The Girl Who Came Home

by Hazel Gaynor

  Séamus wasn’t the type of man to dwell on misfortune, so the fact that Maggie’s plans to travel to America had come about so soon after their courtship had started and during a time when his father was so sick was, to him, just as life was meant to be. It wasn’t worth agonizing over or wishing for things to be different or declaring that life was cruel in its playing out; that was just how it was, and how it would always be. So Séamus did the only thing he could do: he disregarded what was done and looked instead to the future. I will wait for you under our tree, he’d said to her, until the day you come back. And although he meant it, something deep within his heart told him she would not return to this land.

  As the sun dipped behind the top of Nephin Mór, the women finished their prayers and started to make their way back along the dusty track to the village. Séamus watched them pass before going to check on his da, who was resting in a chair next to the fire. Kneeling quietly beside him, Séamus took up his Bible and said a prayer of his own: for his da’s health; for Maggie; for those she was traveling with; and for all the mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, cousins and neighbors in Ballysheen, who, like him, sat beside their fires, praying that their loved ones would one day come home.

  CHAPTER 12

  RMS Titanic

  April 11, 1912

  Harry Walsh was known for being lucky. He could turn a final card and win an entire hand when the deck seemed to be completely stacked against him. His friends had lost count of the times he’d correctly called a toss of heads or tails and, as a result, had skipped his turn to go to the bar or pay for a round of ales. Lucky Harry, Billy had called him one evening when he’d won twelve tosses of the coin in a row. It was a nickname that had stuck ever since.

  The only aspect of Harry’s life in which he wasn’t lucky was love, and it wasn’t for want of trying. There had been plenty of girls brought home to dinner and tea or taken to a dance at the town hall or for a stroll along the quayside, but despite his good manners, pleasant face, well-scrubbed fingernails, and polished shoes, none of them seemed especially keen on him. They always lost interest after a couple of dates, spending more time talking to his mates than to him, until they eventually went to a dance with one of them instead, like Nancy Parker, who was now engaged to Dave Ward, or Barbara Lacy, who was married to Brian Addison and had three kids. Harry sometimes wondered whether any of his mates would be married at all if it wasn’t for him providing their wives.

  And whenever he did meet a girl who seemed genuinely keen on him, it seemed that Harry’s mother wasn’t especially keen on her. There had been many times when a girlfriend had left the house after Sunday dinner, complaining that she was sure his mother didn’t like her. He would deny the fact, but he knew that they were absolutely right. His mother knew just how to add a certain tone to her voice when offering another slice of apple pie which told a girl, quite clearly, that this would be the last time she sat at Helen Walsh’s kitchen table and ate her apple pie.

  He wasn’t all that bothered about it, really. In recent years Harry had watched his friends settle down and raise families, and the more he saw this happen, the more he realized that he wasn’t quite ready for all of that just yet. He was enjoying his life too much for settling down and had a few more oceans he wanted to cross before he left a wife at home to worry about him coming back. Anyway, he felt instinctively that he would know when he met the right girl, a girl who would be good enough for him—and his interfering mother—and who would get along with his mates without running off with one of them; a girl, perhaps, like the pretty Irish one who had just boarded at Queenstown.

  Amid the hundreds of people boarding the ship at this, the last embarkation stop, she caught his attention straightaway. She and her friends were hard to ignore with the charming lilt of their Irish accent, their infectious giggles, and the mass of luggage they had brought with them, which bashed against their legs, and his, as he negotiated the narrow corridors to show them to cabin number 115 on E Deck.

  He listened carefully to their excitable conversation and gasps of wonder as he walked them deep into the lower section of the ship. In the time it took him to escort them to their cabin, he learned that the girls were part of a group of fourteen friends and family who were traveling together from a small town in the west of Ireland to join members of their families in America and start a new life. He didn’t quite understand why he found them so captivating, but he felt oddly moved by them and their story, by the notion that these young girls, and the people traveling with them, had left their homes and the land of their birth to take their chances in a distant and unfamiliar land.

  With the words of his own mother ringing in his ears, Harry realized that, unlike the socialites and the honeymooners and the returning European travelers and the theater stars with silly little dogs who had already boarded the ship in joyous and jovial mood at Southampton and Cherbourg, the many steerage passengers who were boarding at Queenstown had a strange air of remorse about them, a distinct sadness that was lifted only fleetingly by the chatter of these young girls.

  He couldn’t help but smile as he listened to their irrepressible excitement at the spectacle of the ship, their gasps of amazement echoing the feelings he’d had himself just twenty-four hours earlier. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, girls, would you look,” the pretty one had said as they walked through the general room. “This room alone is bigger than the whole of Ballysheen!”

  Titanic seemed to do that to people, inspire them, astound them, draw them together, and connect them in a shared sense of awe at the magnitude and splendor of this spectacle that had been derived from riveted steel plates. Because, after all, that was all she really was, sheets of metal held together with rivets. And yet she was also so much more than that. Titanic was a ship that would change lives, transporting her passengers toward a life of opportunity and prosperity. At least, that was what they hoped. Harry knew that for some, the crossing of the Atlantic would result in nothing more than the exchange of one life of poverty for another.

  Harry hung around the Irish girls’ cabin a little longer than usual to make sure they were happy with their accommodations (which, judging by their remarks about hand basins and towels and bars of White Star Line soap, they clearly were); then the pretty girl turned to thank him for his help, smiling warmly at him. It was a smile he gladly returned until he noticed the rather stiff-looking woman glaring at him. She seemed to be minding the group of girls, and Harry assumed she was the mother of one of them, most probably the girl he was smiling at, judging by the disapproving scowl on her face. He could almost hear the words of his friend Billy in his head: Bloody hell, that’s a face to melt steel if ever I saw one. Harry stopped smiling then, wished them a pleasant journey, and returned to the gangway to collect more passengers.

  Queenstown was a busy embarkation stop for the third-class stewards, with the majority of passengers who were boarding there traveling on third-class tickets. As was customary, the stop meant a life jacket inspection. Harry was quite familiar with this practice, now common among the large transatlantic liners to ensure that all crew understood how to assist passengers with the cork-filled jackets. He stood in line with a group of other stewards and crew, joking about how like the ladies with their corsets they must look trussed up in their life jackets.

  As they were being inspected by a junior officer, the head purser, Mr. McElroy, approached them. He introduced the man with him as Father Browne, a Jesuit priest from Cork.

  “Father Browne has been recording life on board the ship with his camera since we left Southampton,” Mr. McElroy explained. “He will be disembarking in a few moments but wondered whether he might take your photograph beforehand.”

  “Quite a spectacle you are with your life preservers on,” the priest commented, smiling at the group. “Perhaps a picture taken by a priest will bless them with good fortune and ensure they will not have occasion to be worn again. What do you say?”

  Spirits were high among the gr
oup, and they laughed, charmed by the soft Irish brogue and the distinguished manner of the man. They obliged, posing happily for his picture. He thanked them and moved on with Mr. McElroy to photograph the captain and some of the officers before getting off the ship.

  The stewards returned then to the business of showing the remaining passengers to their cabins. Amid all the noise and disorganization and wrong turns down long corridors as he guided the next group of wide-eyed passengers to their accommodations, Harry couldn’t get the Irish girl out of his thoughts, her impish face imprinted firmly on his mind. Maybe Lady Luck is smiling down on me on this mighty ship, he thought. He’d already had an unexpected, albeit temporary, transfer to the first-class decks thanks to his mate Billy; they’d just had the life jackets blessed by a priest; and a lovely Irish lass had landed in his midst without his mother being anywhere nearby to frighten her off. Also, there wasn’t much chance of a girl running off on him on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, no matter how big it was. He hoped he would have the chance to find out more about her over the coming days and realized that he didn’t even know her name, an oversight he decided to remedy at the earliest opportunity.

  As he continued in his work, whistling an Irish tune he’d heard a piper play on the deck, Harry recalled one of the posters for Titanic that had been put up around the town ahead of this maiden voyage. “The Ship of Dreams” was its mighty claim. Harry Walsh was beginning to wonder whether this might not be such a bold statement after all, and smiled as he purposefully walked the longer way back to the crew quarters, a route that would take him past cabin 115.

  CHAPTER 13

  Cass County, Illinois

  April 24, 1982

  Grace sat in the swing on the back porch of her mother’s house, enjoying the rocking sensation and the light breeze that danced around her bare feet. It was a warm day, full of blossoms on the trees and bees buzzing among the early-blooming azalea bushes. The first buds of wisteria were forming around the trellis that framed the doorway. Grace had always loved the wisteria, with its fragrant, cascading bunches of purple flowers; the pale, gnarled branches and stunning green foliage reminded her of the California grapevines she had seen on a family vacation. Her father had explained all about the harvesting process and the pressing of the grapes to make wine. It had seemed so magical to her and something that her father had described so poetically. Ever since, the wisteria had reminded her of that vacation and in turn, of her father.

  It was two years since the accident, two years since she’d left her college life and a promising future as a journalist, two years since she’d begun to drift away from Jimmy. Her life felt so different now; she felt so different now from the girl who had raced home that January day, but had still arrived to the hospital nine minutes too late. She’d been thinking recently about what Maggie had said at her birthday party, about going back to college and getting in touch with Jimmy again. She hadn’t read the last letters he’d sent to her, storing the unopened envelopes in a shoe box under her bed and storing Jimmy in a place in her heart from where she hoped that, one day, she would be able to move on, as she had told him to do.

  Grace’s reaction to her father’s sudden death had been to shut herself off completely from college life and focus on helping her mom. She hadn’t allowed herself to entertain any thoughts of returning to her journalism studies, or to Jimmy. Since everyone was so wrapped up in the loss of her father, nobody had really stopped to think about her. She hadn’t really expected them to. But listening to Maggie’s Titanic story had made Grace start to wonder. Here was a woman who’d had no choice in the direction of her life, no choice but to leave the home and the land and the man she loved and start over. Fate had intervened in the most dreadful way imaginable, leaving Maggie as a girl, not yet turned eighteen, lost and alone in a strange country, with just a small case of trinkets and mementos in her possession. Maggie had suffered real loss in so many ways, and Grace felt that she might have been a little foolish, a little hasty in locking herself away from the life she had been so enjoying and the man she had been enjoying it with.

  Her mom was much better recently, in terms of both her grief and her illness, which had been eased by new medication. Things such as opening the wedding anniversary dinner set were small but definite signs that she was starting to move on. Grace’s brother, Art, was due to come home that summer from the archaeological dig he had been working on in Egypt, and he’d promised to spend most of his time with his mom and sister. Yes, there was a definite wind of change circling around the Butler household.

  As she swung and watched their marmalade cat chase a bee buzzing idly among the flowers, Grace swept her hair back behind her ears and tucked her feet up under her. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she allowed herself to wonder whether it might be time to go back to her own life, whether it might be okay to move on. She decided to broach the subject with her mother over dinner and then closed her eyes, letting the gentle rocking of the swing soothe her into a restful doze.

  You look well today, Mom. Really pretty,” Grace remarked as she set a jug of iced tea down on the dinner table. “Your new hairstyle is lovely. The color really suits you.”

  It had been a while since Grace had been genuinely able to say that. Her mom hadn’t paid much attention to her appearance in a long time. She looked more like herself that evening, more like how Grace remembered she used to look.

  “Thank you,” her mother replied, touching her hair. “It is kinda lovely, isn’t it?” She’d been into town for the day with a friend and had decided to have her hair curled and colored at an upmarket salon. “Cost a fortune, though. I really shouldn’t have.” Her smile showed that she actually wasn’t too worried.

  “Mom, I’ve been thinking,” Grace began, sipping her iced tea nervously.

  “Thinking what, honey?” Her mother put down her fork to give her daughter her full attention.

  “Well, you know, I’ve been thinking about maybe going back to college—picking up my journalism studies again.”

  Her mother smiled. She didn’t seem at all surprised. “Good. I am very glad to hear it. So, what’s brought all this on?”

  Grace had told her mother about Maggie confiding in her about Titanic. She had told her details of the event and the aftermath that Grace’s mom—and even Grace’s grandmother—hadn’t heard before. Although she was surprised that Maggie had spoken of Titanic again, after so many years of silence, Grace’s mother was secretly delighted that it was Grace to whom Maggie had entrusted her story. Maggie had said she was happy for Grace to share her story now. She’d said it felt as if it had taken her a lifetime to talk about it properly and she didn’t think she was up to the task of saying it all over again. As far as Maggie was concerned, Grace could go off and tell the entire world, just as long as she didn’t have to do any more of the telling herself.

  “I think that listening to Maggie’s story has reminded me that you can never—and should never—take life for granted,” Grace explained. “I think I need to start moving on with my life again, and was thinking that with Art coming back for the summer and you seeming to be a bit happier these days and with Aunt Martha moving closer and your new medication helping with your attacks . . . ” Grace trailed off, hoping that she hadn’t misread the signs.

  Her mom laughed. “Do you know, Grace, that I was only twenty years old when I had you and Art? All a bit of a surprise to your father and me. We’d only been married a few months and then, wham, you two came charging into our lives.” She smiled at the memories and pushed the corn around on her plate. “You definitely cannot take life for granted. If your father’s death has taught me anything, it is that.” She paused for a moment as Grace rested her hand on her mother’s arm. “So, what about Jimmy? Have you given any thought to him?”

  Grace knew that her mom had always been very fond of Jimmy, and although she’d understandably been too distracted by her own grief to really notice Grace’s reasons for not
seeing Jimmy anymore, Grace suspected that her mother had often wondered about him.

  “I’m not sure, Mom. Sometimes I think about him, but he’s probably forgotten all about me by now. He’ll be graduating this summer anyway. He’s probably moving on somewhere to take a job.”

  “My goodness, Grace, there’s an awful lot of probablys in all of that. You should probably get in touch with him and find out whether any of your probablys are actually realities. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you. We all went through a very tough time, and you were so, so selfless to stay here with me. I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough for that. You and Jimmy are certainly not the first couple to drift apart after a tragedy—and I doubt you’ll be the last. I, for one, would be delighted to see the two of you back together.”

  Her mother’s words reminded Grace of Maggie, of how she’d blocked all sorts of people and memories out of her life after Titanic.

  “If there’s meant to be a future for the two of you, I’m sure he will still be waiting for you—even though you told him not to. And if not, then at least you’ll know the truth rather than spending the rest of your life in a world of probablys and what-ifs.”

  They continued eating their dinner in silence as a light rain began to fall outside.

  “So, why don’t you call that professor friend of yours? See if you can go back for the fall semester, pick up where you left off, and find out if that feature opening might be resurrected? You’ve some story to go to them with now!”