An evening with Mrs Thompson and her daughter, Georgia, had tired me out. I, with the other staff, retiered to the louge, set out especially for us. I sank into an arm-chair and reflected on the eventful day.

*     *     *     *

"You got a name?" I asked with as much fake interest as I could muster.


I sniggered. "What?! Your names Robert Roberts?!"

"No, of course not!" He barked, as if I was completely stupid. "It's just Roberts."

This strange type of anger ammused me. "I was just asking."

"Well don't just ask! My name is my business."

*      *      *     *

I opened my book carefully, not to damage the delicate pages. Flicking through I saw various different handwriting. One female, light and gentle, one male, slightly more ink, and my own. It was the only thing of value I'd managed to bring from home.

The inky tip made contact with the page. It took longer than expected to note down the events of the days past.

Before I could finish the pages were thrown from my grasp.

"Give that back!" I screamed.

Two men, both Italian, began to laugh. One held my book firmly. He began to read in his native tongue. "English, Carlo, english." Someone shouted. "Felix, you read it." The other man stole it violently.

I pounced towards him but he managed to read. "10th April 1912, Today's events have been most interesting, and somewhat painful." He flicked to the next page. "I met a gentleman named Roberts, and to be perfectly honest, he is a sluvenly old sod."

There was an uproar of laughter as we saw his face. "Le'me see that!" He said, jumping from his seat.

"No! Give it back!" I growled.

Roberts reached for it. So did I.


The stained pages fell to the floor.

My destressed cries were masked by waves of laughter.

"What is going on down here!" A voice shouted to be heard. In the doorway stood the second officer. "The passengers can hear you from up stairs." Mr Lightroller seemed somewhat irritated. Probably because 1st class would complain to him.

I dipped down to collect the frayed pages and dashed away.

A tear streamed down my face as I remembered my father's words; Remember, Evanegline, this was your Mother's. Treasure it always.

Now all I had to treasure were the scattered scraps of paper.

The End

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