down. Why so much cutlery? He had just mastered the art of knife and fork, but the imposing array befuddled him. He was not alone in his discomfiture. Luckily, Mary was there to help them through the pre-departure meal.  

They all were weary from the long train journey, and after watching the twilight sail-away from deck they retired to their cabins. The Irish Sea was uncharacteristically calm that night, and all slept soundly despite the unfamiliar sleeping arrangements. When Bill arose the next morning, the ship was moored in the Clyde, and he watched as a stream of tenders brought more passengers out to the liner. He found it funny to watch the inexperienced passengers attempt to jump from the small boat on to the ladder leading up to the deck. Despite his ardent wishes, no one fell in.