‘God help us,’ whispered Martha.
Slowly people began to move. Those searching stepped carefully, like crossing a stream finding little stepping stones of marble floor in the sea of bodies. Those survivors who were stronger realised what was happening and stood on tip toe to see if a relative had come to claim them. At first they searched only with their eyes then several began to shout out.
‘John. John Buckley, are you here?’
‘I’m looking for Mary Donaldson!’
Soon the cries were echoing round the high ceiling and some were heard and answered:
‘I’m here! I’m here!’
‘Where? Where are you?’
Martha didn’t shout. She took her time and moved systematically through the hall.
‘I’m sorry. Excuse me. Could I come through there, please?’ All the while forcing herself to look into the faces, some of them cut and bruised, all of them full of pain.
Anna and Thomas were not there.
She made her way back to the front of the building and found the Harbour Master. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for my sister and brother-in-law they were meant to be on the boat, but I can’t find them in the immigration hall.’
‘I’m sorry, but the rescue operation is still going on. People are being brought ashore all down the Antrim coast, some have gone to Liverpool. It could be days before we can account for everyone.’
‘What should I do?’ Martha was close to tears.
‘Look, I’ve got the passenger list. If you give me their names I could at least tell you if they were on the ship.’
‘Thank you. They’re called Wilson, Thomas and Anna.’
He ran his finger down the sheet. ‘Wilson … Wilson …’ Sheet after sheet, ‘No, there’s no Wilson here.’
‘But they were booked on the mail boat. I know they were. Can I see the list?’
He looked sceptical, but handed it to her. ‘Check if you like, but you won’t find them.’
On the third page a name half way down jumped out at her. ‘Goulding’ followed by ‘T and A’. ‘That’s them!’ she cried.
‘But that’s not the name you gave me.’
‘I know, but it’s them. I’m sure of it!’
‘Well, I shouldn’t really tell you this, but we’re bringing some more survivors ashore. Down there in one of the Liverpool ferry sheds. You could have a look.’
She followed his directions to a large corrugated-iron building open to the elements at the front, beyond it was the coal quay and black hills of imported coal.
Martha heard Thomas before she saw him. She never in her life expected to be pleased at the sound of his pompous, badgering tone.
‘And I’m telling you, I am not staying in this tin shed a moment longer! Now you, young man, need to telephone for a taxi to take me home.’
‘Sir, I’ve explained already that the port authorities are required to record details of all those rescued.’
‘I’ve given you my name and address. What more do you need?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir, I haven’t the authority.’
‘Don’t talk to me about authority. There’s no one in authority here. This whole business is a shambles. God help us if they start dropping bombs. You’ll expect names and addresses from the dead I suppose!’
‘Thomas.’ Martha spoke softly, fearing he might turn on her in his rage.
He ignored her. ‘Now, if you’ll tell me where I can use a telephone I’ll call for the taxi myself.’
‘Thomas.’
He stared at her as though she was some unwanted interruption.
‘Thomas, it’s me, Martha.’
‘I can see it’s you! What are you doing here? Where are Alice and Evelyn?’ He looked anxiously around as though they might be nearby.
‘I came to find you and Anna. I heard about the boat on the wireless. Alice and Evelyn are at my house.’
‘Right, I want you to wait here while I find a taxi.’
‘Thomas.’
‘What!’
‘Where’s Anna? Is she safe?’
‘Why wouldn’t she be safe?’
‘The boat sinking, Thomas, you remember?’
‘Of course I remember. She’s over there.’ He waved his hand.
Anna lay on her side. The fox fur, wet and shiny, had been thrown over her. Martha knelt and spoke her name softly. She touched her glistening forehead expecting it to be wet and cold. It was burning.
‘Anna, can you hear me? It’s Martha.’
Through cracked lips she whispered, ‘Martha.’
‘You’re going to be fine, Anna. Thomas has gone to get a taxi to take you home.’ The stone floor was cold and wet, but Martha sat and held her sister’s hand as the certainty dawned on her that war had surely found its way to Belfast.
*
‘Irene, you’re the eldest, so I’m leaving you in charge. I trust you to make sure that everyone behaves themselves.’
‘How long do you think you’ll be away?’
‘I don’t know. Anna still can’t get out of bed. It’s like the strength’s drained out of her. The doctor’s there every other day, but I don’t think he’s any notion of what’s wrong with her.’
‘Sure we can manage, Mammy, don’t you worry yourself,’ said Pat.
‘I’ll do most of the shopping and cooking,’ said Sheila.
‘And so you should,’ said Peggy. ‘You’ve no work to go to.’
Martha turned on her. ‘And I don’t want you out with Harry Ferguson every night either, weekends only, please.’
Irene shot a look at Peggy. She’d had a word with her about staying out all night with Harry, but Peggy had told her to mind her own business.
‘I’ve left you some money on the mantelpiece for food and the rent man. Sheila, be careful what you buy, better to eat bread and vegetables than some bit of a pig you’d not recognise. Be careful with the rationing coupons. You don’t get much for them, you know, and easy on the sugar all of you!’
The rain set in soon after Martha left for the Wilson house. The girls were glad they’d attended the morning service and could spend all evening at home in the warm. Pat had washed her hair and was kneeling in her slip to dry it in front of the fire; Sheila was doing her homework at the kitchen table and Peggy and Irene were reading old copies of ‘Red Letter’ that Betty had passed on to them. Thunder was rolling over the hills above them and almost drowned the knock at the door.
Pat jumped up. ‘Don’t open it ‘til I’m in the bathroom!’ she shouted and ran out of the room.
‘I’ll go,’ said Irene. ‘It must be important to bring anyone out in this weather.’
Irene opened the door a little and peered out at a dark figure with shoulders hunched and a cap pulled down over his eyes.
‘Hello, is that you, Pat?’
‘No, it’s Irene. Who’s there?’
‘Hello, Irene. It’s Jimmy. Is Pat in?’
Without hesitation Irene invited him in. ‘Come on in, Jimmy. That’s a terrible night, isn’t it?’
In the sitting room he removed his cap, rain dripped from his hair. ‘Missed you girls at church this evening.’
‘We went this morning to sing in the choir, but we thought we’d give it a miss tonight,’ said Peggy without looking up from her magazine.
‘Do you want to take your coat off? We could dry it over the fireguard for a while,’ said Irene.
‘Thanks very much.’ He handed her his Mackintosh. ‘I was hoping to see Pat.’
‘Well, she’s a bit busy at the moment, washing her hair I think. Peggy, away and see if Pat’s finished yet. How’re you keeping, Jimmy?’
‘Oh, well enough.’
‘And your mother?’
‘The same.’
‘Pat says she’s washing her hair then she’s having a bath. She’s going to be ages.’ Peggy picked up her magazine again.
‘I could give her a message, if you like,’ said Irene.
Jimmy hesitated. ‘I don�
��t know …’
‘Is it something important?’
Jimmy looked sideways at Peggy. ‘I suppose it might be.’
‘Peggy,’ said Irene, ‘could you read that in your room, while I have a wee chat with Jimmy?’
Peggy rolled her eyes and left the room.
Irene saw the sadness in his slumped shoulders, the tired eyes, the set of his mouth. He’s a really nice boy, she thought, but Pat isn’t what he needs even if she’s what he wants. ‘What is it, Jimmy?’ she said gently.
He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve enlisted, joined up. Start basic training in a fortnight.’
That I didn’t expect, thought Irene. ‘God Jimmy, why? There’s no conscription and, even if there was, you wouldn’t be called, you’re needed in the shipyard.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Is that what you really want, to join the army?’
‘Might as well,’ he said, looking at the floor. ‘There’s nothing for me here.’
‘You’ve got your work. Time-served carpenter now, aren’t you?’ Irene tried to sound positive.
He took a moment to shape a reply. ‘Look Irene, you know don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘How I feel about, Pat.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, it’s just not going to be. I can see that now.’
Irene didn’t argue. ‘But there’s lots of other girls. Ones that—’
‘Are more my type?’ His look matched the bitterness in his voice.
‘I was going to say, who would love to have a man like you. You’ll find someone else.’
‘I don’t want anyone else and I never want to see her with someone else! I’ve had enough of that at the concerts you keep inviting me to.’ He grabbed his coat from the fireguard and put it on. ‘Just tell Pat I’ll never bother her again.’
*
Martha had settled into a routine at the Wilson house: waking Alice and Evelyn each morning; giving them breakfast before school; spending time with Anna; making her a light lunch. Later, while Anna slept the afternoon away, Martha would clean. In the evening she made supper for the girls and got them ready for bed. After that, she had the morning room to herself where she would read the Belfast Telegraph, maybe do a little sewing and, of course, listen to the wireless.
She was surprised at how little contact Thomas had with his daughters. He left early in the morning before they were awake. He sat with them while they ate supper then either went out, he didn’t say where, or stayed in his study.
Anna was confined to her bed. At first the girls wanted to be with her, but Anna’s lethargy meant she showed little interest in them and within a week they had grown bored and only went to her room to say goodnight.
The doctor too seemed to lose interest. Martha had overheard him talking to Thomas in the hallway. ‘Physically she’s fine. Fit as a fiddle, you might say, but there’s no spirit there and I’ve no medicine to restore that.’
Martha knew of a herbalist on the Newtownards Road, Betty and Jack swore by him, and after lunch one day she went in search of his shop. The bell rang as she went in and moments later a small wiry man with prominent, yellow front teeth appeared.
‘Lying in bed all day, you say?’
‘Aye, she’s the strength to get up, but it’s as though she can’t face it.’
‘What about fresh air?’
‘When I suggest a walk, she seems frightened and won’t go over the doorstep.’
‘Food?’
‘Doesn’t want it, eats a few mouthfuls and hardly chews it.’
‘Talk much?’
Martha gave a humourless laugh. ‘One word answers, if you’re lucky.’
The herbalist stood a while and sucked his teeth, while Martha stared at the advertisements behind him: ‘Sloan’s Liniment’, ‘Conde’s Fluid’, ‘Surgical Stockings’. Eventually, he seemed to reach a decision.
‘You’re to make a pan of onion soup fresh every day, mind. By the end of each day she needs to have two pints of it down her.’ He waited for a response.
‘Oh yes, I’ll see to that, two pints.’
Satisfied with Martha’s commitment he went on. ‘Now I’ll give you a mixture of herbs to go in the soup. Two teaspoons full, one for each pint.’
Martha nodded. ‘That’s sounds grand. I’ll see she takes it.’
‘Yes, you will because you must be with her all the time she’s taking the soup.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Martha.
‘I haven’t finished.’ He paused for her full attention. ‘Now this is the most important part of the treatment. You must talk to her the whole time, at first you’ll probably have to do most of the talking, but by the third day, encourage her to talk. It doesn’t matter at first what she talks about, but by the seventh day she should be ready to talk about what has happened to her. Let her speak of this for another seven days and she will be well on the way to a full recovery. Now will you remember all that?’
Martha assured him she would and left the shop with a bag of herbs and directions to the nearest greengrocers.
She was surprised to find Thomas home early and waiting for her when she got back. He called her into his study and asked her to sit down.
‘Martha, I want to thank you for what you’ve done these last few weeks. To tell you the truth I don’t know how we’d have managed without you. Unfortunately, Anna isn’t getting back on her feet at all and there doesn’t seem to be anything that can be done for her.’ Martha didn’t mention the herbalist and the onions.
‘I’ll come straight to the point. Would you be prepared to take on the role of housekeeper until such time as Anna feels up to running the house again?’
‘I don’t know, Thomas, my girls are older, but I wouldn’t want to leave them to fend for themselves any longer than necessary.’
‘But this would be a business arrangement, you’d be paid.’
‘It’s not that, Thomas.’
He carried on. ‘How about we make an agreement for three weeks at a time, at a wage of three pounds a week; you could earn yourself a tidy sum in no time. What do you say?’
Three weeks, thought Martha, time enough for the herbalist’s cure to take effect. Irene and Pat were sensible enough to run the house until then. She nodded. ‘Three weeks it is and we’ll see how Anna is by then.’
‘Good, good,’ said Thomas. ‘Now I’m having some important visitors this evening. We’ll be in the drawing room. Could you get a good fire going? Oh, and we’ll need a bit of light supper around nine o’clock. Do you think you could make up some sandwiches and a pot of coffee for us, nothing fancy? There’ll be a delivery of cooked meats and bread later this afternoon. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ said Martha. Good old Thomas, she thought, always gets his money’s worth, he’d be expecting her to call him ‘Sir’ next!
The men arrived around seven when Martha was upstairs reading a bedtime story to the girls. Thomas met them at the door. She checked on Anna around eight and on her way downstairs she was met by the smell of cigar smoke and the sound of raucous laughter.
She made the sandwiches, wondering how some people could still find thick cuts of roast beef and cured ham when rationing and shortages were beginning take hold. The nine o’clock news had just finished when Thomas popped his head round the door and said, ‘Ready when you are, Martha.’
She carried the sandwiches into the drawing room. The men were relaxing, typed papers lay about their feet. The man in the armchair nearest the fire was the oldest and somewhat old fashioned in his dress. There was something familiar about the cruel down turn of his mouth and the bags under his eyes, that and his air of authority. ‘Look here, Wilson,’ he was saying, ‘I hope you told these Westminster people that we run our own show over here.’
When she brought the silver coffee set and fine bone china cups she sneaked another look at him and something connected in her brain. Of course, she’d seen his picture in the Tele
graph just last week, Lord Craigavon, Prime Minister of Northern Ireland. The tray rattled in her hand as she set it on the table. She straightened up and walked to the door. To her left, away from the others, a young man sat sorting papers. As she passed he lifted his head and Martha found herself staring into the face of William Kennedy.
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