Roger had denounced the vibratory qualities of the dimly lit backroom that hampered the brilliance of Grappelli and Chauliac, but concerns where hushed by Theodore and the fellow musicians. One could say he was a purist, a perfectionist; an attribute rooted in his very pedigree, that of the aspirations of every great French showman and of his father. Tonight, was unlike any other. Tonight, the Grand Central Hotel in Leeds’ feature celloist, Roger Bricoux, would play in the company of The Coterie – celebrating the anniversary of Lady Diana Manners and Raymond Asquith – but most importantly to his American beloved, Marie and her father.
 
Anticipation buoyed amidst the sea of eager listeners. Swing 42 weigh anchors the elongated pause, setting sail its audience from the monotonous rumble of Lanchester 38s and Little Midlands to the auditory pleasure-place of Parisian Jazz. A glimpse of Marie plucked the starring performer’s heart strings as he reminisced upon their first encounter on a spring noon in Roundhay Park. The recall of subsequent rendezvous with the affluent, exotic settler conjured such passion that channelled through the instrument – but for her ears only. A sombre key blind-sided the spectators as Roger reverberated the dolour of his pauperized origins that forbade the blessings of her family through D minor. The highlight concludes with a Mengo medley: modest gestures of adieu signalled the sensory passengers’ arrival. The blonde lass rose from her seat, boisterously applauding the young celloist as mild-mannered English gentlewomen sneered at her wild enthusiasm. The two lovers embraced in the foyer. Beading of Marie’s loose, tasselled garment chimed as the Frenchman spun her in ecstasy. Roger replied with a solemn nod at the mention of his fiancé’s father, who he’d soon be acquainted with to discuss plans regarding his finances.
 
In the far corner seated Duff Cooper, the Conservative Party candidate and a diplomat discussing England’s unstable political climate since the beginning of 1912 and its comparisons to the New World with Mr Davis. The musician had noted how strange it was to see such humanity between the vieux riche and nouveau, but he’d soon learn of the surpassing charisma and humility that Mr Davis possessed. His mellow movements, distant drawl and taciturnity contrasted the man’s piercing eye, which intimidated the squabbling, expressive English. Mr Davis had little concern for the stature of those around him: only revering his daughter and this civil conversation. Marie appeared behind him.
“Father,” she’d hastily interrupted. Both men turned to face the couple. “Father, this is Roger Bricoux. The celloist…and my beloved.” Her dainty hand wrapped tighter around the young mans, whose palms had broken into a wild sweat.
“My boy!” Mr Davis exuded an expression of familiarity and welcome, which contradicted the demeanour Mr Cooper had established; rising from his position to shake his hand.
“Whatta’ performance, you hear me? And you? Whatta’ show!”
“Thank you, Sir. You are really too kind, Sir. It couldn’t have been without the other musicians, Sir…”
“Thas’ just ridiculous! Call me Walter.”
 
The American turned to introduce the gentlemen, to which Mr Cooper and Roger exchanged salutations. Two unoccupied seats were motioned to the youth and prospects for the musician’s immediate future were conversed: an opportunity that would ultimately alleviate the calamity which plagued the French and American lovers. Plans, tickets, patronage were such subjects of examination that regarded the Celloist’s debut position on the RMS Titanic. British company and the privileged scorned the girl’s presence on a roundtable engaged by men in the dimly lit backroom, misted by smoke, of the Grand Central Hotel in Leeds’.
 
Marie became inconsolable as the carriage left platform 15, heading for Port of Southampton. The dame fluttered her tear-dampened handkerchief until steam engine was far out of sight and she was the last dwindling soul that remained at the desolate railway station. Roger’s attention was recaptured by his faithful companion, Theodore Brailey who he’d met 6 years prior on the opening of the RMS Carpathia. Theo Brailey had awed the Frenchman with his proficiency in all piano, cello and flute, and thus returned such praise for Bricouxs’ passionate aptitude. It took 2 days to reach the harbour, to which the musicians were met by the prodigious vessel. Drawn into the queue of 2nd class passengers, – an entitlement entailing access to a spacious outdoor promenade, a smoking room, a library and dining room – followed hours of idle as they waited. The men presented their tickets to be stamped by the charver woman.
“Ticket number 250654…” Brailey lead. “number 250655…” Roger trailed.
The celloist retraced his memory of the details he was briefed upon commencing his journey to America. Roger had been chosen as one of eight musicians to sail on Titanic’s maiden voyage and was the youngest at age 20. He was to be reunited with Marie and her father in Halifax, then married in New York with his contract complete and contacts made aboard.
 
The Titanic, to both the musicians surprise, was vastly inhabited by French immigrants from Cherbourg. Roger followed fragmented conversations of embarking 3rd class passengers.
“Pardon, excusez-moi!”
“Laisse tomber.” The elderly man answered affectionately to the young brunette, who’d battered her bunking cotenant with her briefcase. She hammily threw her hands up in grievance to which she was repeatedly reassured. It had been 4 days since the RMS Titanic’s final stopover landed in Cobh, republican Ireland, marking the last and largest embarkation. The performers were placed in separate orchestras: Brailey was the solitary pianist of 5 musicians in Band 2 for the 2ndclass whilst the celloist played at ship’s prestigious ‘The Café Parisien’ allocated solely for the upper classes. English peeresses flocked, particularly, to the young musician and bandleader of orchestra 1, Wallace Hartley. The men were adorned with commendations and gratuities. Hearts fluttered upon hearing classical and baroque renditions, familiar to that of old money. As a merry B was plucked, the trio executed their final performance of the night; the Flower Duet from Italy’s classic opera, Madama Butterfly. The nostalgic melody transcended the white-tablecloth restaurant’s habitué in reflection they sailed through fragmented recollections of La Scala, where this tune was sung by the adorned Rosina Storchio, the Erato herself. When the act had come to a close, captains of the musical embarkment waved their bows to be met with a hearty applause. The celloist was unable to accept such adulation as his own thoughts were with that of his absent fiancée and retreated to his cabin. That evening, the 14th of April 1912, the ship had struck an iceberg.
 
Men, women, children scurried in vain to their respective cabins, clutching at whatever purse, wristwatch, photograph in eyesight and returned to the starboard side of the upper deck. Alarms roared through the RMS Titanic. The merciless Atlantic drew its insatiable hooves from the ocean floor and patiently inhaling the rudder, and then the cockpit. It possessed the luxury of time and the certainty of inevitable peril that cowed the seafarers. Disbanded then divided, 1stclass gentlewomen and their progenies were settled into lifeboats, some complimented with safety vests and coverlet. Soon followed by elite paters and partners, the rest deduced their sentence. Chaos broke loose before the bewildered eyes of Roger Bricoux, who could merely attention the sight of Cormac, an Irish frequenter, bandaged in clouds of tulle, lampshade frock and fur stole shadowing the demoiselles. With a grip of reassurance, Hartley had clasped the young musician’s shoulder.
 
The solemn F# pricked the ears of travellers. Violins commenced at alternate octaves calling to and fro which passaged from cannons of Dort to Songe d'Automne. From the hands of labourers to those of women boarding lifeboats to those of children, all danced in silence in a mirage of palms to the rendition of Archibald Joyce. From what was gluttonous and primordial, now was a spectacle of compassion that transcended the confines of tickets. Yellow floats dispersed like ducks in the runnel under the distress light. Nothing sounded except the sombre strings of which played the melancholic waltz that lingered in every sinking corridor and every sinking heart.
 
Marie, again, was the last dwindling soul that remained at God’s acre. Charcoal lace hemming draped the English winter turf. The chilling zephyr passed from under her lithe frock whilst she stood, nipping her ankles. Distant crows and sludge of footsteps rebirthed the widow from her reminisce. As promised, survivor Walter Lord had arrived by her side at the step of the commemoration. Though her eyes were glazed, the eminent question flooded the company.
“For as long as the ship could face the heavens, the music played. And when it no longer sounded until…”
Marie released an audible wail that echoed throughout the cemetery and descended to the floor. The academic joined her, consoled her, held her. Until it was too late, he thought to himself.
“I am so sorry for your loss.”.