The Girl Who Came Home - a Titanic Novel

by Hazel Gaynor

  I will leave the hospital tomorrow. I have no idea what life has in store for me, but I know that I can never cross the ocean again. I will never step foot on a ship as long as I live which means that I will have to try and forget about Ireland and those who we left behind. How could I ever look into the eyes of those poor mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers – knowing that I got off the ship when their loved ones did not and perished in the freezing seas? I can never see their faces – I can never explain what happened that night.

  Peggy is alive! I cannot believe it. She’s is ALIVE!

  She walked right into the ward where my bed is and woke me from my sleep. ‘Is it really you Maggie Murphy?’ she said. We took to crying and hugging each other – I am beyond words. I thought it was a ghost at my bedside for a few moments I dared hardly believe it was really and truly her – alive and well and with her beautiful, golden hair falling about her shoulders as usual. We sat and stared at each other for an age – laughing and crying hysterically – neither of us knowing what to say or do with ourselves.

  We caused such a commotion with all our shrieking and crying and gasping that the nurses came running – they thought someone was dying. We brought tears to their eyes when we told them we were sailing on Titanic together and thought each other dead along with everyone else we loved and cared for.

  When we finally composed ourselves and the nurses had brought us both a cup of hot, sweet tea, Peggy told me that after we were separated on the ladder, she’d seen Katie and Maria and Pat heading up towards the back of the ship to escape from the water. She told me one of the great funnels broke loose from its fixings then and smashed into everything underneath – she doesn’t even want to imagine that it was that funnel which killed them all, but she didn’t see anyone from the Ballysheen group again and ran, with a group of crewmen, to the starboard side of the ship and somehow managed to jump from the deck to a lifeboat which was being lowered some fifteen feet down. She said she was never more terrified in her life when she made that leap, but she knew it was her last chance to survive. Then, when the lifeboat reached the water it was capsized by people who were already thrown overboard, trying desperately to clamber aboard. She wept when she described the fear of being in that icy water and the people all thrashing around her. Her face went under the water a dozen times, she told me, what with people trying to climb over her to reach the boat. But brave Peggy managed to somehow swim to an upturned collapsible raft which she clung to in her sodden clothes right through the night. She was rescued along with twelve others from that upturned boat – one of the Marconi radio boys was with her. Bride, she said his name was. Harold Bride. I remember Harry the steward telling me that was the name of the boy he knew and who he was asking to send my telegram to Séamus. I am glad to know that he survived. Imagine, Peggy being on the Carpathia with me and in the same hospital as me for all that time and we never found each other until now.

  When she had told me her frightening story, I told her all about how I got onto the lifeboat and how Harry was charged with rowing it to safety. I wept as I explained that Maura and Eileen were unable to leave Jack Brennan and that the young lad, Michael Kelly, wasn’t allowed to climb aboard what with it being women and children first. We held each other and wept for everyone and prayed to God for sparing us and vowed to live a long and happy life as thanks for being given this chance. Peggy is to travel on to St. Louis to meet her sister. We have exchanged addresses and promised that we will keep in contact.

  Wednesday, 24th April, 1912

  I dreamt last night that the steward, Harry, was looking for me and Peggy. He was asking for us but the nurse told him we had already been discharged. He seemed to have something important which belonged to me and wanted to return it. I tried to shout out, ‘I am still here, but no words would come and then I woke up and Harry was not there.

  Peggy left early this morning. We shared a pitiful, teary farewell and promised to keep in touch. I feel frightened now that she has gone – I feel alone again and wish she was travelling on with me to Chicago.

  I am on a train with the few pathetic possessions I own and wearing donated clothes which hang off me and make me look like an unloved ragdoll. How Aunt Kathleen would flush with embarrassment if she were here to see me now.

  When it was time for me to leave the hospital I cried when I said goodbye to the nurses who have looked after me so well. I told one of them I might like to be a nurse myself when I’m better and have properly recovered from all this. She said that nurses have to be incredibly brave and special people – so I would make a very good one. She hugged me tightly and I never wanted that hug to end. It reminded me of how Mammy used to hug me when I was a little girl.

  Before I left the hospital, I walked around to the beds of the other survivors who are still there – there are not many now, most having recovered well enough to move on or return home. I will never forget those people - their sad, empty faces and weak smiles of a vague hope for the future. We shared an understanding as we held hands and looked into each other’s eyes.

  So, I am finally leaving New York, the city I had heard so much about and was so excited about seeing from the bow of Titanic as we sailed gracefully into the dock to be greeted by all the well-wishers and the fluttering flags to welcome us all from our triumphant maiden voyage. Who could have ever known the conditions we would find ourselves arriving in.

  I never even saw the Statue of Liberty and doubt whether I ever will. This place will always hold dark memories for me now and I think I am best to leave those memories among the echoing corridors and starched bed sheets of the hospital.

  I still feel very unsteady on my feet and am sure my hands will never function right again. The nurses told me that I am still suffering from shock and exposure and that it could take months for me to recover fully.

  I am huddled into a seat on the train, hoping that nobody will pay me any attention at all, although I can feel them looking at me and whispering and guessing my story. Sometimes I catch their eye and they look sympathetically at me, trying to show me with their tilted head, furrowed eyebrows and bland smiles that they understand, that they know of the suffering I have endured. I stare back. They can never know of the suffering I have endured.

  It is odd to think that I had never been on a train in my life until just over a week ago – I thought I felt an aching sadness in my heart then as we puffed out of Claremorris station. How could I ever have known that there was a greater sadness waiting for me out there on the great Atlantic Ocean?

  Thanks be to God for the borrowed coat or I would be sitting here in just my undergarments, shoes and the cloak Kathleen had bought for me to travel in but. How I wish I had my own coat and the packet of letters. How I would love to read them now as I sit here all alone, how I would love to see Séamus’s writing and touch the paper which his hands touched.

  I wondered today about my message to Séamus and whether it was ever sent by that Marconi boy – whether it ever reached him. I hope so. He must be worried to death if he has heard any of the news about Titanic. My message might lift his spirits and maybe, after hearing of what has happened, and knowing that I am all alone, he might be able to come to America himself soon.

  I find it all too upsetting to think about. I will stop writing now and try to sleep until I reach my destination. I can barely stand the thought of seeing Aunt Mary; she will be so sad about her dear sister and I wish I could be arriving here with her as we had planned.

  It is almost impossible to rest with the rocking and thumping of the train carriages and with people needing to inspect my ticket and step past me to get on or off at a station. I’m so exhausted I barely said thank you to the lady from The Catholic Women’s League who gave me $200 and a few more donated clothes. She’s moving through the train making sure that all the Titanic survivors are being met by a relative at the other end. I hadn’t even noticed there were any other Titanic survivors on the train. I have hardly looked up from my feet I
am so sad and so ashamed to be travelling like this.

  Dear God Almighty, how did it ever come to this? How did that bright spring morning when we left Ballysheen turn into this – a train journey with not a soul I know for company and with all those I travelled with, bar one, dead and lost forever in the sea.

  I wish I had never left my home, wish I had never left Séamus. At this moment I wish I had never been rescued from that ship. I think it is easier for those who perished and will never have to face their future alone – like I do.

  I wish I was back under the cherry blossom tree watching the petals fall around me. I doubt I will ever know such happiness again as I knew in those months I spent with Séamus in Ballysheen.

  I think my heart is actually broken and may never be mended again.

  CHAPTER 32 - Ballysheen, Ireland, 20th April 1912

  The day Séamus Doyle buried his father nature unleashed an almighty storm across County Mayo and blew down all but two of the cherry blossom trees which lined the road through Ballysheen. It was an awful sight to behold, their thin trunks cracked and split by the force of the wind.

  ‘Snapped like matchsticks,’ an old woman muttered as Séamus stood and surveyed the scene of devastation. ‘And yet would ye look at those two, standing strong as iron, as if there was never a breath of wind at all.’

  He was relieved to see that the sixth blossom tree was one of the two still standing – he knew it because the initials MM SD for himself and Maggie were still there, scratched into the bark by his own whittling knife.

  The howling wind and lashing rain fell across the parish without relent that day, seemingly sympathising with the solemnity of the occasion as the Priest stood at the graveside and tried to make his prayers for Séamus’s father and words of comfort for Séamus and the few relatives and neighbours who had braved the elements to be heard over the cacophony of the weather. Later in his life, Séamus would speak about that raging storm, the worst in the history of the Parish, and how he had felt his day couldn’t possibly get any worse until he received a telegram message from the R.M.S. Titanic.

  The postmaster’s wagon rumbled down the lane shortly after the graveside mass. It reached the small, stone cottage at the same time as Séamus, who stood in the doorway with his cap in his hand and his shoes smeared with the freshly dug earth which the rain had quickly turned into rivers of flowing mud.

  ‘Afternoon to ye,’ the postmaster shouted in an attempt to make himself heard over the howling wind as he pulled his dappled horse to a standstill on the rutted pathway. ‘By God it’s a wild day to be sure. Never seen weather like it I haven’t and I’m forty years living here.’ He jumped down from the cart and stepped around the front. ‘You should be gettin’ inside with a fire burnin’ lad, never mind standing around in the doorway. Séamus didn’t respond. ‘Anyway,’ the postmaster continued, ‘here’s a thing ye don’t see every day – a message from the Marconi radio operator on the Titanic, no less!’

  Séamus’s attention was caught instantly. ‘From the Titanic? How?’

  ‘The wonders of technology eh?! Sure, how would I know how it gets here from a ship in the middle of the ocean,’ he laughed, rubbing the drops of rain which had collected in his eyebrows, ‘but it has, and it’s addressed to ye.’ The man stood still, as if expecting Séamus to share the contents of the message with him. ‘Well, cheer up then. It’s not every day a fella gets a message from the biggest ocean liner ever built!’

  Séamus didn’t speak. He simply reached out to take the small envelope in his hand before turning his back on the man and entering the cottage.

  ‘Well, there’s manners for ye,’ the postmaster muttered to himself, climbing back into the sodden cart and pulling sharply on the reins. His horse skittered to attention, shaking its mane, sending water flying into his face and a stream of curses gushing from his mouth. With a clatter of hooves on the slippery stones, Séamus heard the postmaster ride off and, relieved to be on his own, closed the door behind him.

  Settling himself into the threadbare chair next to the empty fireplace, he took a second to look around, to survey his surroundings with new eyes. This was his home now; these were his walls, his possessions, sparse and tattered though they were. He was a nineteen year-old man and what he saw before him now was the sum of his life so far.

  It had been a tough life, with plenty of tragedy and with his Ma and Da now dead and buried. How he hoped that what he held in his hands would be a turning point, would be the answer he had been praying for every night since Maggie left. Rubbing the edges of the thick, cream card, he studied the various postal markings and the image of the Titanic itself on the outside. He’d never seen a telegram before, let alone one from such a prestigious ship. He could only assume it was from Maggie, although how she had been able to send the telegram he had no idea.

  He thought again about the letters he had written to her. Was this her reply? Had she read them all; read his final question? His hands trembling with excitement at what she might say, he read the words:

  Marconi Wireless Telegraph Company Of America

  27 William Street (Lord Court’s Building) New York

  From Maggie Murphy, Titanic to Séamus Doyle, Ballysheen, Co. Mayo, Ireland.

  Dearest Séamus, all is well. Titanic is a fine ship. I hope your Da is well. Don’t wait for me

  Séamus sat motionless, reading the few words again and again. Don’t wait for me. Had she given up on him, on their future? Had she read his letters and was this a rejection of his proposal?

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, Maggie. Not this. Please, not this.’

  Letting the piece of paper fall to his lap, he leant his head back against the chair and gave in to the despair he’d suppressed since he’d watched the carts bearing the Titanic passengers rumbling off down the road and to the grief he’d denied since discovering his father’s lifeless body in the bed after returning from a night-time walk, his sleep having been disturbed by dreams of Maggie crying for help. An aching loneliness flooded his soul; a consuming emptiness he hadn’t felt even when he’d watched his father’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

  As the wind continued to rampage across the landscape he so loved, tearing centuries-old trees from their roots and sending chimneys crashing down onto the roofs of the houses they had stood proudly upon for decades, Séamus sank to his knees and sobbed with despair; his desperate cries exceeded only by the howling wind, his endless tears surpassed only by the ceaseless raindrops which streamed down the small windowpanes.

  Sometime later, around dusk, he was roused by a knock at the door. Forgetting where he was momentarily, he sat upright and looked around the room for his father, rubbing his swollen eyes. Then he remembered; his father was dead in the ground and his sweetheart had declined his offer of marriage.

  He got up wearily and trudged to the door, barely able to face the prospect of speaking to anyone else that day.‘Who is it?’ he sighed, rubbing his hands through his sandy hair which had curled in the damp from the rain.

  ‘Father Mullins,’ came the reply through the door.

  ‘Right so Father.’ Séamus righted his clothes which were crumpled and misshapen about himself and opened the door. ‘Come inside Father. Please excuse the mess – and myself,’ he added, looking self-consciously at the floor. ‘A drop of porter, Father?’

  ‘No Séamus, not for me son.’

  The Priest stepped inside, brushing the rain from his coat and hat, his cheeks flushed from the force of the wind, his eyes blazing with intensity, as they always did. He took a quick measure of his surroundings. ‘You’ve no fire lit yet Séamus – I hope you’ll be seeing to that next. It won’t do to be sitting about in this place all alone and cold y’know.’ There was a stern, purposeful edge to his voice. It was a voice Séamus had been listening to at Sunday Mass for as long as he could remember and he took notice when this man spoke. ‘Your Da wouldn’t like that at all now, would he?’

  ‘No Father, he wouldn�
�t. He liked his warmth. Whatever little else we had he would always see that there was peat burning in the grate. I’ll see to it right away. I was just having a little nap, y’know, after the business of the burial an’ all.’

  The Priest nodded and stepped towards the small window. ‘He was a great man indeed. Hard worker – and very proud of his boys y’know.’ He nodded at Séamus to impress this upon him before sitting down at the table which stood in the centre of the room. ‘I’m afraid I’m visiting many homes in the Parish tonight Séamus. I’ve received some rather unfortunate news.’

  Séamus noticed then, for the first time, the strain etched across Father Mullin’s usually peaceful looking face. ‘Oh? What is it Father?’

  ‘I hate to bring this news to you tonight of all nights, with you having just buried your father, God rest his soul.’ The two men paused for a second then to cross themselves in respect to the dead man. ‘Inspector O’Brien was in contact with me earlier today,’ he continued. ‘He had himself been alerted by a Mr Thomas Durcan in Castlebar. He is the local shipping agent for the White Star Line. I’m sorry to say, Séamus, that he reports that Titanic has foundered in the Atlantic.’