The Light in the Darkness 1

by Carla Louise Robinson

  If there was one thing Claire had learnt with absolute certainty, it was that nothing was sure, and things could change drastically in mere short months. It was essential to her to hold extreme value in what you cherished; and equally important to let what you did not go. There had been so many things she would have said to her siblings, had she known they were not long for the world. No, it was a terrible thing to leave something of significant value when you were blessed with the knowledge that any calamity could strike, and rich or poor alike, money could not save you.

  As the America reached Titanic’s side, Claire let out an audible gasp – not that she was alone, with the tender filled with predominately steerage passengers, though she could not help but spy a few first-class passengers, separated from the herd. She knew the Titanic was enormous; however, pulling up alongside such a vessel in a slight tender boat was daunting; the ship loomed over them, casting down a monstrous shadow, and Claire was sure and certain she had never seen anything so colossal before. It was bigger than any mountain or structure she’d ever laid eyes on before; it was hard to believe this was man’s creation, and not solely from God’s hands. Claire knew, of course, that God had provided man with the inspiration, and would not be so blasphemous to presume God had little involvement. However, unlike the world, the Titanic had been built by man’s hands, held together by steel, mostly built by Irishmen, who knew how to work hard and well. The ship’s designer, Mr Andrews, wasn’t a Catholic man, but he was a good Irish one, and Claire respected that.

  Around Claire and Nora, the stewards and attendants quickly readied preparation for the passengers’ boarding, which would be allocated and swiftly processed according to class, allowing for third-class passengers to meet the US Immigration’s specifications. She knew that some illnesses, if the passengers were found to contain them, would not be allowed to board the Titanic, as they would not clear immigration at Ellis Island.

  The tender ships were also full of large, white mesh mail bags, as well as several men and women who had created miniature vendors in the hopes of attracting the attention – and therefore the wealth – of the first-class passengers, in the two hours they were docked alongside the Titanic. Claire was startled when she realised she recognised one of the lace makers as a woman named Kathleen, whom she believed was at least three winters older than Claire. Claire didn’t remember much about Kathleen, except that she had long left the small village of Dorne, located just outside County Tipperary, when she was barely sixteen. Her exquisite needlework had long cemented her reputable name in Queenstown, eventually filtering back to Dorne, and Claire knew that many rich ladies sought buying her lace pieces and intricate fabrics.

  Unlike Claire’s face, which was sharp and frequently melancholic from the grief she’d endured these past few years, Kathleen’s face was soft, warm and inviting, her cheeks a warm and rosy plump. Claire tried not to feel envy as she looked upon Kathleen, who had obviously been blessed when she had left Dorne; her needlework ensuring she had not been want for meals; her cheeks were full and rosy.

  Claire tried to ease her mind of her troubles and smiled at Nora, as they waited patiently for the first-and-second-class passengers to board before them; she squeezed her niece’s hand three times tightly, and while her smile was bright, it did not quite meet her eyes. She hoped her niece would not reply and employ the silence she’d found so comforting. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but sometimes it was necessary. Claire, who was oft introverted, felt forced conversation and small talk cumbersome. In her opinion, only people afraid of themselves, and what by chance they may say, chose small talk. “It is a grand ship, is it not?”

  Nora’s eyes were wide, as if she could barely fathom the existence of the ship in front of her, not that Claire could reproof her, as she found herself wrestling with accepting what was in front of her own, God-given eyes. She could not help but look upon it in enchantment, the ship challenging every prediction and conviction she had cogitated.

  As they neared closer to the Titanic’s port side, Claire, to her surprise, realised the ship was not smooth and seamless, like she had anticipated; sharp rivets were protruding from the borders of the vessel. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but she was stunned to find that the ship was made of reinforced steel. It surprised her what man had created that did not sink; God had blessed them so, and she would be sure to thank Him in her prayers, and she’d be sure and certain that Nora did the same.

  Was that the same for all ships, pondered Claire, or just the grand ones? She would be sure and certain not to make mention of her silent gaff.

  While Claire desperately wanted to reach out her ghostly, spindly fingers to feel the ship’s hull, to feel the rivets, and the cold metal she imagined that would flow beneath her fingertips, she managed to prevent herself from bringing disgrace and disapproval from the other passengers and instead forced herself to focus her attentions on her surroundings, many of whom were passengers, waiting patiently below her to board. Throughout the crowd, Claire caught a secondary, more familiar face to her than the first – a face that made her heart skip a painful beat, and her stomach lurch – was the face of her eldest brother’s best friend, who had survived the war when her brother did not.

  Claire realised, with a flush that donned her entire face and neck (the unfortunate curse of the redheads, Claire thought bitterly), that Cillian had already caught notice of her, as he was staring intently at Claire and Nora, and his face turned ashen when he realised Claire had eyed his stare.

  Claire had not laid eyes on Cillian since he returned and her brother had not; her parents, mad with grief, had banished him from their home, even though they’d taken him in the year before when he lost his parents to the endemic of Sweating Illness that had swept through her small village of Dorne and County Tipperary. They had known he was alone, but still, they could not bear to look upon him; her Ma would say the devil was seizing her, as looking at him made her wish that he had died in the place of her son, an admittedly heinous thought that she prayed for redemption nightly, confessing her sins every Sunday, in the hope for absolution. Her Ma said she prayed to God thrice daily, begging Him to grant her the strength to love Cillian still, but she could not, so she now prayed thrice daily, begging Him for forgiveness Claire wasn’t sure her Ma deserved.

  Cillian looked relatively unchanged since Claire had last laid eyes upon him, though he’d grown, becoming less of a boy and more of a man; red stubble adorned his face, which helped to remove his boyish looks and charms, replacing them with pleasant young man, one whom Claire could positively say she held no brotherly feelings for, though perhaps never had, if she were honest. Claire wondered if God would judge her; was it a sin? Would He see it so? ’Twas it lying, if the lie was to one’s own self?

  Cillian’s intense blue eyes bore into Claire’s from the distance – he was still waiting in the tender boat – his distinctive curly red hair blowing messily in the brisk wind. His hair was longer than his Ma and God would deem appropriate and polite, yet the rebellious, untamed length entranced her. Somehow, his reddish-brown curls, which were too long and ungentlemanly, accentuated his now-masculine face, his jaw square and firm, the way a man’s ought to.

  Cillian was more broad-chested than when he’d left to fight a war he didn’t believe in, and he was lean – probably from laborious farm work he would have picked up after being forced out on his own. It wasn’t uncommon; many Irishmen would happily work long, gruelling hours for lodgings and a good feed. Many farmers had not recovered yet from the devastating losses, both financial and personal, and many parts of Ireland still had rotting farms, the potatoes spoiled and repugnant, releasing Miasma into the air, where pestilence would likely follow. It was clear that while others had succumbed to the misfortunes malady wrought, as the country faced cholera and typhoid in famine’s stead, yet it seemed as though Cillian had been blessed with fortune. It warmed Claire’s heart to know he was watched by God. Claire thanked God in all His mercies for re
uniting her with Cillian – even if it were for a brief moment – on this magnificent liner.

  Claire wondered if Protestants had ever considered that the wrath God had unleashed on Ireland was because they had shunned His ways, abandoning them to live the life of a heretic. Did they not realise it was their actions, not the actions of Catholics, was what brought deliverance upon the nation? If every Irish person saw Cillian, they’d know she was right. They’d see a man who was saved by his virtues, even while others were taken by their follies.

  As a steward ushered Claire and Nora inside, his impatient tone indicating it was not the first time he had tried and had found the girls nonrespondent, Claire found herself reluctantly tearing her eyes from Cillian’s silhouette, forcing herself to focus on the steward’s greetings and instructions, though she was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of the fresh paint, its smell so intense that she raised a hand to her head as she fought off a fainting spell. It instantly cast a head pain over her, and she wondered if the steward’s cheerful demeanour meant he had succumbed in a different way to the fumes, the way one would if they picked the wrong mushrooms, though Claire had never had that experience. She knew that there were some who deliberately ate the wrong mushrooms, though she never understood why they would do such a thing. It was wrong to do anything that wasn’t designed to purify the body, the Good Book said so.

  The steward, after helping Claire and Nora – who was sucking her thumb and gripping Claire’s hand as if it were a matter of life or death – ushered them to a stewardess, who would accompany them to the stern of the ship, where the single or unaccompanied women and children were segregated – the men, she learnt, were stowed at the bow. The young stewardess, who introduced herself as Miss Marsden, led them aft of Scotland Road, on F Deck, to their berth: R190. Anticipation flooded Claire, and her hand shook as she held the ticket firmly.

  “It’s a lovely ship,” Claire opened, aware of the desperately uncomfortable silence. She’d never been on any boat before, and was presently glaringly aware that she was not sure what the proper conduct should be. She’d never been waited on before, not in any fashion. The idea of being escorted somewhere seemed so ludicrous she almost laughed, and she could not believe she, a poor Irish woman who had lost almost everything in life, was being waited on now, even if it was in the most basic of fashion.

  However, the young woman – though at least a few years older than Claire – smiled at her gently, relaxing Claire’s growing anxiety. Perhaps she’d longed for a chatter, as well, though not all passengers were as agreeable as Claire. Claire had passed a great many people who spoke all different kinds of languages in tongues Claire had never heard before.

  “We thank you kindly for showing us to our room; we would by and sure be certain to be lost without your guidance.” Claire hoped it wasn’t custom to tip; she knew it was a practice, but the money she carried in her pockets would be all she and Nora would have in America. She could not afford to waste even a penny or a dime; she had but two dollars to her and Nora’s name; a dollar for them each. If her aunt and uncle were delayed, or a calamity struck, Claire would need those two dollars to find her and Nora shelter and food.

  “Thanking you kindly, Miss, but you’ve not to fear, you’d find your way easily enough. I worked on her sister ship, the Olympic, and she’s a grand ship, let me tell you. Yet, despite the ships being near-identical, miss, I can tell you this for sure and certain – I still get confused with this Scotland Road business, I do. Had more than one turn-around, I have. It’s a dreadful sore mess, with the roads sometimes leading nowhere, or to locked doors, and you find yourself turned about. You’ll find that you will have to contend with Scotland Road should you be wanting a bath, and you’ll also need it during meals, though some of our Syrian and Lebanese passengers have chosen to dine in their rooms.” The maid did not seem to approve of their decision. “We serve delicious meals, and it’s frightful rude they turn their nose up it, it is. For breakfast, they served ham and eggs, and that was only part of the meal!”

  “Oh,” was all Claire could manage; then, “Do you know what shall be served at lunch?” her stomach rumbled.

  The stewardess nodded. “I do, miss. There’s roast beef and gravy, and rice soup and fresh bread and butter; sweet corn, and plum pudding for dessert, boiled potatoes and sweet sauce and fresh fruit.”

  Claire tried not to let amazement dawn her face; she had never heard anything so avarice before, but she could not deny her mouth was watering; the menu was positively delectable. “That sounds delicious,” she murmured.

  “It is,” the maid nodded. They rounded another corner, one that looked similar to each hall they’d passed thus far, each confounding Claire all the more; she could almost hear the rush of her heartbeat in her ears.

  “Will I get lost?” Claire glanced protectively at Nora; as they moved toward the middle of the ship, the engines grew louder. Everything was the same to her: White and narrow, with white pipes running above them, and small labels identifying different white doors, though none changed in appearance. Occasionally, a room would be labelled “Crew Only”, or it’d be a small cupboard. “You said it wasn’t much changed from her sister ship, but it appears awfully perplexing to me.”

  “Not to worry, Miss. There’s plenty of stewards and stewardesses to help guide and assist you throughout your voyage, even here, down in the dreary bowels of the ship. And, as you can see, many areas are marked and signposted – see?” The young maid pointed to the sign. “There’s the third-class staircase leading down to G Deck. You can see it’s labelled, as is the First-Class Squash court amenity, that we just a moment ago passed. Neither you nor your little one should get truly lost, so please don’t fret; and should you be uncertain, a steward will help you on your way. The only real trouble you’ll face is if you’re wantin’ a bath. There’s only one, thus you’ll be needing to find someone to schedule you a time for those facilities, they’re often fought over by the day. Many of the women are wantin’ to bathe their young ones, you see; a bath’s a rarity for many of the passengers.

  “On top of which, I’m pleased to inform you, you are partnered with another lovely young woman and her daughter who boarded yesterday, at Southampton. The girl’s a little older than you,” the maid added, giving Nora a smile which she hesitantly returned with her thumb still placed firmly in her mouth.

  “There’s also large buffets for breakfast, luncheon and supper. Last night, after dinner was served, there was singing and dancing until late in the common room, which I’m sure you’ll agree is rather nice, especially for third class. There’s a piano, and we’re even blessed with a band, and a large roped-off white area designed specifically just for dancing. Everything on both these ships is grander than those faster Cunard ships, like the Lusitania, and I believe we make great speed. We had a minor setback yesterday, but we’ve been quick to make up our time. I expect we’ll travel even faster, once we leave Queenstown. Mr Andrews comes down to visit the Boiler Rooms, oft times multitudinal daily. I’ve heard rumours the Captain is eager to light the last remaining boilers, but I am not so sure on the matter.” The woman appeared to have considerable knowledge not just of the ship, but ships Claire had never heard the names of. She did not even know what Cunard line was, or what it meant. She wondered if she was meant to. Would she spend dinners with people who knew more than she did? Who didn’t feel like fools once they realised the side of the liner they were inhabiting was not just reinforced steal, but with protruding rivets?

  “Really?” Claire was astonished; everyone had told her of the grand luxury that awaited her on the Titanic, but she assumed those features were unilaterally reserved for the first-class passengers only. The idea that there was a general common room where she could sit and read, dance or sing, puzzled her pleasantly, almost as much as the food the young lady was promising her. Her mouth still watered at the luncheon menu the woman had recited and she wished she had a watch to know the time. She could not help but w
onder if she could be able to find a book or two to read. Reading wasn’t her strength, but she enjoyed it so. Every newspaper scrap she’d devour, and she’d learnt many of the words in the Bible from heart. Her mother had three novels, all of which Claire had read with her. Her favourite had been an American novel, Little Women; she had felt that Jo, Beth, Amy and Meg were her kin, and she cried every time her mother read Beth’s death.

  Claire had envisioned her and Nora being mostly confined to their berth for the entire journey, with little entertainment to pass the week, finding solace with themselves alone, forced to endure a lonely days and nights. The stewardess moved them toward the stern of the ship, the engine sounds fading, becoming more of a dull hum, and they passed several locked gates, with signs stating steerage passengers could not pass through due to America’s immigration laws, though plenty of doors labelled ‘EXIT’ remained both opened and unlocked, and she wondered if any passengers had tried to sneak through, or if everyone was happy staying in their allocated sections of the vessel. Claire was aware that when they arrived in New York, they would be escorted to Ellis Island for processing; they’d already been checked before boarding for certain eye diseases. Claire and Nora had passed the assessment easily, much to Claire’s explicit relief. She hated when doctors asked her questions filled with words she didn’t understand. Her first instinct was always to say “No” – after all, if she hadn’t heard of it, likely she didn’t have it and never had – but then she felt like a liar, as if maybe she’d heard it by another name, or had the disease as a babe.

  “Yes – there’s even a smoking room. For the gentlemen, of course. And here we are; this one’s your cabin.” The maid rapped her knuckles against the wooden cabin door. “Mrs Coffey? It’s Miss Marsden, the stewardess from this morning. I’m here accompanying a Miss Claire and her ward, a Miss Nora. May I have your permission to enter?”

  After a moment of silence, the maid opened the small room, revealing a bare second half – the first half had the imprints of a family who’d been sleeping, including the little girl’s porcelain doll, illustrating that the woman and her child had more money than Claire’s family could ever have imagined. She had seen porcelain dolls, sure, but they belonged to people who could afford rent and food, and some leftover; Claire doubted her family had ever had enough, even when they could provide both food and shelter. She was pleasantly surprised to see that, at the end of the berth, a washbasin sat, which issued freshwater, or so the maid insisted – water that would fall into a bowl, Miss Marsden informed her, which a stewardess would collect every morning and night. “It could likely be me,” the maid had said. “I am working your hallway, though I’m not the only one. There’s a few of us in this section, to tend to every passenger’s needs in a timely manner.” Claire was more amazed by the idea of running water; her family did not have running water within the house; it required collecting from the parish well each day, her mother boiling it for food and baths. The idea of having a working lavatory was almost more than Claire could bear; the ship had more luxuries than she’d ever experienced, and the heating in her cabin would ensure both her and Nora would be warm, something that God himself could not provide in Ireland’s long winters.