by Anne Doughty
Yes, we are well, though I must confess Hugh’s loss still lies heavy. Your father misses him desperately, so I can’t imagine how it must be for Sarah. She works very hard and does much of what Hugh used to do, running the mills. She and Da are concerned just now that the work on the new machinery is going forward so slowly. Da complains a pair of dungarees lasts him a couple of weeks instead of a couple of days, because he’s wearing a suit so much more of the time, attending meetings about the future of the mills.
I had a very long letter from Uncle Sam in America last week and it brought wonderful news. In fact, it’s such good news I don’t think I’ve quite grasped it yet. He means to stay here in Ireland permanently. He’d planned to go back this week, first class on ‘the big ship’, as everyone here calls her, and he sounded very excited about his plan, but a month ago he bought a farm in Donegal not far from Aunt Mary and her family and not far either from where he was born, though, of course, he was a tiny baby when he left Ardtur.
Do you remember, Hannah, when Sarah was little she kept asking for the story about the baby and the turf cart? I used to wonder then if she realised it was a memory of my childhood and not one of the stories I made up to keep you both amused on wet days!
Rose tried again to ease the crick in her neck. She enjoyed writing letters to family and friends, but however hard she tried to write slowly, she always ended up scribbling furiously and then her hand, her arm, her neck, or all three, started aching.
‘Arthritis, I suppose,’ she said wryly, as she cast her eye beyond the open door, pleased to see new growth in the flowerbed she and John had created last autumn.
A new ground floor room with a large bedroom above had been added to the house last Spring. It was ready just in time for Hannah arriving in the summer with all four children. When the fence was moved to accommodate the extension, the old flowerbed looked so strange. After twenty-two years, the precious cuttings brought from their home at Salter’s Grange had grown into shrubs tall enough to take the light from the windows of the new sitting room.
She sighed as she remembered the struggle it had been to take them out. She wasn’t having someone come to do a job that needed such care and thought, but afterwards her back ached for days.
When she visited her good friend Elizabeth and her doctor husband, she’d asked Richard about the pain and stiffness in her neck and the limp that sometimes slowed up her housework.
‘Rose dear, we are all getting older. Even you. And you’ve worked hard all your life. You’re bound to get bits and pieces of arthritis here and there. There’s not much any of us can do about it,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Rest, if you can. Try aspirin. Elizabeth says a hot water bottle is the best remedy, but I’ve pointed out the success of her method may be that in order to apply the said hot water bottle she has to sit down. Neither you, nor my dear Elizabeth, have been much given to sitting down if there’s work to be done.’
He paused and grinned. ‘Maybe you could write more letters.’
She laughed as she recalled the moment, always cheered by the thought of Elizabeth and the late marriage to Richard that had brought such joy to them both. Their only child, James, was but two months older than Hannah’s eldest boy, Francis. She took up her pen and told her daughter about his recent successes at school. Then she added an account of the happy visit to Selina and Thomas Scott at Salter’s Grange, making only a brief mention of Martha and Sam in passing.
You must be very proud indeed of Teddy taking his seat in the Lords while he is still so young. I’m sure he will do good work. I can imagine him and our old friend Lord Altrincham finding the means to reduce factory working hours even further. Sarah speaks of him often.
Does Lord Altrincham never consider retiring? I’ve no idea what age he is, but he must be older than your father-in-law. I know Lady Anne has pressed him to retire for years now, particularly since he’s had trouble with the leg he hurt when he was shot at, back in the 80s. But with no success!
Richard says old injuries have a nasty way of playing up as you get older. I do hope Harrington and Lady Anne are still able to ride those lovely green paths at Ashleigh together. Which reminds me. Are they planning to come up to town to see you while the boys are at home, or daren’t you leave your decorators to go and visit them?
She paused as she dipped her pen in the inkpot and listened carefully. She glanced at the clock. Only eleven, far too early for John, but it did sound like a motor on the hill. It would hardly be Sarah. She worked at her table all morning and called in the afternoon on her way to the post office, or to one of the mills.
Before she’d even put her pen down, a vehicle stopped outside, footsteps hurried along the garden path and Sarah stood in the doorway.
‘Sarah dear,’ she said, taking one glance at the pale, drawn face. ‘Is anything wrong?’
Sarah nodded silently, crossed the room and threw herself down in her father’s fireside chair.
‘I’ve bad news, Ma,’ she said quietly. ‘I came to tell you before you’d hear it from someone else.’
Rose felt her stomach lurch. She thought of Sarah’s children, Hugh and little Helen just home for the Easter holidays. Something had happened to one of them. An accident. Or one of them was ill. Or perhaps Sarah herself was ill and hadn’t told her.
She rose from the table with a steadiness that surprised her and sat down in the fireside chair opposite her. She shivered, suddenly chill despite the mild, April morning and the warm glow of the stove.
‘Da sent me a message up from Ballievy,’ Sarah began. ‘The big ship’s sent out signals for help, but there’s no other ship very near.’
‘What! The Titanic?’ Rose gasped. ‘But how can she be in trouble? They say she’s unsinkable. What’s happened? What’s gone wrong? And how did Da hear?’
Rose looked at her daughter steadily. She was sitting up straight in the easy chair, her hands stretched along its wooden arms, her fingers grasping the worn-smooth ends. She was wearing a high necked blouse pinned at the neck with a favourite brooch and a plain dark-blue skirt, her favourite colour. Apart from the look on her face, she seemed the calm, controlled Sarah who’d taken up her life and Hugh’s work with so little hesitation and such steadiness immediately after his death.
‘Someone got the news from the White Star office in Belfast this morning and it went round the mills like wildfire,’ she explained. ‘Some of the men have brothers in the crew or know someone in the handover group and several women have relatives who are passengers. There’s two families in second class emigrating from Belfast. My Mrs Beatty has a niece who’s a stewardess,’ she went on, taking a deep breath. ‘You’ve met her, Ma. She used to be on the cross channel ferry, before she was moved to the Olympic. They were short staffed for Titanic, so they moved her again. Mary Sloan?’
Rose nodded silently. She’d had more than one conversation with her over the last years when she’d crossed the Irish Sea to visit Hannah and her mother-in-law, her own oldest friend, Lady Anne.
‘Oh, Sarah,’ she began, waving her hands helplessly. ‘Whatever has gone wrong? Was it a storm?’
Sarah shook her head again, but did not look away. Her blue eyes lacked the old animation, gone with Hugh’s death, but they never wavered. However painful the news, she’d tell her straight.
‘Da telegraphed our agents in New York first thing this morning. They said nearby ships had taken off all the passengers and she’s being towed to Halifax. But a little while ago, they heard from the London office. Montreal had telegraphed that she’d gone down. Apparently, she sent out CQD for a couple of hours and then this new signal, SOS. But then all went silent.’
Rose was so shocked she could hardly get her words out.
‘Sarah, Sarah, dear. All those poor people. And poor Mrs Beatty. She’ll be so anxious about Mary. Is there nothing we can do to find out what’s really happened?’
‘I’m on my way to the post office. I’ll talk to Billy Auld. If anyone can find out, he c
an. He’s in charge of telegraphs now,’ she said abruptly, as she stood up.
Rose sat where she was, still staring at her daughter who walked across the kitchen but made no move to leave.
‘Who were you writing to, Ma?’ Sarah asked as she caught sight of the unfinished letter on the table.
‘Hannah. I was telling her the good news about Uncle Sam in America …’
Rose broke off, aware that Sarah was watching her closely. For one more moment she sat, confused and bewildered, and then it dawned on her why Sarah had come. She put a hand to her mouth and gasped.
‘Sam,’ she said, in a whisper. ‘Your Uncle Sam,’ she said, looking up, her eyes wide. ‘He should’ve been on her.’
Sarah smiled bleakly, came and put an arm round her, kissed her cheek.
‘Yes, I know. He showed me the newspaper advertisements when he was last here. He said a touch of Louis Quinze and potted palms would be quite an experience after years of travelling steerage. It would be something to remember.’
Tears sprang to Rose’s eyes and trickled unheeded down her cheeks. First Hugh and then Sam. The very thought of losing her own brother after the loss of their dear friend and son-in-law. It was just too much for her. She sobbed and Sarah comforted her.
By the end of the day, everyone knew that the big ship, such a part of life since her launch the previous year, had indeed gone down, but it was an enormous relief that all the passengers were safe. A list of ships in the area, many of them with familiar names, were said to have come to her aid. Some of them were White Star liners, like the Titanic herself. Others had been built in Harland and Wolff’s yards in Belfast where she too had been built. But Titanic was lost. The ship launched with such pride and celebration less than a year ago lay some two miles below the Atlantic waves.
Rose and John sat silent by the stove after their evening meal. The daily paper had no knowledge of what had happened in the early hours of the morning on the other side of the Atlantic. They were both fully aware that whatever messages were being tapped out back and forth across the ocean no further news would reach them till the Belfast Newsletter arrived in Banbridge on the earliest of the morning trains.
‘D’you remember Sarah and Hugh taking the children to see her?’ Rose asked suddenly, breaking the heavy silence.
‘Aye. An’ wee Hugh was that excited he couldn’t eat his breakfast,’ replied John, looking up at the clock, as if it would tell him something he needed to know.
‘When they got back he tried to tell me how big she was and he just ran out of words,’ she said smiling sadly. ‘Then he said it would hold everybody in Banbridge and they could go for walks along her decks just like we do on Sundays.’ She paused. ‘How many would there be on board, John?’
‘Some say two thousand, some says three. Wee Hugh isn’t far wrong, though, she’s the biggest ship that’s ever been built. It’s an awful blow for all those that wrought on her, never mind the White Star Line and the owners.’
‘But how would you get them all off and on to other ships?’ Rose demanded, thinking of the huge cliff that towered above them when they’d gone with Richard and Elizabeth to the launch.
John rubbed his chin and studied the toes of his shoes.
‘Ye might be able to get another ship alongside if the big ship’s engines weren’t runnin,’ but more likely ye’d have to lower the lifeboats and move people that way. It wou’d depend on the sea too, if it was rough. It wou’d be a hard job with childer and older folk.’
‘And it would be cold, wouldn’t it?’
‘Ach yes, sure it’s only April. There’s talk about icebergs, so it must be,’ he said, standing up and putting out the gas lamp on his side of the fireplace.
‘And we’ll go to our nice, warm bed and pray those poor people are safe,’ she said, her voice wavering.
‘That’s all we can do, love,’ he said kindly, as he lit a candle to see them upstairs to the large, new bedroom where they now slept.
But Rose’s mind was still racing. For a long time she lay motionless, reluctant to disturb John, who’d fallen asleep within moments of getting into bed. Then she slid out gently, drew on her dressing gown and tiptoed barefoot to the window. She drew back an edge of curtain and saw the moon appear through a mass of racing storm cloud. For a moment, it beamed a cold, silvery light over the familiar fields, then, as the clouds closed over again, the details of the landscape were blotted out, only the shape of the little hills, dark upon even darker, rolled away to the horizon. She looked in vain for a light, a friendly signal in the empty space. But it was late and all their neighbours were in bed. There was no light to comfort a passing stranger, or someone adrift in the darkness in the cold night hours.
She shivered and felt her teeth begin to chatter, told herself firmly to get back into bed and put away such desolate thoughts. ‘Think of something pleasant,’ she said to herself, as she slipped cautiously beneath the blankets. ‘Flowers and trees and the song of birds.’
She tried but it was no good. She lay on her side, her feet two blocks of ice, her arms folded across her breasts, as she felt her body shake and a cold sweat break on her face.
‘We’ll divide the ship here,’ the man said, looking up at her, his hands full of stones. ‘An’ we’ll take the first piece down to the bottom an’ come back for th’ other. The doors is locked so you’ll be safe.’
She looked around in the darkness and saw she was in a boat. It was full of children. At first, she thought she had never seen any of them before. Then, she looked more closely. In the dim light, she caught sight of Hugh and Helen holding each other’s hands, Charley and Billy and little Sammy, Emily and Rose were hunched together with the baby, Bobby, all wrapped up in a white sheet. They were all frightened and so was she. She was sure the water was deep and she knew none of them could swim. What would she do when the men came back for the other piece of the ship to take it down to the bottom?
‘Don’t worry yourself, Rose. Sure haven’t we got through worse than this?’
She heard a familiar voice, felt a touch on her hand and a soft arm slide round her waist. Even without seeing her face, she knew it was Mary Wylie.
‘Sure this boat’s unsinkable,’ said Mary, laughing. ‘It’s like you an’ me. We’ll always come back up again. If Mary-Anne didn’t do for us, who could? Will we get out the griddle and make pancakes for the we’ans?’
There was a sudden threatening rush of sound. Rose woke with a start and heard a shower of sleet rattle fiercely against the bedroom window. In a few moments, it died away and left the room in silence.
‘Mary Wylie,’ she said to herself. ‘Oh, my dear Mary, how I wish you’d not died in the rail disaster. You always understood without having to be told. You knew what I was feeling when I didn’t even know myself.’
She lay still, warm and comfortable now, soothed by the steady rhythm of John’s even breathing. Here and now, at this moment, she was safe. And so was John. And so was her brother Sam. And so were all the children, her own children, Hannah and Sam and Sarah and her little grandchildren, Hugh and Helen. There was nothing to be done about the disasters and disappointments that life brought to everyone. She must give thanks for this moment of warmth and security and the memory of her dear friend, and store it up to give her courage in the future whenever she should need it.
The morning brought more squally showers and intermissions of brilliant light. John left early and promised he’d send a messenger with the Belfast paper. There was nothing to do but get on with her morning’s work until he arrived.
‘Missus Hamilton?’
Rose closed the oven door and straightened up cautiously, her back protesting after the effort of sliding a heavy casserole into position.
‘Yes. Yes indeed,’ she said, hurrying towards the young man who stood awkwardly against the doorpost, his waterproof cape dripping from the last heavy shower.
‘It’s all bad news, Missus,’ he said, drawing out a folded newspaper from un
der the cape. ‘She hit an iceberg and sunk a couple of hours later. There’s fifteen hundred lost and no news yet of who’s saved and who’s drowned,’ he said, handing it to her.
‘Desperit business,’ he went on as she unfolded the paper and stood staring at the banner headline.
‘Had you anyone on her?’ Rose asked cautiously.
There was something in the tone of his voice that made her wonder if all the drops of moisture on his face were actually raindrops.
‘Aye surely. Ma cousin Hugh’s a boilermaker. Me mother’s people all work in the yard, but they’re plater’s and riveters, except Hugh. He was that excited he was goin’ and they cou’d only stan’ an’ watch. But they’re safe enough now, an’ likely he’s gone,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘But there’s still some hope, isn’t there?’ Rose began tentatively. ‘He might be among the saved. There are no names yet, are there?’
The young man smiled at her and shook his head.
‘Not much chance wi’ all them millionaires on board forby weemen and childer,’ he said, pressing his lips together. ‘He wou’d have deeved ye when he talked about them boilers, the size o’ them and how they worked together like,’ he said suddenly. ‘I diden understan the haf o’ what he said. I wisht I’d lissened to him rightly the last time I saw him.’
He turned away quickly without another word.
Rose sat down by the stove and read everything she could find about the Titanic. Some of the reports contradicted each other. One said there were 3,359 souls on board and 1,500 had been lost, but elsewhere it said 600 passengers were transferred without mishap. The figures simply didn’t add up. One report said the survivors were going to Halifax, another to New York.
No, there was nothing to give so much as a grain of comfort. Mr Bruce Ismay, the Chairman of the White Star Line was among the victims, it said, but no names of survivors were given. There was a great deal about ‘the space annihilating speed of wireless telegraphy’, the number of American millionaires on board, the likelihood and possibility of icebergs at this time of year, and ‘the need for incessant watchfulness on the part of mariner’s traversing the North Atlantic’.
