In Dublin's Fair City

by Rhys Bowen

  We emerged from West Tenth to the hustle and bustle of West Street. Porters, seamen, and passengers were scurrying around the great ship, picking their way among stacks of cargo like a lot of ants around a picnic basket. The ship's twin funnels sparkled in the morning sunlight. She cast a great black shadow over the scene below. Truly a majestic sight, and this time I was really able to savor it. When I had departed from Liverpool, not only had I been a bundle of nerves at sailing underan assumed name, but I had two terrified children in tow—Kathleen O’Connor's little ones, en route to their father in New York. I had written to Seamus O’Connor telling him that I was going back to Ireland and would try to visit Kathleen's grave, if I had time, but had received no reply. Seamus wasn’t the greatest when it came to penmanship. I felt a pang of regret that those children were no longer part of my life. Maybe they’d come back to New York in the winter, I thought. I didn’t allow myself a pang of regret for my own child. No good would come from dwelling on that.

  I paid the cabby and assigned my humble luggage to a porter who looked at it with distaste, when compared to the piles of steamer trunks that were going aboard and led me to the second-class gangway. I went aboard without looking back, my heart racing a mile a minute, and showed my ticket to the purser at the top of the gangway.

  “This way, miss,” I was told pleasantly, and was handed over to a steward who took my train case from me and escorted me along a never-ending corridor to a small cabin. It was hardly big enough to swing a cat, but at least it did have a porthole. The view wasn’t the greatest, obscured by a lifeboat hanging out from the deck above, but at least I could see daylight and a glimpse of sky.

  “Your bags will be brought up right away, miss,” the steward said. “Have a good trip. We’re expecting good weather all the way. That's a blessing at this time of year, isn’t it? It's no picnic when we have to outrun a hurricane, I can tell you.”

  I thanked him, wondering if I was expected to give him a tip. Such questions had not been necessary when I traveled steerage. Before I could fumble for a purse, however, he gave me a cheery grin and left me to examine my quarters. Not that the cabin took long to examine. There were two bunk beds along one wall, a chest of drawers, wardrobe and mirror on the other. And just about enough room between them for a slender person to pass. But I didn’t have to share it with anybody, and I didn’t expect to be inside it much. I intended to make full use of my time on board. I took off my hat and was about to brush my hair when there was a tap at my door. I expected it was my luggage, but instead another steward entered.

  “Note for you, miss,” he said, in cheerful Cockney tones.

  “For me? Are you sure?”

  “Miss Molly Murphy, E deck, cabin 231. Is that you?” “Yes, it is, but—”

  He grinned. “Maybe you’ve already got an admirer on board. Great place for romance, Atlantic liners.” He winked, handed me the note, and was gone.

  I stared at my name written on the envelope. Not any handwriting that I knew. For one dreadful moment I had thought that it might be from Daniel, begging me to reconsider. I decided it must be some last-minute instructions from Mr. Burke and tore it open.

  “Dear Miss Murphy,” the note began, “You can’t imagine how delighted I was to find that we were to be shipmates. I too am traveling back on the Majestic to my homeland. I’d be most grateful if you’d come to my cabin as soon as you read this. I’ve a small matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

  It was signed Oona Sheehan.

  Six

  Itidied my hair and made myself presentable before I made my way back to the main reception area, where I knew I’d find a staircase.

  “Can I help you, miss?” a fierce voice echoed after me. “I’m going up to A deck,” I said. “Isn’t this the right way?” “A deck is first-class cabins, miss.” His look was inscrutable. “Precisely,” I answered. “I have just received an invitation from a friend in first class to visit her at her cabin right away.” I waved the note at him.

  “Very good, miss,” he said. “Allow me to escort you. What cabin number is it?”

  I smirked as he led the way up the stairs. I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be humble.

  The steward knocked on the cabin door, and we were rewarded with “Enter” in those deep melodious tones that had charmed audiences across the globe.

  The steward poked his head around the door. “If you please, ma’am, there's a young lady to see you—a Miss Murphy?” “How delightful. Send her in,” Oona said.

  I swept into the cabin, past the rather astonished steward, savoring every instant. Then I just stood there and gasped.

  Oona Sheehan's cabin was nothing like my own. It was as big asmost drawing rooms, with a double bed against one wall, surrounded by white built-in wardrobes and cupboards. Under her porthole there was a daybed, a couple of gilt-edged chairs, and a low table decorated with a big bowl of flowers. There were more flowers on every surface of the room, great displays of them, orchids and roses and every kind of exotic bloom. Oona was lounging on the daybed, looking stunning in a black-and-white striped traveling suit with a matching black-and-white feather ornament in her hair. She didn’t attempt to sit up but raised a hand to greet me.

  “Molly Murphy. How good of you to come and visit me.”

  “How did you know I’d be on board?” I asked. “Did Mr. Burke tell you?”

  She laughed. “Not at all. Very tight-lipped is our dear Tommy. Pure coincidence, actually. We bumped into each other buying tickets at the White Star office, so he had to confess he was sending you to Ireland. I wormed it out of him actually. I do have a knack of making gentlemen confess things they never intended to.” That enchanting smile lingered on her lips before she went on, “Do take a seat. There's a bottle of champagne already on ice. I know it's morning and I don’t usually drink before noon, but I always make it a rule to drink champagne when sailing. I find it calms the stomach wonderfully. I am never seasick.”

  “No champagne for me, thank you. It goes straight to my head,” I said.

  “Mine too.” She chuckled. “It can probably be blamed for a host of wrong decisions in my life.” She propped herself up a little higher and reached across to the table. “Chocolate? I do adore them, don’t you? My one real weakness, especially when I have to watch my waistline.”

  She held out a gold-wrapped box to me. This time I didn’t refuse.

  “Miss Sheehan,” I said, “why exactly did you invite me? You hardly know me, and I can’t imagine that I’d be the most exciting person on ship. You’ve only to go out of that door and you’ll be surrounded by admirers.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I’ve a small proposition to make to you, Molly.” She flashed me a challenging smile. “I may call you Molly, may I not? If you are a lady detective, then you must be the kind of woman who craves excitement and likes a challenge.”

  “I don’t know if I crave excitement,” I said, “but I don’t seem to be able to escape it.”

  “Splendid. And you wouldn’t be averse to earning an extra fee from this trip?”

  “Nooo,” I said hesitantly.

  She sat up now. “I’m going to make you a proposition, Molly Murphy. I don’t think you’ll turn it down.”

  I waited. She glanced out of her porthole—one not obscured by a hanging lifeboat. “It's not always easy being me,” she said. “As you said, everywhere I go I’m surrounded by admirers. Foolish men who think themselves hopelessly in love with me, follow me like puppy dogs. I can never be alone, never have a chance to be myself. You may think it's wonderful, but it can become very wearing, I assure you. I’m taking this trip home because my doctor has ordered me to rest or face a breakdown. I have a little cottage picked out on the West Coast, where the local inhabitants won’t know who I am and care little about my fame. But it is this journey that I dread.”

  She paused again, one lily white arm raised in dramatic gesture. Truly she was so lovely to look at that I couldn’t stop gazing. Those be
autiful green eyes, that perfect little nose. I realized that she was also staring at me.

  “You said you had a proposition for me,” I said.

  She nodded. “I want to trade places with you on this voyage.”

  “You want what?” I blurted out, forgetting that she was one of the world's most famous women, and I was a nobody.

  She smiled, revealing the most enchanting dimples. “Exactly what I said. For this voyage I want to become Molly Murphy, and I want you to stay in this cabin and become Oona Sheehan.”

  “But that's absurd,” I said. “For one thing, I’m in a tiny second-class cabin down five decks from here, with the view blocked by a great lifeboat. For another, I’d only have to show my face for one second and anyone would know I’m not Oona Sheehan.”

  “I’ve thought it all out,” she said. “We’ll announce that I am feeling out of sorts, suffering from exhaustion, and am keeping to my cabin, except for brief walks on deck, during which times I’ll be bundled in my cape and hood. If anyone tries to talk to you during these sorties, youcan hold a handkerchief up to your mouth and complain in a whisper about your sore throat and inability to speak. I think it might be wise if you avoid mealtimes. It might be harder to carry it off when you’re seated at the captain's table, and you are liable to run into somebody who actually knows me.

  “I’ve arranged to have my meals delivered to this cabin so you won’t have to risk being caught out at the captain's table or accosted in the public rooms. It will make the voyage rather more boring than you intended, I’m sure,- but at least you’ll be in luxury, and I’ll pay you well for the inconvenience. Above all, you’d be doing a fellow Irishwoman a great service. So what do you say?”

  “Let me get this right,” I said. “You’ll take my cabin, down on E deck?”

  “And dress simply and be the humble Irishwoman Molly Murphy, returning home to see her family, sitting quietly on the second-class promenade deck, and resting.”

  “And I’ll be Oona Sheehan.”

  “Who unfortunately is not well enough to receive visitors for the trip. Help yourself to my clothes, and if you want to walk on deck, may I suggest you put on one of my wigs.”

  “Your wigs?”

  She waved her arm imperiously. “Open that hat box, on top of the dresser.”

  I did so. It was full of wonderful auburn wigs, some with long curls, some piled up in chic styles.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I muttered.

  “I often have to make quick changes on stage,” she said. “I find wigs remarkably helpful in changing my appearance quickly. And also if my hairdresser can’t visit before I have to go out. Try one on.”

  Cautiously I picked out one with curls piled high above the head and tucked my own hair inside it. The change was amazing. I stared at myself in the mirror and put a hand to my cheek. “I look quite—”

  “Quite like me,” she said. “I thought so when I saw you at Tommy's party. I think you’ll do remarkably well. So is it a deal, Molly Murphy? Will you promise not to reveal our plan to anybody on board? Sayyou’ll agree, and I’ll write you out a check for a hundred dollars for your pains.”

  An extra hundred dollars. I could certainly use that. I’d have to forgo the fun of shipboard life, but then there would always be the return journey. “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Her face lit up in that wonderful smile. “I knew you would,” she said. “Right.” She took out a checkbook and wrote out a check. “There,” she said. “Let's get to work and make the switch while everyone is still busy with arriving passengers. Let's exchange clothing and I’ll make my way down to E deck.”

  “You want us to exchange clothing?”

  “Of course. I have to go down exactly the way you came up, don’t I?”

  “But someone is bound to notice the difference.”

  “My dear, I’m an actress. I promise you that nobody will ever know that the Molly Murphy who walked up those stairs is not the same woman who comes down them again. Now take off that costume and choose yourself something from my wardrobe. How lucky that we’re around the same size.”

  I opened the wardrobe and stifled a gasp at the array of dresses, suits, and evening gowns that hung there.

  “You might want to select something rather dazzling to start with. It will help to enforce the illusion,” Oona said. She came across to the wardrobe and pulled down a burgundy silk two piece, its sleeves and high neck decorated with pearls. “Burgundy is a good color with our hair, I always think,” she said. “Can you manage by yourself, or should I summon my maid to dress you?”

  “You’ve brought your maid?” I stammered. “But what will she say?”

  Oona laughed. “She's in on the plot, my dear. She's been with me long enough to follow orders, and she's been told to treat you exactly as if you were me. Her name is Rose, by the way. A nice little thing. Not very bright, but willing enough. But let's not waste any more time.” She handed me the dress. “Off with your things and on with this.”

  I performed the task with considerable embarrassment. I was not used to undressing in front of other people and horribly conscious of the shabby state of my two-piece business suit and my undergarments.

  Oona hardly seemed to notice, however. She was out of her own robe in a second and slipping herself into my skirt and jacket. This was accomplished in a twinkling. I suppose quick changes of costume are commonplace at the theater where the exposure of the human form is not considered shocking.

  I, on the other hand, was so clumsy in putting on her outfit that she had to help me button up the cuffs and neck.

  “Put the wig back on and you’ll do very well,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “Just a touch of makeup of course. There is rouge and powder on my dressing table, and you’ll need more color on your lips. But as for those freckles . . .” she looked at me and sighed. “There's not much we can do about them in a hurry, is there? Did you never think of taking lemon juice to them when you were a girl?”

  “I never even noticed them until I came to New York,” I said, laughing. “Now I’m afraid I’m stuck with them.”

  “You’ll just have to use a lot of cold cream and powder,” she said. “You’re supposed to be ailing, remember. Here, let me do it for you.”

  Before I could protest she was rubbing cold cream into my face, patting cheeks, drawing arches onto my eyebrows and reddening my lips with a brush and palette, just like an artist. When she was done, a stranger looked back at me from the mirror.

  “All ashore who is going ashore,” was the cry from the hallway, along with raps on every cabin door.

  “I’ll leave you now,” she said. “We won’t meet again on the trip. First- and second-class passengers are not permitted to trespass upon each other's domains.”

  “So shall I wait for you here when we dock in Queenstown?” I asked. “Are you going ashore there or sailing on to Liverpool?”

  “Oh, Queenstown,” she said. “Definitely Queenstown.”

  Then she was gone. I stood there, still feeling a little stupified, looking around my new domain. Of all the strange things that had happened to me in my life, this was certainly one of the strangest. Am I never to cross the Atlantic as myself? I wondered. Then I looked in the mirror and started to smile. The smile turned into a laugh. A week in luxury, waited on by a maid and stewards—that wasn’t too bad anyway you looked at it.

  Seven

  Down below there were shouts and cheers, the sounds of gangways clanking as they were withdrawn. A band was playing “Rule Britannia,” White Star being an English line. We were

  underway. I opened my porthole and watched the New York skyline slide past me, until all I could see was ocean. The great ship reacted as it met the first of the big waves and my stomach reacted equally—not with queasiness, since I had proved myself an excellent sailor on the previous crossing, but with a surge of excitement. I was about to start a great adventure, now made even more thrilling by my new role as Oona Sheehan. I was off
alone to Ireland, leaving behind the complications of my life. I planned to enjoy every minute of it, especially my newfound first-class splendor.

  I was just settling down when there came a tapping at my door.

  “Come in,” I called, trying to sound like a famous actress with a bad case of sore throat.

  Instead of the steward a young girl came in, smiled shyly, and bobbed a curtsey.

  “I’m Rose, miss. Miss Sheehan said I’m to look after you well and give you whatever you need.”

  She was yet another Irish redhead, but round faced and sturdy.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Rose. I’m—”

  She held up a hand. “Please don’t tell me your real name or ask me to call you by it, or I might slip up. The mistress said I’ve got to think ofyou as Oona Sheehan and that's what I’m trying to do. And it's not at all hard, with you looking like that. You’d be taken for her younger sister any day.”

  “Thank you, Rose,” I said, “but it's only because of her clothes, her wig, and her makeup, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh no, miss. I think you look lovely. Are you in the theater yourself?”

  “No, I’m not, I’m afraid.”

  “You should be glad, miss,” she said. “Terrible hard life in the theater. You should see what the mistress has to go through, with all those men following her around, calling her up on her telephone at all hours of the day and night, threatening to kill themselves if she won’t dine with them. My, but they’re a silly lot. Too many men with too much money and too much time on their hands, if you ask me.”

  I nodded agreement.

  “Is there something you’d like, miss?” she asked. “I think they’ve sounded the gong for the lunch sitting. Shall I have some lunch brought to you?”