Everybody has a Story: Sea voyage from Scotland was scary, exciting

On a sunny July day, wearing our new tweed coats and knitted Fair Isle tams, 4-year-old Dorothy and I stood on Dunoon pier with our mother, Jean. We held hands amid a small group of friends who had come to bid us farewell. I felt uneasy seeing tears trickle down Mother’s face as the bagpipe music on the loudspeaker played, “Ye’r No’ Awa’ Tae Bide Awa’.”

For generations, we had lived in this small Scottish town, nestled beneath the Cowal hills of Argyllshire. I called Dunoon home for my entire eight years. Our father, Matt, was a journeyman plumber. Six months earlier, he’d emigrated to Canada in response to the urgent call for experienced tradesmen for the post-war construction boom.

Our long journey began with a ferry ride across the Clyde River to Greenock, where we boarded the waiting train to Glasgow. From there, the overnight train carried us to London, followed by a ride on the Boat Train to Southampton. Disembarking, I called out, “I can’t reach, Mama,” as I stretched my leg toward the stepstool on the pavement below. The strong arms of the friendly railroad conductor in his dark uniform, lifted us girls to the ground.

Assailed by a cacophony of sounds, our little trio was assimilated into the crowd of hundreds of other families heading along the dock toward the behemoth at the end of the quay. I knew Dorothy was overwhelmed, and I held her hand tightly as she kept up the swift pace. “Stay together now,” our mother said.

The RMS Aquitania of the Cunard White Star Line towered above the dock, almost 900 feet in length. We continued toward the green gangway. I remember bending backward to look up at the jet-black hull, inset with many round portholes, and the white superstructure with its iron railings. Rows of lifeboats hung above the promenade deck. Four huge, red funnels with broad black trim stood like sentinels against the sky. Quite a magnificent sight.

We climbed the gangplank onto the ship that was to be our home for a week, agog with the enchantment of it all.

Our stateroom had two sets of bunk beds. Down a corridor was the bathroom, smelling strongly of disinfectant, with white painted pipes running along the ceiling.

The ship left the dock and we soon sailed passed Cowes, a place famous for yacht racing, someone said. The last British places we passed, even beyond Land’s End, were the Scilly Isles. “What funny names,” Dorothy said.

Demarcation signs posted on the decks and interior of the ship left no doubt about where we Tourist Class (that is, lower-class) passengers were, and were not, permitted to wander. The lounges we frequented boasted stuffed chairs and little tables with lamps. They were like rooms I’d seen in picture books, and to my eyes, the letter-writing niches were intriguing.

Taking me to explore the Tourist Class area of the ship, Mother felt Dorothy would be happier playing with other children in the nursery; however, Dorothy did not like to be confined. She escaped its confines, unseen by the uniformed matron, and somehow breached the barrier to the prohibited First Class world. Whether she squeezed her little body through a gate or discovered some other entry, we never knew. She recalls being mesmerized by the spacious, well-appointed salons where the “rich” people relaxed. Although she couldn’t read the signs, even at her young age, Dorothy sensed class distinction. In retrospect, we imagine the worry our mother must have experienced when the search was underway.

We looked forward to every meal served in the dining room. Large menus with colorful covers described the various offerings. We were used to the food rationing that was still in effect in the United Kingdom — wholesome but plain fare, limited and no great variety.

The only time I was truly apprehensive was during a Sunday worship service held in a lounge. Dorothy and I were sitting on either side of our mother, halfway along a row of chairs. The air was warm and quickly became stuffy as other passengers arrived. Suddenly our mother went limp and fell off her chair. Someone shuffled Dorothy and me along the row to caring hands. We were unfamiliar with the word “faint.” Mother was tended to, and soon we were together again.

Uniformed stewards set out lounge chairs on the breezy promenade deck where the mothers chatted about the new lives we were facing, while we children played. Concentrating, we’d use a shuffleboard cue to slide a metal disc across the wooden deck. We were always aware of the constant thrum of engines far below decks. I loved to stand by the railings looking seaward from the stern as the ship’s rapid movement created a wake of green-turquoise turbulence topped by white foam. Shrieking, scavenging seagulls followed us the entire time.

Someone died during the crossing, and the passengers were asked to pay respect by remaining in our staterooms during the commitment. A baby was born. Mother felt it providential that a life was given as one was taken.

Souvenirs were available for purchase. I still have my mother’s pin bearing the likeness of the Aquitania.

In early August, we arrived at Halifax, Nova Scotia. Passengers said tearful good-byes and newfound friends parted, heading for differing destinations across C anada. An air of excitement and anticipation prevailed as we stood along the deck rail watching the activity on the pier far below.

We three walked along the deck to the gangplank angling steeply to the pier. We carefully trod downward and set foot in Canada, beginning a new adventure.

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