The Girl Who Came Home - a Titanic Novel

by Hazel Gaynor

  Maggie’s heart raced as she absorbed the words, remembering everything Séamus had written and described of the time they had spent together in Ballysheen as if it were yesterday and not seventy years ago. She could almost sense him in the room now, could almost feel his weathered, labourer’s hands brushing against hers, feel his breath on her neck. She shivered and continued reading.

  January 1912

  Your aunt came for Christmas Maggie. She is all talk of America and I’m sure she’ll be fillin that pretty head of yours with tales of skyscrapers and fancy hats and shoes. She’ll have you sailing away from me on a steam ship before the New Year is out, I just know it. I know she doesn’t mind me being around the house sometimes though – I’m pleased to be of some use to her by fixin things or bringing supplies from the market when she can’t travel herself. I like to try to impress her you see Maggie. I want her to know that I’m a good, reliable man who will always love you and protect you. Da’s coughing is worse and worse with the hard winter we’re having. The doctor says it’s something called emphazeemer (I’m not sure if that’s the right spellin at all) – and that I should be praying for an early spring. The warmer weather will help him, he says. There’s not much else that can be done for him now.

  April 1912

  Maggie, you are leaving. My worst fears are come true and you are going off to America with all the others. I know you wish I could come with you, and I hope you know how quickly I’d jump on board that ship with you if I could, but Da is too sick to travel and too sick for me to leave him here. There’s been some amount of crying and wailing in Ballysheen - sometimes it feels to me that ye have all already died what with these ‘American Wakes’ they are holding and all the drinking and praying and passing around of the Holy Water. It frightens me Maggie, so it does – I’m not ashamed to tell ye. I sat by Da’s bedside all day and night today – afraid to do anything else in case I saw you and hid you in our cellar until they’ve all gone off in the carts. I thought a terrible thing while I sat there. I wished my own Da dead, so that I might come with you Maggie. Isn’t that the worst thing you ever did hear – a son wishing his own father dead so he can be free of the burden of looking after him and sail off to a better future? I said twenty Hail Mary’s after thinking such a dark thought and am sure I could feel Ma frowning at me from up above, God rest her.

  10th April 1912

  Today you leave. I don’t know what to write anymore. I think I have used up all the words I will write in my lifetime and you have them all here to keep with you as you sail across the ocean to the New World. I’ll never forget your beautiful face Maggie, your eyes sparkling at me that night we danced at the Brennan’s wedding, or the way your hair blows about your face in the wind. I will always wait for you under the blossom tree on a Wednesday and I’ll keep doing that until you come back. I’ll wait for you Maggie – and I want you to come back home soon. I need you to come back to me, because I want to be with you all my life. I want to make a good husband for you Maggie. I want you to be my wife.

  Will you marry me Maggie Murphy?

  Please say yes.

  With all my love and affection.

  Yours, always

  Séamus Doyle

  Maggie folded the letters and placed them carefully back into the packet. She rested her head against the back of the seat and let her eyes wander to the dark wood sideboard in the far corner of the room. She scanned the images in the picture frames; a lifetime of marriages, friendships and births catalogued in the pictures displayed within the mismatched assortment of frames. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Oh Séamus,’ she whispered as the tears fell slowly down her fragile cheeks. ‘My darling Séamus, I miss you. I miss you so, so much.’

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept or what had woken her. She’d dreamt that she was drowning and calling for Séamus to save her. He’d come running and dragged her to the shore. ‘I will always protect you Maggie,’ he’d said. She’d reached out her hand to touch his face and as she sat in the semi-darkness of her sitting room now, she wasn’t sure whether the hand that had touched hers was part of her dream, or reality.

  She heard a couple walking past outside laughing, a breeze rattling through the open upstairs window, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking its regular, predictable, unchanging rhythm. She stood up slowly, grabbing the stick she used to steady herself and walked through the house, turning on a few lights here and there.

  She knew what she was looking for and bending down slowly, she reached for the small black suitcase under her bed. She wanted to look again through her belongings. She wanted to remember. After a lifetime of forgetting, she now wanted to remember, wanted to remember everything, every last detail. She wanted to celebrate the lives of those she had loved and known so many years ago. She wanted to remember and then she wanted to be at peace. Finally. She wanted the whispers and echoes of that night to fall silently away. She wanted absolution from the years of guilt and doubt she had harboured; the crushing sense of remorse that she had survived amid so much death and destruction.

  She knew that sharing her story with Grace, talking about Titanic and all those she’d loved and left in Ballysheen, that by seeing the letters from Séamus was going to help her make some peace with it all. But she knew that there was only one way she was ever going to be finally free from the burden of that ship. She had to go back to where it had all began; back to Ireland, back to Ballysheen.

  The following day was the tenth anniversary of Grace’s great-grandfather James’s death. She’d promised to take Maggie to the cemetery to place some fresh flowers in remembrance before they went for their usual Saturday morning cup of tea.

  Grace knew that Maggie liked this particular cemetery because of the cherry blossom trees which stood just outside the boundary wall and cast a lovely, pink hue over the place on a day like today.

  It was a bright, spring morning and Maggie enjoyed the light breeze on her face as they walked through the cemetery. She noticed the single cloud in the blue sky and sensed the stillness about the place. It reminded her of the day she’d left Ireland. A distant memory flashed through her mind as she walked silently beside her great-granddaughter.

  A young girl, dressed smartly in her best calico pinafore, staring out of the small, square windowpanes, past the blossom trees and across the vast expanse of fields and stone walls which divided up the land, the mighty mountain of Nephin Mor cast into shadow by a passing cloud, as if doffing its cap to the departing travellers. Her aunt’s voice, ‘It is time.’ Stones crunching underfoot as she walked from home to home – her cousin Paddy’s white, stone cottage first. Knocking on the door. ‘It’s time,’ she’d called. The same at the Joyce’s home, where she’d imagined Ellen’s emotions torn between a deep worry for the sick mother she was leaving and excitement about seeing her handsome fiancé again who would be awaiting her arrival in New York. More knocking on doors, stones crunching under her black boots until finally reaching the Madden’s where her friend Peggy was waiting with her new hat and gloves. Walking back towards her own home, her head bowed, her eyes fixed on her feet, her ears listening intently to the crunch, crunch, crunch of the stones. The thump in her heart as she saw him standing under the blossom tree; come to say goodbye.

  ‘Are you OK Maggie? You seem very quiet today?’

  Grace’s voice pulled Maggie from her thoughts. ‘Oh, yes dear. I’m perfectly fine. Just enjoying the peace and quiet. It’s so beautiful here isn’t it. So still and calm. It reminds me of the morning I left home.’ She looped her arm through Grace’s and they strolled together again, her thoughts returning to her seventeen-year-old self.

  There was something different about Ballysheen that spring morning; an eerie stillness after the flurry of activity and organisation of the past weeks. Only the familiar crowing of the cockerel joined the sounds of tearful farewells and final exchanges as the travellers got into the carts which were gathered. She stood in silence, casting a final glance o
ver the still snow-capped tops of the mountains in the far distance. the new-born lambs just tiny white dots, barely visible to the naked eye, the small, white cottages and occasional farm buildings dotted about the landscape like dolls houses scattered by a child. She had fond memories of running among those fields and mountains, temporarily free from the constraints of her domestic duties, at one with the landscape which she so loved.

  She watched Pat’s weeping Mammy lean up into the cart to pass him a sovereign as a good luck token. One of the horses startled at a dog running around its feet, causing the trap to jolt slightly at the moment he reached to take the sovereign from her hands. She gasped as she watched the coin fall to the ground. This was a sign of bad luck, but the Mammy had picked it off the ground, rubbed it on her coat and passed it to him again. Nobody spoke of it.

  The journey over the rugged terrain of the Windy Gap – bumping and jostling her around in her seat, each turn of the wheels taking them further away from home. Taking her further away from the man she loved.

  Dozens of people gathered on the chilly station platform, unlit by the sun whose rays warmed the other side of the tracks. Groups huddled around piles of suitcases and trunks, exchanging tearful farewells with mothers and other family members. A sense of foreboding and finality.

  The unmistakeable screech of metal on metal and the muffled puff, puff of smoke rising from the funnel as the Westport train approached. Hearts raced, hands shook and adrenalin caused bodies to shiver as the gleaming green livery of the Midland Great Western Line train came into view. How she’d gawped at the massive engine in front of her, the like of which she’d never seen before, the black funnel towering above the platform, the hiss of steam and the roars exchanged between the driver and the stationmaster making her cover her ears.

  The images of the red-eyed strangers left behind on the platform, the tears which wouldn’t stop falling wiped silently, helplessly away. Mothers glancing into the distance, trying not to cause a fuss, trying to impart a sense of bravery and assurance to their sobbing daughters and sisters staring back at them through the misted-up windows.

  ‘It’s a dreadful sight Maggie, it truly is.’ Peggy had said. ‘God love ‘em. God love us all, every one.’

  Staring out of the window, the fields and meadows rushing past at an incredible pace as the train clattered towards Claremorris station, beyond which, she would be crossing new and unfamiliar territory.

  Grasping the packet of letters in her coat pocket. Reassured by them, sensing Séamus near her as long as she could feel his words in her hands.

  Maggie shivered at the memories and pulled her coat tighter around her as they approached the gravestone.

  They stood for a while, heads bowed in silence as they each said a private prayer. Maggie took to fussing over the flowers then, removing all the dead and wilted ones and replacing them with the fresh ones she had brought.

  ‘Freesias – your favourite,’ she whispered as she went about her work.

  Grace watched her and smiled at her great-grandmother’s dedication and undying love for the man she had spent most of her lifetime with. She studied the inscription on the headstone. Much loved husband of Maggie and doting father to Harry, Kathleen and Peggy. ‘To live in the hearts of those we love is never to die.’

  I remember him you know.’ Grace spoke almost in a whisper. ‘He was a kind man wasn’t he? I remember the smell of the pipe he smoked. I remember him teasing me and pretending that he couldn’t say the word hippopotamus. He would go on for ages and have me and Art in stitches. I always felt safe around him.’

  Maggie smiled fondly. ‘Yes, Grace. He was a very kind man. It’s funny, I always felt safe around him too. He had that sort of – what do you call it…?’

  ‘Presence.’

  ‘That’s right. A presence. You always knew when he was in the room – not in a fancy, showy way like your brother. More in a quiet, gentle way.’ She paused for a moment and brushed a few fallen blossom petals from the stone. ‘Yes, he was a very special man indeed.’

  The two stood then for a while, remembering the man whose grave they stood at. It wasn’t until Maggie muttered the word ‘Amen,’ that Grace knew she was ready to leave.

  ‘Shall we go for that cup of tea then? The wind’s getting a bit chilly. Come on.’

  As Maggie turned to leave, Grace was sure she heard her say, ‘Yes, I will.’ She looked around to see who she was talking to, but seeing nobody about assumed she must have been mistaken and linked Maggie’s arm through hers to support her as they made their way back to the car.

  ‘By the way,’ she asked when they were settled back into the warmth of the car. ‘Did you name your children after the people you travelled with?’

  ‘Yes love, I did. Kathleen after my aunt, Peggy after my friend and Harry after the steward. It seemed like a nice way to remember them.’

  ‘Did you keep in touch with Peggy? After the event?’

  ‘I did, for a while. We’d exchanged our onward addresses at the hospital. I wouldn’t have known where I was heading to at all if I hadn’t kept that small black case. Kathleen had written a forwarding address label and attached it to the case you see, so the nurses knew where I needed to get to. We didn’t write immediately – both of us needed a bit of time to recover properly you see. But after a few months I wrote to her, and she wrote back and we continued to exchange letters for a couple of years.’

  She paused then to take a sip of her tea.

  ‘And..?’

  ‘Well, then the war happened and everyone got displaced and we lost touch.’

  ‘Oh, that’s such a shame. That’s very sad.’

  ‘Yes, it was. She was the only living person I knew of who had shared that terrible experience with me. I often wonder whether she’s still living now.’

  ‘And you named you son Harry after the steward because he saved your life, I guess? Mr Lockey mentioned that Harry had helped you to send a Marconi telegram message from the Titanic. Is that true?’

  Maggie smiled ruefully. ‘Ah yes. It is true. Harry was friendly with one of the Marconi operators, and said he could get a message sent off the ship for me for free. I could never have afforded the price of a telegram you see.’

  ‘So, what did you say? Who did you send it to?’

  Maggie glanced across at Grace, and winked. ‘Well now, I have to keep some things a secret don’t I? You’d never believe it though - that blessed message was only half sent. Wasn’t the radio operator right in the middle of tapping out my little message when Titanic hit the iceberg? So the message got sent through to Ireland alright, but with some of the words missing. Quite an impact that half-delivered message had.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It all got sorted out in the end though.’

  There was a silence then and Maggie’s gaze drifted out of the window as Grace drove steadily along; the blossom trees giving way to bare stone walls and fences, the sound of the car engine droning in the background, a million memories whirling around the old woman’s mind.

  PART VI

  ‘Geo E Foster Acting Premier Ottawa Ont. Isadore Strauss and wife not on board only Maid. Charles M Hays also not on board only wife. Captain'.

  Marconigram message sent from the Captain of The Carpathia to George E Foster, acting Premier, Ottawa, Ontario, 18 April 1912

  CHAPTER 36 - Chicago, 1982

  They’d arranged to meet by the shores of the Lake. It had always been a favourite hang-out of theirs during spring break or whenever he’d come to visit her at home and seemed like the perfect location – not too public and not too isolated either as there were always plenty of people playing Frisbee, fathers pitching baseballs to their sons or keen water sports enthusiasts falling off their jet-skis. There would be enough distraction to mask their discomfort if the meeting didn’t work out as Grace was hoping it would, and enough space for her to wipe away the tears in private.

  Their conversation over the phone had been brief and awkward; punc
tuated with uncomfortable pauses and hesitant exchanges, talking over each other inadvertently, causing the conversation to stop and start as they each apologised and insisted the other one carry on. It was nothing like the easy, relaxed chats they’d had for hours over the phone when they’d first got together and were at their respective homes for Thanksgiving or during the summer break. The use of the phone to call Jimmy had been the only real source of arguments between Grace and her father who frequently insisted she’d spoken for long enough and when she argued with him, he insisted that she would be paying the bill if she didn’t hang up right away.

  Grace played their brief conversation through in her mind all over again as she pulled into the parking bay. He’d told her he’d been keeping well and had been amazed when he’d read her article in the paper. His voice had been receptive and not at all hostile – which had been her worst fear – and he hadn’t allowed her to apologise, insisting that it would be better to meet in person and talk face-to-face. She hadn’t been able to ask him outright if he had a girlfriend but she guessed that if he was happy to meet up with her, he probably didn’t. She hoped he didn’t, but had prepared herself for the possibility.

  Checking her appearance in the rear-view mirror she was happy enough with how she looked, but could already feel the nervous rash breaking out across her chest. She wrapped a silk scarf loosely around her neck, fluffed her hair, re-applied her lip gloss and pushed her shades up onto her head. ‘Right,’ she said to herself as she locked the car, ‘Let’s do this.’