The Girl Who Came Home

by Hazel Gaynor

  For all her annoying mannerisms, Harry was very fond of his mother. She’d had a huge impact on his life, always there for him, always supporting him, always waiting for him to come home. She often teased him about getting married and getting out from under her feet to set up a nice place with his wife. “I’m sick and tired of picking up after you and washing your filthy socks, Harry Walsh,” she would chide, but he knew she didn’t mean it. He’d just laugh at her and say that she would most likely be washing his socks for the rest of her life because no woman would ever be good enough to marry her precious son.

  “Quite probably,” she’d reply. “But maybe if you sail far enough on those ships of yours, the world might just reveal a woman good enough for you, Harry Daniel Walsh.”

  As he lay on his bed now, the sound of Titanic’s twenty-nine massive engines droning in the background, sending the now-familiar vibrations through his spine, Harry wondered if he might have found her after all, a woman who was good enough for him and his mother. At least he’d found out her name now, Peggy Madden, and he knew that she was going to stay with her sister in St. Louis, Missouri. He also knew that she’d bought her new hat and gloves especially for the journey and that she liked it when he admired them. He had three, maybe four more days to get to know her a little better, to impress her and possibly pluck up the courage to ask her to take a stroll with him on deck between his shifts; either that or he’d have to be making a trip to St. Louis, Missouri, himself, wherever that might be.

  He remembered then that it was their friend Katie’s birthday the following day and wondered if he might be able to sneak the girls up the crew ladder for a bit of a lark. In addition to the stewards’ stairway, which extended from E Deck right up to an opening beside the third funnel casing on the boat deck, the iron ladders gave the crew quick access between decks. While their purpose was intended to be purely functional, Harry and some of the other third-class stewards had taken to climbing the ladders to spy on the fancy ladies taking luncheon in the Parisian-style café or walking their tiny dogs on the promenade deck before afternoon tea. They’d watched the men reclining in comfortable chairs, smoking cigars and discussing matters of important business. He’d even seen Captain Smith and Mr. Ismay strolling casually along the promenade deck together, deep in conversation. How proud they must have been walking among their passengers, seeming like gods or kings in their command of such a vessel.

  Apart from the limited view he’d snatched from his precarious perch on the ladder, Harry had, of course, seen some of the luxury of the first-class accommodations up close. He’d taken great delight in regaling the Irish girls with his tales of the elegant reading and writing room, the painted glass windows of the smoking room, the cascading sweep of the Grand Staircase, and the Turkish baths, heated swimming pool, gym, and barbers (those last he hadn’t seen himself but had heard talk of ). It never ceased to amaze him to think that some people traveling on this ship would experience more luxury and a better standard of living in the seven or so days it would take to reach America than all the people down in steerage would experience in a lifetime. How Peggy and her friends would gawp if they could see it for themselves, he thought, laughing, and decided to bring them up for a quick look the next day.

  The morning of Sunday, April 14, started early for Harry as usual, with the breakfast to prepare and seven hundred hungry passengers to feed. He paid particular attention to his Irish girls, as he had done for the last three mornings.

  “Now, ladies,” he whispered conspiratorially as he served them their herring, “I take it you’ll be attending Mass this morning after breakfast, and then how would you like to see how the first-class passengers live? Bet you’d like to gawp at the ladies and flutter your eyelashes at the eligible bachelors, eh?”

  “The nerve of ’im,” Peggy replied as she shook out her napkin. “We will of course be goin’ to Mass, because we are good, God-fearin’ girls and wish to take part in the praying an’ all, isn’t that right?” They all giggled. “And yes, we might like to have a quick look at first class, but it’ll be them posh folk who are gawpin’ at us with our fancy clothes and me with me fine hat and proper ladies’ gloves!”

  Kathleen Dolan had been observing the girls’ friendliness with the steward over the last few days, mindful of stories she’d heard about crew taking advantage of young girls who were lonely and vulnerable on the transatlantic liners. They were in especially high spirits that morning with it being Katie Kenny’s birthday, and Kathleen was growing distinctly uncomfortable with how flippant they were becoming.

  “Peggy Madden,” she hissed in a stern voice, leaning across the table purposefully. “I do not think it is very proper for a young lady to be so friendly with a steward. You’d do well to be doin’ a little less talkin’ and a bit more eatin’.” The girls looked down at their plates and started to eat quietly. “And mind you pay attention at the service this mornin’ too; it wouldn’t do any one of you any harm to be doin’ a lot more prayin’ either.”

  Her seriousness caused the girls to giggle, but they continued to eat their breakfast without any more talking, kicking one another under the solid wood table, trying desperately to avoid looking at one another for fear of starting another fit of the giggles.

  Not wanting to get them into any more trouble, Harry went about his work without saying another word to the girls, but as they were leaving the dining room, he drew Maggie to one side, making sure that her aunt was well out of sight and earshot.

  He was fond of the girl Maggie. He’d learned that she was the youngest in the Irish party and felt a little protective of her. She reminded him of his sister, with her giggles and her auburn curls. But she also had an air of constant sadness about her, and he wondered why she seemed so uncertain about this journey when the other girls—although they spoke fondly about their families back home—were clearly excited about the prospect of settling in America.

  “Listen, I know of a ladder on C deck that goes right up to the upper decks,” he whispered to her, taking her arm and pulling her gently to one side of the door so the other passengers could get past them. “If you want to have a look later with your friends, meet me near the crew quarters on Scotland Road after the religious service.” He smiled at her and winked.

  “Right so,” she replied, winking back. “Oh, and I wanted to ask you somethin’,” she added, lowering her voice and coloring a little in the cheeks.

  “Yeah? What is it? I don’t think I’m going to be able to get you upgraded to a first-class stateroom, y’know!”

  Maggie laughed. “No, it’s nothin’ like that. It’s just that my cousin Pat tells me you’re quite friendly with the Marconi radio operators. I was after wonderin’ if you’d be able to help me send a message. Y’know, to home, like?”

  “Yeah, I know them all right,” he replied. “Is it a message to your mam?”

  Maggie shuffled her feet. “Um, no, it ain’t for me mam. I’m not sure what sort of service those telegram fellas are offerin’, but I doubt they’re up for sendin’ messages to heaven now, are they?”

  Harry looked at his own feet now, annoyed with himself for being so stupid. “Oh, bloody hell, miss. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s all right. Ye weren’t to know. Anyway, would it be all right, d’ye think? To send somethin’? Even if it’s not for me dead ma?” She smiled shyly up at him.

  “Yeah, I’m sure I can get something sorted out for you. Write it all down on a piece of paper and keep it short. Pass it to me later. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Maggie smiled warmly, delighted at the prospect of sending a note back home, and thanked him several times before scurrying off to catch up with her friends. She passed her cousin Pat, who had stopped to check the ship’s log again.

  “What’s the report today then, Pat?” she teased, finding his fascination with the speed of the ship and the conditions of the sea quite amusing for a boy who had never been near the ocean in all his life.r />
  “It’s a calm sea, twenty-two knots, and icebergs ahead,” he replied.

  “And is that good or bad?” she asked. “The knots and the calmness an’ all?”

  “Well, it’s mainly good.” He laughed at his young cousin’s naïveté. “We’re almost going full speed. Some are sayin’ we might be in New York a whole day ahead of schedule, and that would be the fastest crossin’ of the Atlantic there’s ever been! The ships have to watch out for the icebergs, though,” he added. “One of the crewmen told me that some of them can be so big you could probably spot them from Ireland on a clear day.” He whistled at the thought. “Anyway, come on, we’ve got to get on our Sunday best for Mass.”

  They both laughed then, knowing full well that they were already wearing their Sunday best, it being the same as they had worn the day before and the day before that.

  CHAPTER 16

  RMS Titanic

  April 14, 1912

  As they gathered for Father Byles’s Catholic Mass, which was to be held in the third-class lounge, Kathleen Dolan reminded the younger members of the Ballysheen group to have proper manners about them during the service and not to be staring at the other passengers, some of whom, she said, might be better dressed than they were, even though they were all traveling on third-class tickets. She was a woman of immense pride and stood staunchly by her heritage and her people, proud of who she was and where she had come from and not the least bit inclined to apologize for the class of ticket she was traveling on or for the simple, rural clothing she noticed among the others in her group.

  During her years living in Chicago, Kathleen had encountered all classes of society. She’d rubbed shoulders with the desperately poor when she’d helped at a charity soup kitchen and had, equally, come across the upper classes in society. She still wasn’t sure which group was the more pitiful. As far as she could gather, the very rich might appear from the outside to have lives of luxury and indulgent happiness, but more often than not, there was a litany of family trouble, business trouble, or other sorts of trouble bubbling away underneath the glossy, coiffed exteriors, the sort of trouble that, in her estimation, tends to come about when people have too much money to spend and too much time on their hands to find ways in which to spend it.

  As the priest led the assembled passengers in familiar prayer, first in English and then in French, Kathleen’s thoughts turned to those they had left back in Ireland. She was well aware that many of the mothers and fathers left behind felt it was her influence that had encouraged their sons and daughters to make this journey. They were partly correct, and she made no apology for the fact.

  Aside from caring for her dying sister, her time back in Ballysheen that winter had given Kathleen Dolan the perfect opportunity to spread her message about a better life overseas. She’d already told Maggie that they would travel to America together in the spring, and as the months since her return passed by, her influence and conviction began to have an impact on a number of families. Discussions took place behind closed doors, finances were considered, and letters to relatives already overseas were written, expressing intentions to travel. By the time the last of the snow had melted from the thatched roofs of their homes, many in Ballysheen were seriously considering a passage to America.

  Kathleen was no fool and was well aware that among some of the parishioners she was not a popular woman, having offended them with her “American ways” and her insistence that there was a better life waiting for them and their children in the New World. She knew that they considered her to have airs and ways above her station, and thought that with all her talk of a better life in America she was in some way insulting their own lives in Ireland. But this didn’t trouble her too much; she knew that the people who had made this journey, who stood next to her now in the humble yet pleasant surroundings of the third-class lounge, would never look back; would always be grateful that they’d listened to her advice and had the courage to leave the familiar and try the new.

  As she sang the familiar words of the hymns, Kathleen glanced around the congregation. In front of her she saw people she already recognized as fellow passengers from steerage, people she’d shared a conversation or a game of cards with over the last few days. There were all manner of people, others from towns and counties in Ireland, families from Finland and Russia, and young men and women from all over England and America. The social aspect to this journey had surprised her. She would normally keep very much to her own company on a transatlantic crossing, but there seemed to be an entirely different atmosphere about Titanic, and she was almost enjoying the evenings after dinner when the passengers would congregate in the general room.

  To her left stood Maggie, now almost as tall as herself and developing into a fine young woman. It was hard to believe that she’d been just nine years old when Kathleen had first arrived back in Ballysheen with her cases and her fashionable skirts. It had been a short visit on that occasion, but despite the brevity of the meeting and her rather stern nature, Maggie and Kathleen had formed a pleasant bond and, over the intervening years, had mutually enjoyed their exchange of letters. Kathleen had always intended for Maggie to go to America, and had discussed the matter with her sister Nora on several occasions. Looking at Maggie now, Kathleen wished that her niece’s journey had come about under less traumatic circumstances than the death of the mother she had loved very much.

  Looking down the row to her left and her right, Kathleen observed the other Ballysheen men and women. They were indeed a large group, and she was certain that every one of them felt comforted and reassured to have so many familiar faces around them. She considered them now, knowing the personal motivations of each for making this journey; all of them with their own reasons for leaving Ireland, all of them with relatives in America eagerly awaiting their arrival, and all of them with relatives back home in Ireland who were, no doubt, still mourning their departure.

  Next to Maggie stood Maura and Jack Brennan, hoping to start a new business and a new life. With his father dead since January and Jack having inherited the family smallholding, Maura had encouraged him to sell. It was with the money raised from the sale of that land that Jack Brennan could pay for passage to America for himself, his wife, and his sister and still have enough left over to invest in a business in Chicago. Jack’s devoted sister, Eileen, stood with them. The family had agreed that she would travel with her brother and sister-in-law and would settle with them in America.

  Then there was Ellen Joyce, a proud, confident woman who had returned to Ballysheen from Chicago to visit her sick mother and to announce her engagement. Kathleen also suspected she had relished the opportunity to show off her diamond solitaire engagement ring and her new gold watch, a gift from the man she was to marry in several months’ time. She’d spent her last few days in Ballysheen packing a trousseau of wedding gifts she’d received and other items she’d purchased for her bottom drawer. Her sister was to stay at home to care for their mother. Ellen was traveling with the Brennans, who knew her and her family well, their homes being just across the field from each other.

  Next in the row stood Katie Kenny. Kathleen was very fond of the Kenny girl and knew how excited she was about seeing her sister, Frances, in New York. She had stuck to her promise of keeping everyone’s spirits up with her songs and had half the steerage passengers singing along to their favorite Irish ballads.

  Then there was Michael Kelly, a slight young fella whose mother was very unhappy about his decision to join his two brothers in New York. He’d boasted of the new pocket his sister had sewn on the inside of his jacket to keep his money and ticket in. “It’s a fine pocket with neat stitching, isn’t it, Miss Dolan?” he’d announced to her.

  Alongside Michael stood the painfully shy Mary Dunphy, the daughter of a friend of Kathleen’s, and beside Mary was Kathleen’s boisterous nephew, Pat, with his shock of red hair. Mary and Pat were both going to stay with Pat’s sister in Philadelphia. After the incident with the dropped lucky sovereign, Ka
thleen had advised him to keep it in his sock for the duration of the journey.

  At the far end of the line, Kathleen could just see the faces of some of the younger girls among the group: Bridget Moloney, Maria Cusack, Margaret O’Connor, and Peggy Madden, who was still wearing her new hat. They were each heading to family in Chicago, New York, and St. Louis.

  It occurred to Kathleen as she looked down the row that theirs were just fourteen stories among nearly two thousand aboard this ship. Following Father Byles in his final prayer, she closed her eyes and prayed to God for all of their good health and good fortunes, wherever they had come from, wherever they were going, and whatever their reasons for making this long and remarkable journey. As soon as the service was over, most of the Ballysheen group returned to their cabins or to the general recreation areas of the ship. Kathleen, however, took a short stroll on deck, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders as the icy breeze nipped at her cheeks. She looked to the horizon. It would not be many more days before New York would be in her sight.

  Captain Smith finished his religious service for the first-class passengers, leading the congregation in the hymn “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” before he and his officers returned to the bridge. From there he gave the orders for the 11:00 A.M. lifeboat drill to be canceled, for the boilers to be stoked, and for the speed to be increased to full steam ahead. He gazed out over the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, proud in the knowledge that they would dock in New York in just two days’ time. Then he retired to his cabin, requesting that a pot of coffee with sugar and cream be brought to him and that any further ice warnings be brought to his immediate attention.