“Always.”
He’d kissed me then and we’d said our long goodbyes. But not our last. Though it was hard to let him go, to watch him leave, I knew, somehow, that this was only our beginning.
I climbed the stairs to Aunt Geraldine’s study. To my study, now, but I’d always feel closest to her there. I’d moved the desk near the window, her typewriter still sitting upon it, though I’d set it aside to pen long letters to Jim. We wrote every few days. Even Steele had dashed off a postcard now and then, scribbling me bits of his adventures, of his story, asking if I’d started mine.
The rows of shelves were empty still but for the ivy plant, my aunt’s novels, a portrait of my mother, and the framed picture of Faith and me meeting in the garden for the first time. But the vacant shelves no longer saddened me. I knew, in time, I’d fill each one with my favourite things, with mementoes from every adventure I’d yet to have. It excited me to see them. To wonder. To dream.
I sat at the desk and stared out the window, thinking of that fairy queen I used to imagine as a child. Realizing, for the first time, that she was me. Beautiful. Strong. Powerful.
Absentmindedly, I pressed a worn-out button on the typewriter and the key struck the paper. The clack broke the silence, leaving a black E on the white page. I liked the look of it. The sound of it. The power of creating something where there’d been nothing. That sense of making my mark.
I hit four more keys.
… L … L … I … E.
Stopping, I stared at the portrait of my mother. I thought of her often, even more since I’d become a mother myself, and yet, I never really knew Mam’s story. I gazed at the picture of me and Faith on the shelf next to it.
Would Faith know my story?
Sliding the machine in front of me, I pressed the metal arm, cranking the sheet up one line, and started to type.
We write our lives by the choices we make. Like it or not, that becomes our story. Parts of it are sad. Parts are ugly. Some parts are downright embarrassing. But stories need to be shared. They need to be passed on and remembered--even the ones that terrify or shame us. Especially those parts, I guess. Because if we don’t learn from it, we live it over and over. Stuck in one chapter of ourselves.
And in my heart, I’ve always known there is so much more to my story than that.
For a long time, I lived a story that was not my own. I let someone else be the author of my life. I wore what I should. Acted as I should. Spoke how I should. I let others tell me who I was.
I even let a handsome young man spin me a new story--a romance. He told me I was beautiful and desirable. I knew who he wanted me to be and I played the part for a while. It got to the point where I would have been anyone he wanted if only he’d stayed. But he didn’t want a sixteen-year-old girl. Especially a pregnant one.
No, nobody wanted that girl.
And though I have been a daughter and a niece, a victim and a survivor; though I have loved and lost and found it once again; though I’ve been mistress, maid, and unmarried mother--I’ve come to realize that, though it’s all true … it’s not all I am.
I am a fairy queen. I am a dragon slayer. I am the hero of my own adventures.
Yes, I am every one of those things. And so much more.
I am Ellen Geraldine Hardy--and this is my story. So far.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Empress of Ireland
The sinking of the Empress of Ireland was Canada’s worst maritime disaster, and is one few people today know much about. For whatever reason, it seemed to be lost in both the St. Lawrence and in history. Maybe it happened too soon after the sinking of the Titanic, a similar tragedy only two years before. Maybe it was forgotten because her passengers were not rich and famous New York socialites. Most likely, it got lost among the headlines, overshadowed as the First World War broke out only ten weeks later. In any case, the story of its collision, of its foundering, and of the 1012 souls lost with the Empress of Ireland sank from memory.
Now, a hundred years later, we try to piece together that part of our story. We must remember, to honour the people who lost their lives in the tragedy and all those who lived on in silent grief.
Though Ellen Hardy and Jim Farrow are fictional characters, I hope their journeys ring true. Their experiences are based on research and accounts of surviving crew and passengers, in particular Fourteen Minutes by James Croall and Forgotten Empress by David Zeni. These two books were vital in preserving the history of the Empress of Ireland and for that we all owe both authors our gratitude. Titanic Survivor: The Newly Discovered Memoirs of Violet Jessop by John Maxtone-Graham provided great insight into life as a stewardess and a survivor. After researching hundreds of Titanic survivor accounts, I wondered how someone gets past such a horrific tragedy. Most people, it seemed, simply did not speak of it. Many lived half-lives burdened by the guilt of having survived when their loved ones did not. Yet Ms. Jessop lived all her days as much more than “Titanic survivor”—she never limited her extraordinary life by her losses or by others’ labels.
No one wants to talk about what is painful. No one seeks out grief. We’d rather ignore regrets and stay blind to hard truths. But as Ellie journeyed through the stages of denial, anger, guilt, depression, and, eventually, acceptance—so did I. I thought I was writing a story of loss, of tragic events that some people might rather forget. But it is really a story of finding Faith, hope, and love. Because if Ellie taught me anything, it’s that life is meant to be more than just survived.
I can be the victim of someone else’s story—but I choose to be the hero of my own.
Magdalene Asylums
Magdalene Asylums existed from the eighteenth to the late twentieth century. Supervised by nuns, the asylums, originally an option for employment for marginalized young women, increasingly became more of a prison of enforced penance. These asylums in Britain and Ireland were for prostitutes, unmarried mothers, mentally challenged women, and abused girls. Families also sent daughters who were too flirtatious or attractive. Until a family member vouched for them, the young girls would remain in the asylum. Today, advocacy groups such as Justice for Magdalenes exist to promote justice, to support survivors, and to give them a voice. The last asylum in Ireland closed on September 25, 1996. On February 19, 2013, Irish prime minister Enda Kenny issued a formal apology.
Barnardo’s Homes
Although poverty, at the time, was seen as a shameful result of laziness or vice, Dr. Thomas Barnardo insisted that “every child deserved the best possible start in life, whatever their background.” By the time he died in 1905, his charity had founded ninety-six homes caring for more than 8500 children. He’d also introduced a support for unmarried mothers, securing work in domestic service so they could pay for a portion of their child’s fostering. This was at a time when most charities denied help to unmarried mothers. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Barnardo’s Homes sent about a thousand children a year to Canada. Children were to receive education and training, and foster families, in turn, were paid five shillings a week per child. Many Home Children sailed on the Empress of Ireland and its sister ship, the Empress of Britain. Today, Barnardo’s continues to work for “the abused, the vulnerable, the forgotten and the neglected” and is the U.K.’s biggest children’s charity.
FASCINATING FACTS
Though a member of the Empress crew for two years, Emmy, the ship’s cat, deserted ship right before its final sailing from Quebec.
Of the 1477 people who sailed from Quebec aboard the Empress, 1012 died—840 passengers and 172 crew.
More passengers died on the Empress of Ireland (840) than either the Titanic (832) or the Lusitania (791).
The ship filled with 60,000 gallons of water per second.
Within one minute of impact, the tilt of the ship was enough to jam the watertight doors.
Most passengers had only a few minutes, and some, mere seconds, to escape their cabins. Passengers on the lower right side of the Empress most
likely drowned where they slept.
The Empress sank nine hours and forty-three minutes after leaving Quebec—and just fourteen minutes after being struck by the Storstad.
Chief Engineer William Sampson, an Irish veteran on his ninety-sixth voyage of the Empress, gave his account of the sinking from the engine room. He escaped with the help of his younger crew members and was eventually rescued by a lifeboat.
Dr. James Grant was on his second voyage as ship surgeon. Thrown from his bed as the ship rolled, he crawled through the passageway and escaped through a porthole. His heroic efforts on the Storstad saved the lives of many.
Of Matron Jones and nine stewardesses, only one survived: Helena Hollis. She’d tried to keep her fellow stewardess Ethel Dinwoodie afloat, but Ethel, weighed down by two coats, sank from her grasp.
William Clarke worked in the Empress stokehold and escaped to a lifeboat. He was also a Titanic survivor. There is also a legend of a man, Frank “Lucky” Tower, who survived three sinkings: the Empress, the Titanic, and the Lusitania.
Though both the Empress and the Storstad captains claimed they maintained their heading and accused the other of changing course in the fog, an inquiry of sixty-one witnesses and over nine thousand questions concluded that the Storstad was to blame.
Of the 170 Salvation Army members, just over two dozen survived. Many died heroically helping others. Not one surviving Salvationist wore a lifebelt. The convention in London went on without them but kept 148 chairs empty and marked with white sashes, one for each member who had died.
Salvation Army bandsman Thomas Greenaway had resolved to go down with the ship when he thought his wife drowned. They’d been married only a week before. Thankfully, he was rescued, as was his young wife. The couple wept for joy when they found each other in Rimouski.
Gracie Hanagan had just turned seven when she boarded the Empress of Ireland. One of the four children who survived, out of the 138 aboard, Gracie was the youngest and the last living survivor. She attended annual memorials held by the Salvation Army of Toronto until her death in May 1995. In her account of the sinking, she mentioned being terrified of sleeping by the portholes where the water would come in. Though she lived to be one day shy of eighty-nine, Gracie never overcame her fear of running water, even in bathtubs.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to:
Lynne Missen and the Penguin Canada team for giving me the opportunity to explore and share the story of the Empress of Ireland.
Marie Campbell for your steadfast encouragement and support.
A special thanks to experts:
David Zeni and James Croall for your meticulous research and detailed accounts.
Dr. John Willis, curator; Jonathan Wise, archivist; and reference librarians Anneh Fletcher and Brigitte Lafond of the Canadian Museum of Civilization. Thank you for being such faithful stewards of our history.
A heartfelt thanks to my friends and family:
Elizabeth Tevlin, critiquer extraordinaire, for always being there and for all the ways you helped bring Jim to life and love.
Kerri Chartrand, Alan Cranny, Peggy Cranny, Fiona Jackson, and Tony Pignat for reading draft after draft.
My kids, Liam and Marion, for always putting on the kettle and especially for reminding me of what matters most.
And especially to Granny, for your inspiration of faith and fortitude. I miss you.
Thanks to each of you for not only sharing in the stories I write but especially for being such a big part of the story I live.
RAZORBILL
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First published 2014
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Copyright © Caroline Pignat, 2014
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Pignat, Caroline, author
Unspeakable / Caroline Pignat.
ISBN 978-0-14-318755-4 (pbk.)
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PS8631.I4777U57 2014jC813’.6C2013-908063-5
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