The Girl Who Came Home - a Titanic Novel

by Hazel Gaynor

  Looking down the row to her left and her right, she saw the familiar faces of the other Ballysheen men and women. They were indeed a large group, all travelling together, and she was certain that every one of them felt comforted and reassured to have so many familiar faces around them. She considered them now, knowing the personal motivations of each for making this journey; each of them with their own reason for leaving Ireland, each of them with a relative in America eagerly awaiting their arrival and each of them with a relative in Ireland mourning their departure.

  Next to Maggie stood Maura and Jack Brennan, hoping to start a new life with the funds from the sale of Jack’s family smallholding. With his father dead since January and inheriting the family land, Maura had suggested he sell. It was with the money raised from the sale of that land that Jack Brennan had enough funds to pay for passage to America for himself, his wife and his sister and still have enough left over to invest in a business in Chicago. Jack’s devoted sister Eileen stood with them. The family had agreed that she would travel with her brother and sister-in-law and would settle with them in America.

  Then there was Ellen Joyce, a proud, confident woman who had returned to Ballysheen from Chicago to visit her sick mother and to announce her engagement. Kathleen also suspected she had relished the opportunity to show off her diamond solitaire engagement ring and her new gold watch, a gift from the man she was to marry in a few months’ time. She’d spent her last few days in Ballysheen packing a trousseau of wedding gifts she’d received and other items she’d purchased for her bottom drawer. Her sister was to stay at home to care for their mother. Ellen was travelling with the Brennan’s who knew her and her family well, their homes being just across the field from each other.

  Next in the row stood Katie Kenny. Kathleen was very fond of the Kenny girl and knew how excited she was about seeing her sister Catherine in New York. She had kept to her promise of keeping everyone’s spirits up with her songs and had half the steerage passengers singing along to their favourite Irish ballads.

  Then there was young Michael Kelly, a slight young fella whose mother was very unhappy about his decision to emigrate and join his two brothers in New York. He’d boasted of the new pocket his sister had sown on the inside of his jacket to keep his money and ticket in. ‘It’s a fine pocket with neat stitching isn’t it Miss Murphy?’ he’d announced to her.

  Alongside Michael stood the painfully shy Mary Brogan and her boisterous cousin Pat with his shock of red hair. They were both going to stay with Pat’s sister in Philadelphia. After the incident with the dropped lucky sovereign, Kathleen had advised him to keep it in his sock for the duration of the journey.

  At the far end of the line, Kathleen could just see the faces of the younger girls, Bridget Maloney, Maria Cusack, Margaret Daly and Peggy Madden who was still wearing her new hat. They were each heading to family in Chicago, New York and St. Louis.

  It occurred to Kathleen as she looked down the row that theirs were just fourteen stories among nearly two thousand aboard this ship. Following Captain Smith in his final prayer, she closed her eyes and prayed to the Good Lord for all of their good health and good fortunes, wherever they had come from, wherever they were going and whatever their reasons for making this long and remarkable journey.

  As soon as the service was over, Kathleen and the rest of the passengers returned to their respective parts of the ship. Captain Smith and his Officers returned to the bridge from where he gave the orders for the eleven am lifeboat drill to be cancelled, for the boilers to be stoked and for the speed to be increased to full steam ahead. He gazed out over the vast expanses of the Atlantic Ocean, proud in the knowledge that they would dock in New York in just two days’ time.

  CHAPTER 17

  April 14th, 1912

  Dearest Séamus, all is well. Titanic is a fine ship. I hope your da is well. Don’t wait for me, come to America as soon as you can. Maggie.

  Maggie put her pencil down on the bed covers and read over her words once again before reading them out to Katie who was sitting at the other end of the bed playing solitaire with a pack of cards, her legs curled under her like a cat.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  Katie thought for a moment as she moved the Jack of Hearts onto the Queen. ‘I think it’s grand Maggie. Stop worryin’ about it and just give it to Harry will you or we’ll be in New York and you’ll never have it sent at all.’

  Maggie knew she was right, but still wasn’t sure she’d written exactly what she wanted to. Having finally plucked up the courage to ask their steward friend, Harry, about sending a wireless message to Séamus through the Marconi operators who he was friendly with, she hadn’t then been at all sure what she wanted to say. It seemed trivial almost to say so few words when there were so many more she wanted to write down, but Harry had told her to keep it short. ‘The first class passengers send these messages for a bit of a lark,’ he’d told her, ‘they’re amused by the technology and the chance to communicate with their friends and family while they are on board a ship is too big a boast to miss out on. Some of ‘em send two or three messages a day at twelve shillings and sixpence a time and think nothing of it, telling people what they’ve eaten for lunch or gossiping about a conversation they’ve overhead. It pays well for the Marconi boys – and makes the day a bit more interesting for them, otherwise it’s just relaying boring messages to the Captain from other ships about sightings of ice and wind direction. Think of it as sending a postcard from a holiday, ‘having a nice time, wish you were here’, that sort of thing.’

  She read over her words again. She’d already written eight different messages before finally asking for Peggy’s advice. ‘Jesus, Maggie,’ Peggy had laughed, reading over her friend’s first few attempts. ‘Sure why would he be carin’ about what you were eatin’ for dinner last night? For the love of God, just tell him you miss him and you love him. That’s all ye need to write.’

  Maggie didn’t even understand how it was possible to send a message by radio from a ship in the middle of the Atlantic ocean to a small town in Ireland, but she somehow felt that since it was possible, the words of the message should be carefully considered, should mean something to the sender and the recipient.

  As she considered a tenth attempt, Peggy came bounding into the cabin. She’d been out on the deck for a stroll after the religious service they had attended that morning and her cheeks were flushed red from the breeze, her hair whipped into straggly rat’s tails by the moist air.

  ‘Maggie Murphy,’ she cried in mock anger, throwing herself down onto the bed between her two friends, bringing the distinctive scent of fresh, sea air into the room. ‘If you are still feckin’ around with that note, I’ll murder you with my own hands, I swear to God I will. Come on, we’re to meet Lucky Harry for our personal tour and I’m sure he’ll not be hangin’ around for us colleens all mornin’.’

  The girls had arranged to meet the English steward that morning to have a secret look at the upper decks. Although he’d said it would be a birthday treat for Katie, they all knew that it was for Peggy’s benefit really, the young lad obviously having fallen for her quick wit and country girl looks. Maggie carefully folded the piece of paper with her short message to Séamus and tucked it into her skirt pocket just as her aunt Kathleen walked into the cabin. The three girls sat perfectly still and stared at her.

  ‘Well, if ever I saw a sight of girls who were up to no good, I’m seein’ it now in front of my very eyes,’ she said, putting her coat and handbag onto her bed. ‘What are you up to the three o’ ye?’

  The girls glanced anxiously at each other, Maggie feeling the note in her pocket as if it were stolen diamonds. Peggy was the one to speak up. ‘Nothin’ much Kathleen, there’s nothin’ much for us to be doin’ on this ship after a few days. We were just goin’ to check on the ship’s log and go for a stroll on the decks or maybe join some of the others for a game of cards.’ Kathleen seemed placated, but just to make sure, Peggy continued. ‘
Miss Murphy, how many more days is it now until we get to New York? We couldn’t remember whether it was two or three.’

  Kathleen looked at them all, apparently convinced by Peggy’s tale, feeling momentarily sympathetic for these young girls, stuck in the confines of a ship when they were so used to running in fields and busying themselves with chores.

  ‘Only two more days girls and then ye will have the whole of America to explore. Go on now, be off with you, but mind you’re not causin’ any trouble.’

  Grabbing her coat and making sure the packet of letters from Séamus were still in the pocket, Maggie walked casually out of the cabin with Peggy and Katie. As soon as the door closed behind them and they felt sure they were out of Kathleen’s earshot, they ran, giggling, along the labyrinth of endless passageways and corridors, across stairwells and past elevators towards the steward’s cabins on Scotland Road where Harry had agreed to meet them.

  Far from being the bored young girls of Peggy’s pretence to Kathleen, these were some of the most exciting days they had ever spent, with new people to meet every day, hot meals served to them three times a day, warm running water to wash themselves in and the prospect of a new life in America to look forward to. If Maggie hadn’t felt such an ache in her heart for Séamus back in Ireland, she felt sure that she would have the same, carefree attitude and lust for life which she saw in Peggy and Katie. For now, she felt as if she was going through the motions; occasionally forgetting herself and joining in with the craic and the daily surprises of life aboard this ship, but something would then remind her of what she had left behind, like the bottle of Holy Water she felt in her coat pocket now. She’d forgotten she’d put it there after one of her neighbours gave it to her on the night of the American wake.

  Maggie had been at those sorts of gatherings before, to drink tea and eat treacle cake and send off a cousin or a neighbour or a family friend and wish them well on the journey ahead. This time it had been different. This time there were so many of them leaving together, a mixture of young and old from five different villages in the parish; this time, she was one of the departing travellers.

  As the American wakes usually were, the evening had been an odd combination of celebration and despair, excitement and dread, haunting ballads and rousing song. For every tear there was raucous laughter, for every lament and prayer a tale of courage and hope. Maggie had observed the back-slapping, the raising of the glasses of porter and poitín, the dancing of the jigs and the reels to the strains of the fiddle, up and down, up and down the Brennan’s kitchen into the small hours of the morning. She’d sat on an upturned crate in the corner of the kitchen and wondered if anyone knew of the feelings of sadness and trepidation stirring in her heart.

  It was a neighbour, Bridget Kelly who had pressed the bottle of holy water and a batch of oatmeal cakes into her hands.

  ‘For good fortune and sustenance on the journey ahead,’ she’d said, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks.

  Maggie had thanked her and clutched the items to her as if her very life depended on it.

  That final night’s combination of mirth and mourning was the culmination of weeks of exchanged visits, shared advice and intimacies, discussions about what clothing might be suitable for the journey, private farewells and moments of quiet, personal reflection. Maggie had seen enough tearful embraces on the doorsteps of their village to last her a lifetime.

  ‘I hope I never witness such a sight again,’ she’d said to Peggy, ‘wake, burial or otherwise.’

  Not even a week had passed since that night, since she’d put that bottle of Holy Water into her coat pocket as she’d walked home across the fields with her aunt Kathleen. It already seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Approaching the crew quarters now, they spotted Harry leaning against the wall, waiting for them. They stopped running and slowed to a walk as they neared him. He certainly looked handsome in his smart, steward’s uniform. His face was pleasant, clean-shaven and friendly looking. Maggie wasn’t surprised that Peggy was sweet on him - it never surprised her when fellas were sweet on Peggy.

  ‘Right ladies, now you must keep very quiet and try not to gasp too much,’ he teased, leading them in the direction of the ladder. ‘You can be thrown off a ship you know for gawping at the first class ladies without permission!’

  Maggie and Katie looked anxiously at each other, not entirely sure they wanted to take the risk.

  ‘Jesus Harry, would you stop,’ Peggy whispered, sensing the other girl’s hesitation and digging him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘You’ll have their hearts crossways, God love ‘em.’

  He laughed and motioned to the narrow ladder, which led up through a small hatch several feet above them.

  ‘He’s only messin’ with ye,’ she continued, facing her two friends and smiling at Harry, pleased to be in on his joke. ‘Don’t mind him at all. Right, Maggie, you go up first, Katie you next and I’ll go last.’

  Climbing up carefully, they emerged at the back of the first class promenade deck, poking their heads up through the hatch before hoisting themselves up onto the deck and scurrying behind one of the collapsible life rafts which kept them well hidden from view. They settled down into a crouch, their long skirts tucked up under their knees, their chins resting on their hands which grasped the edge of the life-raft for balance.

  ‘That’s the gentlemen only smoke room,’ Harry whispered, pointing to a room across the deck. The girls craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the handsome gentlemen who were sitting about in crimson leather chairs, smoking cigars as they read their newspapers or wandered around the room, chatting to friends as they admired the artwork on the walls or the painted glass panels in the windows which shone brilliantly in the sunlight streaming through them.

  ‘And that’s the Palm Court,’ Harry continued, enjoying his role of tour guide while keeping a good look out for Officers or other senior stewards who would not be at all pleased to see the group of them lurking in their hiding place. ‘See, there are proper palm trees and plants climbing the trellises. I bet you didn’t reckon on there being proper plants growing on a ship?!’

  The girls were not at all interested in the flora, gazing wide-eyed at the elegant ladies who sat at the wicker chairs and poured tea from dazzling, silver pots into elegant china cups, the stunning cobalt blue and gold of the exclusive Titanic china glinting in the sunlight. Small, white vases of elegant pink roses and white daisies were placed on each table, silver sugar tongs rested on dainty saucers next to succulent slices of fruit cake, the sight of which almost made the girls drool.

  They watched in silent awe as three young ladies, about the same age as themselves, chatted and laughed at one of the tables nearest to them, their oriental-style, silk dresses draped elegantly over their slim, hourglass figures, ending just above the ankle to show their exquisite boots. At another table, a group of older ladies - possibly their mothers, Maggie thought - were equally elegant in their more reserved lace blouses with stylish, narrow sleeves and full length skirts. All the ladies, young and old, wore huge hats decorated with all manner of accessories; lace, feathers, satin, ribbons and stuffed birds. Maggie noticed a small boy behind them playing with a spinning top.

  The three friends were stunned into silence by the splendour, grace and elegance of it all. It was as if they were watching their own, private silent movie, unable to hear the conversations, but able to admire the rich plums and teals, the soft pastel peach and pinks, the virginal white, every conceivable manner of fabric, colour and style which seemed to be sitting in that room.

  ‘See that girl there with the cigarette holder and the long white gloves?’ Harry whispered, pointing out a particularly elegant lady sitting nearest to them. ‘She’s a famous actress in the silent movies, Vivienne Walker-Brown.’ The girls had never heard of the woman, but she oozed such style and sophistication that all three of them wanted to trade their life for hers immediately. ‘And that’s her stupid little dog, Edmund, sitting under her chair,’
he continued. ‘It goes everywhere with her. I took it for a walk the other day I’ll have you know.’

  At that, Peggy snorted a laugh so loud that it almost gave away their hiding place. If it hadn’t been for the violinists entertaining the ladies, Maggie was sure they would have been heard.

  ‘Jesus Christ Peggy, shush would you,’ Maggie scolded as they clambered quickly back down the ladder before anyone could arrest them or throw them overboard.

  By the time they were all safely down, all four were laughing, partly with nerves and partly at Harry knowing the name of some society lady’s dog.

  ‘Well, that’s all very nice an’ all,’ Peggy announced as she finally composed herself, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks, ‘but I bet they can barely breathe trussed up into their corsets like stuffed turkeys. You wouldn’t catch me sitting up there for all the fancy teacups in china.’ At the foot of the ladder she turned to face Harry. ‘Well, young man, that was a very interesting excursion,’ she announced in a mock, upper-class accent which had them all in a fit of the giggles again. ‘Thank you very much,’ she continued. ‘I….we look forward to seeing you at dinner, don’t we girls?’

  The flush in her cheeks was visible to them all as she turned to walk down the passageway back to the cabin.

  Maggie hung back, grabbing for the note from her pocket. ‘I wrote my note,’ she said, passing the folded page to Harry, feeling awkward at handing over her private words to a relative stranger, few words though they were. ‘You promise not to read it now will ye, just give it to your friend, so?’