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It’s simply remarkable how people can fall in love. Even if they appeared to be from different parts of the world, or perhaps, even from distant planets unbeknownst to us mere humans. That was certainly a theory, considering that humans only dream of extraterrestrial life-forms indigenous to the Moon or to Mars. But people even fall in love with each other from completely opposite perspectives of Life.
I was one of those people.
My family, formerly known by the last name of Austin, had recently converted to having our last name as “Tomlinson”. As the eldest child of the family I took it upon myself to adopt the name. I was once known as Louis Troy Austin, but then became Louis William Tomlinson.
Anyways, enough of my surname.
My name, as you heard me say before, is Louis William Tomlinson of Doncaster, England. On 10 April 1912, I was going to America, commonly known as the Land of the Free. Or so they said. I always thought of America as the “Wild Side” of the world, mostly in part because the Americans refused to abide by the traditions of her mother country, Great Britain.
My body jerked forward as the clanking machine called a cabby halted to a stop in the middle of a dense crowd of peasants, their sweat and grime-laced fingernails flying everywhere around me. I involuntarily shuddered when I witnessed three drunk, loopy weasels from the local pub bellowing with laughter before all three collapsed to the dirt ground.
My, my.
The vest worn above my expensive suit clutched at my chest, hugging my torso and cutting off my air supply every so often. It was extremely uncomfortable, but nonetheless, it was a requirement for me to wear when my father wanted me to look presentable in public.
Adjusting my button-down shirt beneath the beige vest, I waited until mother stepped out of the carriage, assisting her as best I could. Her silk-covered palms slid effortlessly into my bigger hands, clutching at my fingers until she was comfortably standing atop the ground.
“Dearest Mark, we must go before the ship leaves the dock!” she exclaimed, verbally ushering her husband from the motor car.
“Yes, Mum, I’m coming,” he responded cheerily, climbing from the car before the steward shut the rickety door.
At last, it felt like the right time to be able to turn and witness the grandeur of the “floating palace”. And my word was she breathtaking!
Four colossal stacks rose from the deck of the ship, blowing smoke occasionally like a man with his pipe; they were color-coded charcoal-black and gold. Along the railings of the deck stood people by the thousands, waving at the unfortunate people left behind here in Southampton. The ship seemed to rise a full kilometer from the water, yet was definitely more than a kilometer in length.
Mother helped the children leave the car before gesturing to them to wait around my awe-struck figure. Before long, the girls were all out of the car, and father strutted away towards the ship’s boarding line, where the people boarding the Titanic flashed their tickets at the smartly-dressed gentlemen before proceeding inside. I helped Charlotte walk alongside me once I noticed the crowd engulfing her in their riot-like state.
The steward kindly directing the line of people to proceed inside the magnificent ship forced a smile at me, nodding curtly once he allowed our family inside. Something about them irked me, whether it was their forced manners or prejudiced faces that came into being once a teenager came aboard the ocean liner.
Once our family was inside the ship, we all awed with mouths agape at the truly rich splendor of the interior: velvet, burgundy carpets ran the length of the halls; peach-colored walls ran as far as the eye could see, painted with illustrious designs evoking royalty and wealth; and the rooms I managed to peek inside were nothing compared to my inquisitive imagination.
As we neared the hallway where our quarters were, indistinct shouting and rambling came from the hall we walked through mere seconds ago, and became increasingly louder until I witnessed its source: a young boy, looking to be in the proximity of my age of 20 years, scurried down the hall in a mad frenzy, his curly brown hair lashing out and bashing the air around me. His emerald eyes swept the hallway before they locked with mine.
And that was the moment that I knew he was something special.
We broke the lingering connection, and suddenly his shoulder rammed into mine, throwing me off-guard and into the wall. Mother gasped and ran up to me, worry etched clear across her flawless face. Father hurled a stony glare at the youthful boy scampering away like a lost puppy, while Mum began tending to my shoulder—although the pain had already subsided—and urged me to tell her if I was okay or not.
“Louis dear, are you alright? Did he hit you hard?” she fretted, holding my arm gingerly.
“I’m fine, Mum,” I replied blatantly.
From the corner of my eyes, I noticed her lips set in a frown on her face. She snapped at Dahlia, one of our maids, and ordered her to fetch a hot towel and leave it beside my bed in a large jug. She nodded shyly, holding her arms crossed in front of her stomach before strutting away.
“Come, we need to get you settled down.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t ready to rest just yet. My body brimmed with excitement at the thought that I was on-board the most beautiful, strongest ship in the world for a week. Resting was completely unnecessary at the time; I wanted to go outside instead and wave with the crowd before the ship departed.
We walked inside my sleeping quarters—just me, mother, and Dahlia. Dahlia set aside the jug of steaming water and fetched a small towel from a chest of drawers, submerging it in the hot water before setting it adjacent the jug. Mother, meanwhile, hastily removed the suffocating vest and handed it to Anabelle, another one of our maids, who marched dutifully away with the thing.
Mother laid me down on the thick bedding of the emperor-sized bed, removing my shoes in the process and motioning for Dahlia to roll up my sleeve—the one where that lad struck against with his own shoulder. As the shirt sleeve crawled upwards, the bruise underneath was revealed.
Again, mother gasped with shock. Dahlia, on the other hand, seemed almost amused at my mother’s reaction. I bit my tongue to suppress laughter, seeing that if I did expose the maid, she would be immediately discharged from her duties.
“That is one very ghastly thing,” Mum cried out.
“Mummy, it’s perfectly alright. I have had worse, mind you,” I pointed out. I once suffered a sprained ankle when I turned thirteen. Mother nearly died when she found out.
Mother shook her head to and fro, pondering on my words. At last she said, “Alright, Louis. But please don’t go near that mad boy again—I wouldn’t want to see you with something worse next time after.”
I shook my head. “I won’t, mother.” But I knew I would stumble into him eventually, one way or another.
As she left to her own suite, I hastily shed the rest of my clothing and changed into much more comfortable attire. She knew about this very strange transition from rich to poor clothing, and many times voiced her opinion on how irritating it was for her and for others of our like status to view me in peasant clothing.
I never listened to her, though. I much rather preferred to wear something more comfortable instead of attire that snapped over your body and suffocated you, while a nonchalant façade had to be instilled, no matter the discomfort one went through.
Father hated it as well, but never made any distinct remarks about my “cross-dressing” fetish. I knew he hated it because of that familiar gleam that sparked in his eyes—a glint of contempt, not towards me, but towards my rebellion. At least I hope it’s not at me.
As I tucked in the white flannel shirt underneath my suspenders, I examined the room which I was staying in for the next few days. The velvet carpet memorized each footstep, leaving an imprint on its striped surface. The walls were all made of oak, and picture-frame-sized panels embedded with rich fibers were built into the walls with lamps attached that shone a comfortable yellow light in the cabin from its dual light bulbs; a dark-wooded dining set sat in the middle of the cabin, adjacent a brick-toned armchair.
Overall, it was very nice. Not as nice as back home—what with the foreign atmosphere and all—but it was certainly bearable until we reached the United States.
Pulling on my rugged boots, I threw my dress shoes underneath the table in the center of the room, uncaring if they lay lopsided. I strode out of the room, earning several suspicious glances from the neighbors.
Glancing around the half-empty hallways, I confirmed that my parents were nowhere to be found, and neither were my pestering sisters. Absentmindedly reaching up to stroke my hair, I retracted my hand to find it slick with oil from the hair salon I visited a couple of hours ago. Scowling, I used both hands to flatten my hair from its rigid waves and into a fringe that swept down my forehead. I liked it better that way—much more easy to bear on my scalp.
More suspicious and curious glances from the aristocrats lingering in the halls, but the second my eyes connected with theirs, the ladies in particular blushed behind their fans and giggled at each other, throwing flirtatious glances over their shoulders. I hardly batted an eye.
The ship’s foghorn rang out above, its bellowing, deep noise reverberating around the ceiling above us and causing the walls to shudder. I climbed the metal stairwell and emerged on the ship’s deck, blinded by the sun’s glare on the white-painted floor. I shielded my eyes as I strode around coolly, avoiding the onlookers’ stares and skeptical gazes as they noticed me emerging from the First-Class stairs.
My boots clonked heavily on the floorboards of the deck while I stayed close to the railing, barricading me from the depths of the Atlantic. I eyed the blue waves of the ocean, mesmerized by their rhythmic up-and-down motions left in the ship’s wake. Shoving my hands in the pockets of my trousers, I gnawed at the side of my cheek as I leaned against the steel rails of the bow-end of the ship, watching the horizon in the distance.
“It’s real nice, isn’t it?”
I whipped around to the sound, caught off-guard at the sudden male’s voice. In the ocean’s reflection stood a man about my height with tamed curls that hung just below his forehead, vibrant green eyes that mirrored the sun’s rays, a cheeky smile on his babyish face, and a ragged, vanilla button-down that matched his brown trousers. As I looked at him I found him to be the boy from earlier—the one who hit me.
“Yeah,” I agreed, trying to sound like his kind.
His head cocked briefly to the side, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do I know you, mate?”
I shook my head in reply. A little too quickly, though.
“Wait a second . . . Aren’t you that lad I stumbled into from First-Class?” he inquired.
I swallowed nervously, wondering what would’ve happened if I affirmed his question. Would I get beaten up, like what those poor men did to the wealthy gentlemen on the streets?
“Yes, maybe I am.”
His eyes widened, and his brow arched up until barely noticeable beneath his mop of curls. “What are you doing here? And what’s with the outfit? I thought all you rich people were supposed to wear dresses and shit every hour of the day?”
I flinched at his cursing, not accustomed to hearing the foul language used so commonly. “Well, yes, but I prefer not to. It practically suffocates me to wear the outfit every second of the day.”
He nodded, eyes squinted and brows raised while looking out at the sparkling ocean waters. I dropped my gaze from his eyes, feeling slightly awkward with nothing to converse with him about.
Suddenly, his hand shot forward in my direction, causing me to flinch backwards into the railing. “I’m Harry, at your service, gov’nor.”
I mentally chuckled at his failed attempt of mimicking the irritating dialect of those people who lived in the gutter, and directed my hand into his palm. It was rough and somewhat big compared to my smaller, narrow hand. His fingernails were crusted with dirt and grime, but I managed not to pull a face.
“So how did you manage to get on?” I asked.
He snickered slightly, releasing my hand. “The ship? I made counterfeit tickets for me and my parents.”
I cocked a perfectly curved brow. “You do know that you can get into serious trouble for doing such a thing?”
He scoffed, flapping a hand at me. “Nah, they’ll never know, love.”
I rolled my eyes indignantly, avoiding his teasing eyes. But soon, my eyes wandered back to him, and luckily he was facing the opposite end of the boat.
He looked good enough to fit in among the rich and wealthy of First-Class: pale skin that showed he seldom worked in the dreadful heat (yet his calloused palms told me otherwise), thick Cheshire accent that would make even the rich jealous (accents defined which areas of England you originated from—the more pompous the accent, the better you were treated), and flawless skin that looked well taken care of. All that made him look degrading was his apparel and carefree slang.
My mouth opened to voice my complimenting thoughts to him, when suddenly Dahlia appeared at my side, throwing Harry wary glances.
“Sir, your mother wishes to invite you to lunch. And sir, you really should not be associating with the scumbags of Third-Class, especially when you look like them as well,” she hissed the last part.
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment at her words and, giving Harry one last glance behind my shoulder, she took my hand and marched me away back to my cabin.
I felt Harry’s eyes bore into me from behind, and for some particular reason that I was unable to pin-point exactly, I felt my cheeks burn with a fierce blush.
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