The Girl Who Came Home - a Titanic Novel

by Hazel Gaynor

  ‘Yes. He was a truly lovely man and I was the luckiest woman in all of Chicago to marry him. I loved him very much. And Grace, ‘she added, ‘he loved you, you know. He loved you very, very much. You were named after his own mother. He insisted on it.’

  CHAPTER 38 - Chicago, Fall, 1982

  The leaves were already taking on all the wonderful hues of autumn when Grace left for college; the russet, gold and copper shades glistening in the early morning sun and casting a warm glow over the lanes and fields which surrounded her home.

  It wasn’t easy leaving her mother, or the memories of her father which had surrounded and comforted her while she’d remained in the family home, but somehow reconnecting with Jimmy, discovering the truth about her great-grandfather and visiting the land of her heritage that summer had given Grace a renewed sense of purpose – a real sense of belonging; of being secure. It was a feeling which she and her mother had been missing since the death of Grace’s father and it was the grasping hold of it again which meant that it was OK to leave; to move on. Having seen the majesty of Nephin Mor with her own eyes, having walked on the land where her ancestors had worked and having touched the very stones of the walls of the humble homes her family had originated from, Grace was filled with a sense of existence and continuity which extended way beyond the boundaries of the white picket fence which surrounded her mother’s neatly-tended garden.

  As she sat on her bed for a moment, taking in the memories and conversations which buzzed and flickered in the very air around her, she recalled the time she had watched a calf being born, with her father sitting beside her in the candle-lit barn. ‘The continuity of life,’ he’d whispered, as they sat on a hay bale and watched the wondrous event unfold in front of them. ‘The most primal of instincts. Whether it’s a human baby, a calf or a field of wheat being sown, we are all driven to continue - to carry on, to begin again. I hope you always remember this moment Grace, and that you can always find a reason to begin again, whatever life has in store for you.’ Terrified and mesmerised she’d been unable to tear her eyes away for a second as the young calf slipped out onto the clean straw. She’d continued to watch as the cow licked the calf clean and she’d clapped with joy as it stood on its shaky legs and took its first, tentative steps.

  She remembered all this as she glanced around her childhood bedroom. For so long, she’d been unable to find a reason to carry on, to begin again, but sitting here now with the man she loved waiting for her in the car downstairs, her mother whistling contentedly as she pottered around with pots of paint and brushes ready to re-decorate Grace’s room – realising she had her whole future ahead of her, she felt a joy in her heart and a will to move on; to continue.

  Before leaving for the interstate, Grace asked Jimmy to drive her over to Maggie’s to say one final goodbye. She’d always loved this dear old lady, but had grown so close to her in the last few months; knowing details of Maggie’s life which even her own children had not been privy too. She felt privileged to have shared the most intimate thoughts, hopes and fears of this woman’s mind – both as a seventeen-year-old girl and as a ninety-year-old woman who, as they’d flown home together from Ireland, had told her that, finally, after all these years, the pain and fear from that dreadful night had, for the most part, faded away.

  ‘It’s like echoes Grace, like I’ve been hearing the same echoes for seventy years – of the carts rumbling out of Ballysheen, of the train thundering down the track to Cork, of the Uilleann pipes as we sailed away from Ireland’s shores, of the laughter in the general room the night we celebrated Katie’s birthday, of those poor people thrashing about in the icy water, of that ship ripping apart, of the waves slapping against the lifeboat – all of it’s been with me all my life. I don’t hear it now Grace. For the first time, I can’t hear those echoes anymore.’

  After returning to Chicago, Maggie had continued to be inundated with requests to appear on TV shows and radio programmes to talk about her Titanic experiences. She didn’t mind being a bit of a celebrity for a while, and made the most of the fancy lunches and bouquets of flowers. But there was one invitation to lunch which she’d treasured more than any of the lavish hotel events. It came in a handwritten letter.

  My dear, dear Maggie,

  I can hardly believe I have found you again. After all these years! I open the newspaper to read over breakfast and there you are, a seventeen-year-old girl, smiling out at me and your great-granddaughter is writing about your voyage on Titanic. I nearly passed out into my granola, I’ll tell you!

  I was so thrilled to know that you are still on God’s good earth – and looking so well for your years. It cannot really be seventy years since that terrible night, can it? After we lost touch during the war I didn’t think I would find you again Maggie – but here you are, living in Chicago and here am I living in Chicago for the past thirty years – who could have believed it! It’s a wonder we didn’t turn out to be neighbours Maggie!

  Well, I spoke to my granddaughter about you and she insisted on ringing the paper and getting an address for you. Of course, they wouldn’t give me your address so I had to write to them and they have promised me they will pass the letter onto you. So help me God I’ll cause some trouble for them if they don’t. So, I hope this reaches you Maggie because it would mean so much to me to see you again. There is so much to tell you, so much I want to hear.

  I wondered if we might be able to meet for lunch sometime?

  I have enclosed my telephone number and address and would dearly love to hear from you.

  With all my fondest wishes.

  Peggy Kelly (Madden)

  The two ladies had met on a sunny June afternoon. Grace had insisted that she drive Maggie, Maggie had insisted that they have tea and cake at The Blossom Tree Café and Peggy had insisted that they wear gloves and hats. There were many tears and much laughter as they recounted times past and shared intimate details of their lives. Nobody could have possibly known what terror these two dignified, gentle ladies had experienced on that April night in 1912, but they knew and they held each other’s hands and looked into each other’s faded, watery eyes as they nodded silently at the memories they shared and the bond which would always exist between them, whatever amount of time or distance lay between them.

  ‘Well Maggie, it’s time,’ Grace announced as she embraced the old lady on the front porch of her small home. ‘I’m all packed and Mom’s already ripping the old wallpaper off my bedroom wall! I’m finally leaving.’

  Maggie held her for a little longer than she usually did. ‘And about time too young lady – you’ve a lot of life to catch up on. You take good care of yourself and show those newspaper folks what you’re made of.’

  She pressed a small, oval photo frame into Grace’s hands then.

  ‘What’s this?’ Grace turned the frame over and saw a faded black and white photo of a handsome young man, who looked a lot like Jimmy.

  ‘That’s your great-grandfather dear. That’s Séamus just after he arrived in America. Handsome devil wasn’t he. He always took very good care of me you know.’ Grace took a moment to study the image, unable to find any words. ‘And you make sure that young man of yours takes very good care of you,’ Maggie added, smiling at Jimmy who was standing behind Grace on the steps.

  ‘Oh you needn’t worry about that Maggie. I’ll be taking very good care of Grace. I let her get away from me once, I’m not gonna make that mistake again in a hurry.’

  ‘I’ll write you and call as often as I can,’ Grace promised as she gave Maggie a final, tearful embrace. ‘And thank you Maggie – for everything.’

  The old woman understood and kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Go - and be happy.’

  *

  She stood for a while on the doorstep after they’d gone, enjoying the warm, autumn sun on her face. As she watched the leaves swoop and swirl down to the ground, she felt a sudden urge to do something she hadn’t done for years. Walking carefully down the f
ew steps, she stood patiently under the big birch tree which stood at the bottom of her garden, waiting, waiting for a leaf to fall. ‘If you catch one you can make a wish’ she remembered Séamus telling her as they’d kicked through the piles of leaves the fall after they were married. ‘But you have to be quick.’ She’d never managed to catch one and he’d laughed at her leaping and jumping around and chasing them down the street as the wind blew them just out of her reach.

  She stood now, watching, waiting and very gently, one solitary, brilliantly golden leaf fluttered softly down and fell into her hand effortlessly. She smiled, closed her eyes and made a wish.

  EPILOGUE - Chicago, 1985

  As Maggie sat quietly in her bed, reading again over the journal she had written from Titanic as a young girl, she could never have believed that, far away in the Atlantic Ocean, a group of scientists on a small research vessel were staring at a small TV screen as a blurred image of a ship’s hull came into view. Titanic’s final resting place had been discovered.

  Reading the words she had written that fateful year, she allowed the memories to wash over her - remembering in all its rich, vivid detail the splendour and grandeur of that magnificent ship. As she read, she was completely unaware of the images being beamed around the world: of the proud bow of the ship whose perfectly polished decks she had once stood on, of the china coffee cups she had once drunk from, of the spinning top of a young boy who she had watched playing happily, of the Uilleann pipes of a man whose melodies had brought tears to her eyes. As she read her words, she did not see any of these things now embedded in the sandy sediment of the ocean floor, two miles below the surface. She did not observe the murky waters enriched with the memory of each tiny fragment of glass, of each discarded shoe, of each piece of painstakingly hand-crafted furniture, of each of the three thousand men and the three million rivets it had taken to build the ship. She did not watch as the memory of fifteen hundred lost souls was stirred by the movement of the water.

  She lay quietly then, a picture of James Doyle clutched in her hands, her small, black suitcase at her side and the bundle of love letters neatly tied up and placed carefully in her coat pocket; exactly as they were the morning she left Ballysheen. As she lay, she recalled something she’d whispered to herself as the lifeboat she sat in was lowered over the side of the Titanic to the water below. She repeated the words now into the silent darkness. ‘I’m coming home Séamus. I’m coming home.’

  She closed her eyes then.

  At peace.

  Finally.

  THE END

  ###

  Author’s Note

  The Girl Who Came Home was inspired by the true events surrounding a group of fourteen Irish emigrants who left their homes in County Mayo, Ireland to travel on Titanic to relatives in America. The group is known locally as ‘The Addergoole Fourteen’ – the loss of eleven passengers from the group representing the largest proportional loss of life from one region when Titanic sank. For the purposes of this novel, the names of all fourteen have been changed. The town of Ballysheen, although based on Lahardane in County Mayo, is fictitious.

  Maggie Murphy is based on two of the youngest girls in the Addergoole group (Annie Kate Kelly and Annie McGowan) and Kathleen Murphy is based on Catherine McGowan, the woman who the organisation of the journey of the Addergoole group is generally accredited to, although this has never been proven. Annie Kate Kelly believed she was the last woman to leave Titanic, being helped into the last lifeboat, lifeboat 16, by a steward she had befriended. In her later life, Annie McGowan did indeed confess her Titanic story to her great-granddaughter.

  Peggy Madden’s character is based on Delia McDermott who, having got into a lifeboat, apparently returned to her cabin to fetch her precious new hat. Katie Kenny is also based on one of the girls from the Addergoole group, Nora Fleming, who was travelling to be reunited with her sister in New York and celebrated her 24th birthday on board Titanic on 14th April, 1912.

  The remaining characters in the Ballysheen group are loosely based on accounts of those who travelled in the party. The remaining characters, and the events surrounding Grace and Maggie’s family life, are entirely fictitious.

  Some of the other passengers which members of the Irish group encounter aboard Titanic are based in fact, including Father Browne, whose black and white images of Titanic are known worldwide, Eugene Daly, the piper, the girl with the rash who was refused entry to the ship at Queenstown, young Douglas Spedden - the young First Class boy playing with his spinning top - , the Marconi radio boys Harold Bride and Jack Phillips and, of course, Captain Smith, Mr Ismay, Mr Andrews, Officer Lightoller and McElroy.

  The Marconigram messages at the start of each part of the novel are actual messages transmitted from The Titanic and The Carpathia.

  The legacy of Titanic has provided an immense amount of detail about its construction, fixtures and fittings, even down to the handles on the dinner knives. Throughout the novel, every attempt has been made to draw on the available information and portray, authentically, what life was like for passengers and crew aboard the ill-fated Titanic and, indeed, what the experience was like for the survivors who made it onto the rescue ship Carpathia and for the family and.friends who were awaiting news of fate of their relatives and loved ones.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a novel about Titanic is a very long held ambition of mine. There was always something about the era, the images of the ship and the story of the tragic maiden voyage which I found timelessly powerful, tragic and romantic. Having talked myself out of tackling such an enormous story for years, thankfully the centenary year came along and gave me the final push to write about this huge ship and its legacy.

  I owe many thanks – firstly to my husband, Damien, for patiently listening to my plot ideas and firmly advising me when he thought something ‘wasn’t so great’, and giving a quiet nod of approval whenever he really liked it. Also, for taking the children swimming a lot so that mummy could write. I also want to thank my fabulous boys, Max and Sam, for giving mummy time to write – and for being great swimmers!

  Thanks are also due to my sister, Helen, for reading the early chapters, correcting my punctuation and putting up with my endless conversations about writing. Also, to my niece and nephew, Catherine and Eddie, for being such loyal supporters of my writing and for coming up with endless cover designs. Also, to my mother-in-law, Frances, who was the first person to read this book in its entirety and gave me the confidence to self-publish after telling me she loved it and admitting that it had made her cry!

  Thanks also to Michael Molloy and Pauline Barrett of The Addergoole Society who shared their Parish’s amazing stories with me through their website and through Pauline’s wonderful parish book ‘The Addergoole Titanic Story’ – all of which inspired me to write this book.

  Many, many thanks to the amazingly talented Jim McDonald for allowing me to use his wonderful Titanic art for the cover.

  Finally, thank you to my agent Sheila Crowley for listening patiently and calmly to my over-excited explanations about wanting to write a novel about Titanic, and encouraging me to go for it.

  About the Author

  Hazel Gaynor is a freelance journalist, book reviewer, and blogger. She lives in Ireland with her husband, two children and an accident prone cat. This is her first novel. Hazel is represented by Sheila Crowley of Curtis Brown London and can be contacted on Twitter @HazelGaynor or by email hdgaynor@gmail.com

  Visit one of Hazel’s blogs:

  www.hotcrossmum.blogspot.com

  www.blog.hellomagazine.com/offtheshelf

  www.writing.ie/guestblogs/carryonwriting

 

 

 
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