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not the usual mixture of wealthy travellers reliving their exotic adventures in Europe, dropping names like croutons into their soup, or Ada Grant chattering on about her relatives and their children.
    Celeste wondered what it was like for that girl with the lovely voice down below in steerage, and was glad she had managed to cross the golden gates into this pampered cocoon. What must she make of all this luxury and privilege that was making Celeste feel so uncomfortable? It was all too much on this ship so aptly named Titanic . Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy the experience of being cosseted? Why did she feel so uneasy?
    ‘So what’s it like up there in the gods?’ Joe asked over lunch, slurping his soup with gusto.
    ‘Another world. You’ve never seen the like: acres of thick carpets – it was like walking on air – and the women dressed like mannequins in a shop window, weighed down with so many pearls and gems. But they can’t sing for toffee.’
    Joe grinned. ‘I bet you showed them how.’
    ‘I tried but I got stared at and so I shut up. I enjoyed it, though, seeing how the other half lives. We got a bum’s rush as soon as it was over, though, in case we ran off with the silver. I’m glad I’m back down here.’
    ‘That’s a relief. Don’t want you getting no fancy ideas. It might be a log cabin for us when we get out west.’
    ‘At least we’ll all be equal out there. How do folks get to be so rich that they can spend thousands on a ticket? I’m sure they’re no happier than us. There was one poor widow all in black who looked as if she was about to burst into tears any minute and she wasn’t a day older than me. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. You won’t ditch me for some rich American fancy woman, will you?’
    Joe grabbed her hand, laughing. ‘I don’t know where you think all this stuff up, May. You and me are stuck together like glue, and that’s a promise. We’ll never be apart. Not until our dying day.’

6
    For Celeste it was proving to be an uneventful Sunday. She was feeling squeamish and picked at her luncheon while old Mrs Grant struggled with fearful indigestion. In her mind Celeste was preparing herself for the rigours of her marriage and duties in Akron. The thought filled her with dread. There was only Roddy’s welcome to look forward to.
    She spent the afternoon listening to the orchestra, promenading the decks for fresh air before it was time to prepare for yet another dress parade in the dining room.
    She was still wearing her mother’s black silk two-piece with the jet-beaded collar and cuffs. It smelled of home and Father’s pipe smoke. Who was there here to notice that she was wearing the same dress each evening? She was in mourning, after all; it was hardly a time to be the belle of the ball. Defiant though she felt, faced with all the fuss of dining rituals, she did make a valiant effort to dress her hair without the aid of a lady’s maid or stewardess. The damp air had turned the loose ends into a frizz of curls.
    She still wasn’t hungry but listened to the restful serenades and waltzes, music designed to instil a sense of calm. The livelier numbers would be reserved for the dancing later.
    The orchestra lifted her mood until she saw the menu presented so beautifully before them, and her heart sank. No one could eat ten courses, though Mrs Grant made a valiant attempt to work her way through each one. She would undoubtedly suffer again later, Celeste grimaced. She settled for the Consommé Olga, the poached salmon with mousseline sauce, the sauté of chicken, but couldn’t face the entrée of lamb, beef or duckling. She skipped the Punch Romaine, tasted the roast squab and cold asparagus vinaigrette but the pâté de foie gras defeated her. There was just room left for the peaches in Chartreuse jelly. She resolutely stuck to water, refusing any of the wines chosen for each course. Rich wine went to her head and made her