Faded Splendor of a Royal Line

Orange rust stains the lifeboat davits. In the Verandah Grill the caviar flows free for passengers determined to get their fare’s worth. Splendor and decay bedeck the Queen Mary like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. But the splendor is too expensive and leisurely for today’s getaway people. Who can admit to having five days to spare when the jets commute between London and New York in six hours? And the honorable decay is painfully evident after thirty years of service in war and peace. The announcement from Cand chairman Sir Basil Smallpeice that the Queen Mary is to go out of service in October was long expected. Stewards and seamen have been drifting away from the ship over the past year, fearful of the competition with the Queen Elizabeth staff for jobs on the new Q4. How long can you keep a ship afloat that loses $2 million a year and has been losing money for six years? Most companies would have scrapped the Queens long before. When Smallpeice, a recruit from the shiny aluminum world of British Overseas Airways, took over, he found it ludicrous that the company’s HQ should be in Liverpool when the big liners operated out of Southampton. Yet when he tried to switch, the city fathers of Liverpool begged Cunard to stay. Merseyside without Cunard would be like the Vatican without the Pope. But Cunard moved and saved an estimated $2 million a year. The liners are still losing rhe . million a year. Brochures for the Queens stress tradition. You expect some tottering greybeard to shower you with soup or succumb to a coronary at your feet. But Cunard’s claims are fair. With only the discreetest of tip-winning smiles, the stewards whisper hints on etiquette. “Never change for dinner when we are in port, sir.” “TI wouldn’t recommend the _ keep-fit classes on the tourist sundeck.” Flattery, too. “You can always recognize a Verandah Grill passenger, sir . . the moment you came in…” The voice trails away, modulated by thirty-odd years of training. A Verandah Grill passenger, the last of the big spenders, Gaylord Mitty travels Cunard. In pleasant but unromantic fact, the Verandah people merely pay an extra $2.80 a meal to eat with a view of the sea—instead of in the vast, claustrophobic dining-room down by the swimming pool in the bowels of the ship. And always the gentle undertow of talk, with the prospect of five days with nothing to do if you are a steward and less than nothing if you are a passenger. The wine steward talks of the poker school he has assembled. “A few of the younger lads. There’s not the money around that there used to be, of course. But I manage all right, I manage.”

The gymnasium instructor, twinkling, broken-nosed Liverpool-Italian, tells you of his tour of the U.S. with Nel Tarleton when they were’ the two best fighters in Europe at their weights almost forty years ago: “Earning a hundred and fifty pound a night each for exhibition matches, we were. Big money in those days. We stayed in all the best hotels. But of course the manager took his cut and there were all the expenses to pay. Not much of it left now. Still, Pve no regrets. I’ve kept myself in good physical shape. Now then, take a sood breath, sir… {” Im the smok— ing room, passengers and stewards show one another photographs of their children, their dogs, their swimming pools, even the new decor of their bedrooms. The friendly atmosphere and service—the adman’s prose made flesh— that is what brings the same passengers back to the Queens year after year. But because they are the same passengers, their numbers dwindle. The executive vice president of Doubleday and Mrs. Milton Runyon meet the president of Wilkinson Sword and Mrs. Randolph. They have often met on Cunarders before. Mr. Runyon’s robust cry of “Shake the Bag” during bingo has shaken the first-class lounge for many seasons. The Randolphs, spry and cheerful, are both a little deaf. A steward stands behind their chairs to make sure they don’t miss the numbers when they are called out. “Two little girls from Pompey, forty-four, four and four … Betty Grable’s legs, all the ones, number ee-leven . . . Sweet sixteen, never been kissed [pause] on the boat deck of the Queen Mary.” But the cries ring somewhat hollow in the enormous public rooms. For the ship is three-quarters empty—s00 passengers out of a possible 2,000. The previous run had been more popular. They had been queuing for reservations in the Verandah Grill. The games—hbingo, horse-racing with dice, the pool on the day’s run, the general knowledge quiz—are ancient rites, but they are maintained with devotion and pleasure by the acolytes. And everyone turns out on Sunday to pray for the Queen and the President of the United States. Captain P.A. Read, DSC ¢€Cdr. RNR retired) (the famous Captain Treasure Jones, an old friend of the Randolphs and the Runyons, is on leave) takes the service amid the Thirties chromium-and-veneer of the lounge. Praise Him for his grace and favor To our fathers in distress. Praise Him still the same for ever, Slow to chide and swift to bless. During the hymn, the ship rolls awkwardly in the mild swell. The “Tevel-ride stabilizers” have never properly corrected the Queen Mary’s awkward gait. But her speed still impresses. Halfway out, the Queen Mary meets the Queen Elizabeth—25 years ago the two largest and fastest ships in the world. They ride proudly past each other at a combined speed of sixty knots, passengers crowding to the rail, each ship’s foghorn giving three ritual blasts, sun shining on the white superstructures, two dignified dinosaurs of the sea. Morituri te salutamus. Later in the clouding sky, the roar of an unseen jet, its conquest of the Atlantic now confirmed.

FM

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Ferdinand Mount

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Orange rust stains the lifeboat davits. In the Verandah Grill the caviar flows free for passengers determined to get their fare’s worth. Splendor and decay bedeck the Queen Mary like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. But the splendor is too expensive and leisurely for today’s getaway people. Who can admit to having five days to spare when the jets commute between London and New York in six hours? And the honorable decay is painfully evident after thirty years of service in war and peace. The announcement from Cand chairman Sir Basil Smallpeice that the Queen Mary is to go out of service in October was long expected. Stewards and seamen have been drifting away from the ship over the past year, fearful of the competition with the Queen Elizabeth staff for jobs on the new Q4. How long can you keep a ship afloat that loses $2 million a year and has been losing money for six years? Most companies would have scrapped the Queens long before. When Smallpeice, a recruit from the shiny aluminum world of British Overseas Airways, took over, he found it ludicrous that the company’s HQ should be in Liverpool when the big liners operated out of Southampton. Yet when he tried to switch, the city fathers of Liverpool begged Cunard to stay. Merseyside without Cunard would be like the Vatican without the Pope. But Cunard moved and saved an estimated $2 million a year. The liners are still losing rhe . million a year. Brochures for the Queens stress tradition. You expect some tottering greybeard to shower you with soup or succumb to a coronary at your feet. But Cunard’s claims are fair. With only the discreetest of tip-winning smiles, the stewards whisper hints on etiquette. “Never change for dinner when we are in port, sir.” “TI wouldn’t recommend the _ keep-fit classes on the tourist sundeck.” Flattery, too. “You can always recognize a Verandah Grill passenger, sir . . the moment you came in…” The voice trails away, modulated by thirty-odd years of training. A Verandah Grill passenger, the last of the big spenders, Gaylord Mitty travels Cunard. In pleasant but unromantic fact, the Verandah people merely pay an extra $2.80 a meal to eat with a view of the sea—instead of in the vast, claustrophobic dining-room down by the swimming pool in the bowels of the ship. And always the gentle undertow of talk, with the prospect of five days with nothing to do if you are a steward and less than nothing if you are a passenger. The wine steward talks of the poker school he has assembled. “A few of the younger lads. There’s not the money around that there used to be, of course. But I manage all right, I manage.”

The gymnasium instructor, twinkling, broken-nosed Liverpool-Italian, tells you of his tour of the U.S. with Nel Tarleton when they were’ the two best fighters in Europe at their weights almost forty years ago: “Earning a hundred and fifty pound a night each for exhibition matches, we were. Big money in those days. We stayed in all the best hotels. But of course the manager took his cut and there were all the expenses to pay. Not much of it left now. Still, Pve no regrets. I’ve kept myself in good physical shape. Now then, take a sood breath, sir… {” Im the smok— ing room, passengers and stewards show one another photographs of their children, their dogs, their swimming pools, even the new decor of their bedrooms. The friendly atmosphere and service—the adman’s prose made flesh— that is what brings the same passengers back to the Queens year after year. But because they are the same passengers, their numbers dwindle. The executive vice president of Doubleday and Mrs. Milton Runyon meet the president of Wilkinson Sword and Mrs. Randolph. They have often met on Cunarders before. Mr. Runyon’s robust cry of “Shake the Bag” during bingo has shaken the first-class lounge for many seasons. The Randolphs, spry and cheerful, are both a little deaf. A steward stands behind their chairs to make sure they don’t miss the numbers when they are called out. “Two little girls from Pompey, forty-four, four and four … Betty Grable’s legs, all the ones, number ee-leven . . . Sweet sixteen, never been kissed [pause] on the boat deck of the Queen Mary.” But the cries ring somewhat hollow in the enormous public rooms. For the ship is three-quarters empty—s00 passengers out of a possible 2,000. The previous run had been more popular. They had been queuing for reservations in the Verandah Grill. The games—hbingo, horse-racing with dice, the pool on the day’s run, the general knowledge quiz—are ancient rites, but they are maintained with devotion and pleasure by the acolytes. And everyone turns out on Sunday to pray for the Queen and the President of the United States. Captain P.A. Read, DSC ¢€Cdr. RNR retired) (the famous Captain Treasure Jones, an old friend of the Randolphs and the Runyons, is on leave) takes the service amid the Thirties chromium-and-veneer of the lounge. Praise Him for his grace and favor To our fathers in distress. Praise Him still the same for ever, Slow to chide and swift to bless. During the hymn, the ship rolls awkwardly in the mild swell. The “Tevel-ride stabilizers” have never properly corrected the Queen Mary’s awkward gait. But her speed still impresses. Halfway out, the Queen Mary meets the Queen Elizabeth—25 years ago the two largest and fastest ships in the world. They ride proudly past each other at a combined speed of sixty knots, passengers crowding to the rail, each ship’s foghorn giving three ritual blasts, sun shining on the white superstructures, two dignified dinosaurs of the sea. Morituri te salutamus. Later in the clouding sky, the roar of an unseen jet, its conquest of the Atlantic now confirmed.