The Girl Who Came Home: A Novel of the Titanic

by Hazel Gaynor

  CHAPTER 17

  RMS Titanic

  April 14, 1912

  Dearest Séamus, all is well. Titanic is a fine ship. I hope your da is well. Don’t wait for me, come to America as soon as you can. Maggie.

  Maggie put her pencil down on the bedcovers and read over her words once again before reading them out to Katie, who was sitting at the other end of the bed playing solitaire with a pack of cards, her legs curled under her like a cat.

  “So, what do you think?”

  Katie thought for a moment as she moved the jack of hearts onto the queen. “I think it’s grand, Maggie. Stop worryin’ about it and just give it to Harry, will you, or we’ll be in New York and you’ll never have it sent at all.”

  Maggie knew her friend was right but still wasn’t sure she’d written exactly what she wanted to. Having finally plucked up the courage to ask Harry about sending a message, she hadn’t been at all sure what she wanted to say. It seemed trivial almost to say so few words when there were so many more she wanted to write down, but Harry had told her to keep it short. “The first-class passengers send these messages for a bit of a lark,” he’d told her. “They’re amused by the technology, and the chance to communicate with their friends and family while they’re on board a ship is too big a boast to miss out on. Some of ’em send two or three messages a day at twelve shillings and sixpence a time and think nothing of it, telling people what they’ve eaten for lunch or gossiping about a conversation they’ve overheard. It pays well for the Marconi boys—and makes the day a bit more interesting for them; otherwise it’s just relaying boring messages to the captain from other ships about sightings of ice and wind direction.”

  Maggie read over her words again. She’d already written eight different messages before asking for Katie’s advice. “For the love of God, Maggie.” Katie had laughed, reading over her friend’s first few attempts. “Sure, why would he be carin’ about what you were eatin’ for dinner last night? Just tell him you miss him and you love him. That’s all ye need to write.”

  Maggie didn’t even understand how it was possible to send a message by radio from a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean to a small town in Ireland, but she somehow felt that since it was possible, the words of the message should be carefully considered and should really mean something to the sender and the recipient.

  As Maggie considered a tenth attempt, Peggy came bounding into the cabin. She’d been out on the deck for a stroll after Mass, and her cheeks were flushed red from the breeze, her hair whipped into straggly rat’s tails by the moist air.

  “Maggie Murphy!” she cried in mock anger, throwing herself down onto the bed between her two friends, bringing the distinctive scent of fresh sea air into the room. “If you are still feckin’ around with that note, I’ll murder you with my own hands, I swear I will. Come on, we’re to meet Lucky Harry for our personal tour, and I’m sure he’ll not be hangin’ around for us cailíní all mornin’.”

  Although Harry had said their trip to the upper decks would be a birthday treat for Katie, they all knew that it was really for Peggy’s benefit, the young lad obviously having fallen for her quick wit and country-girl looks. Maggie carefully folded the piece of paper with her short message to Séamus and tucked it into her skirt pocket just as Aunt Kathleen walked into the cabin. The three girls sat perfectly still and stared at her.

  “Well, if ever I saw a sight of girls who were up to no good, I’m seein’ it now in front of my very eyes,” she said, putting her coat neatly on her bed. “What are you up to, the three o’ ye?”

  The girls glanced anxiously at one another, Maggie feeling the note in her pocket as if it were stolen diamonds. Peggy was the one to speak up.

  “Nothin’ much, Kathleen, there’s nothin’ much for us to be doin’ on this ship after a few days. We were just goin’ to check on the ship’s log and go for a stroll on the decks or maybe join some of the others for a game of cards.” Kathleen seemed placated, but just to make sure, Peggy continued. “Miss Dolan, how many more days is it now until we get to New York? We couldn’t remember whether it was two or three.”

  Kathleen looked at them all, apparently convinced by Peggy’s tale, feeling momentarily sympathetic for these young girls, stuck in the confines of a ship when they were so used to running in fields and busying themselves with chores.

  “Only two more days, girls, and then ye will have the whole of America to explore. Go on now, be off with you, but mind you’re not causin’ any trouble.”

  Grabbing her coat and making sure the packet of letters from Séamus was still in the pocket, Maggie walked casually out of the cabin with Peggy and Katie. As soon as the door closed behind them and they felt sure they were out of Kathleen’s earshot, they ran, giggling, along the labyrinth of passageways and corridors, across stairwells, and past elevators toward the stewards’ cabins on Scotland Road where Harry had agreed to meet them.

  Far from being as boring as Peggy had portrayed to Kathleen, their days on Titanic were some of the most extraordinary the girls had ever experienced. There were endless amounts of new people to meet, hot meals served to them three times a day, warm running water to wash themselves in, and a new life in America to look forward to. If Maggie hadn’t felt such an ache in her heart for Séamus back in Ireland, she was sure that she would have the same carefree attitude and lust for life as she saw in Peggy and Katie. For now, she felt as if she was going through the motions; occasionally she’d forget herself and join in with the craic and the daily surprises of life aboard this remarkable ship, but then something would remind her of what she had left behind, like the bottle of holy water she felt in her coat pocket now. She’d forgotten that she had put it there after one of her neighbors gave it to her on the night of the American wake.

  Maggie had been at those sorts of gatherings before, to drink tea and eat treacle cake and send off a cousin or a neighbor or a family friend and wish them well on the journey ahead. This time it had been different. This time there were so many of them leaving together, a mixture of young and old from five different villages in the parish; this time, she was one of the departing travelers.

  As was usual with the American wakes, the evening had been an odd combination of celebration and despair, excitement and dread, haunting ballads and rousing song. For every tear there was raucous laughter, for every lament and prayer a tale of courage and hope. Maggie had observed the backslapping, the raising of the glasses of porter and poitín, the dancing of the jigs and the reels to the strains of the fiddle, up and down, up and down the flagstone floor of the Brennans’ cottage into the small hours of the morning. She’d sat on an upturned crate in a cool corner of the room and wondered if anyone knew of the feelings of sadness and trepidation stirring in her heart.

  It was a neighbor, Bridget Kelly, who had pressed the bottle of holy water and a batch of oatmeal cakes into her hands. “For good fortune and sustenance on the journey ahead,” she’d said, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks.

  Maggie had thanked her and clutched the items to her as if her very life depended on them.

  That final night’s combination of mirth and mourning was the culmination of weeks of exchanged visits, shared advice and intimacies, discussions about what clothing might be suitable for the journey, private farewells, and moments of quiet personal reflection. Maggie had seen enough tearful embraces on the doorsteps of their village to last her a lifetime.

  “I hope I never witness such a sight again,” she’d said to Peggy, “wake, burial, or otherwise.”

  Not even a week had passed since she’d put that bottle of holy water into her coat pocket and walked home across the fields with her aunt Kathleen. It already seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Approaching the crew quarters now, the girls spotted Harry leaning against the wall, waiting for them. They stopped running and slowed to a walk as they neared him. He certainly looked handsome in his steward’s uniform. His face was pleasant, clean-shaven and friendly looking. Mag
gie wasn’t surprised that Peggy was sweet on him. It never surprised her when fellas were sweet on Peggy.

  “Right, ladies. Now you must keep very quiet and try not to gasp too much,” he teased, leading them up the steward’s stairway in the direction of C deck, from which they would climb the ladder. “You can be thrown off a ship, you know, for gawping at the first-class ladies without permission!”

  Maggie and Katie looked anxiously at each other, not entirely sure they wanted to take the risk.

  “Ah, Harry, would you stop,” Peggy whispered, sensing the others’ hesitation and digging him in the ribs with her elbow. “You’ll have their hearts crossways, God love ’em.”

  He laughed and motioned to the narrow steel ladder that led upward to B and A decks, several feet above them.

  “He’s only messin’ with ye,” Peggy continued, facing her two friends and smiling at Harry, pleased to be in on his joke. “Don’t mind him at all. Right, Maggie, you go up first; Katie, you next; and I’ll go last.”

  Climbing up carefully, they emerged at the back of the first-class promenade deck, poking their heads up before hoisting themselves onto the deck and scurrying behind one of the collapsible lifeboats, which kept them well hidden from view. They settled down into a crouch, their long skirts tucked up under their knees, their chins resting on their hands, which grasped the edge of the lifeboat for balance.

  “That’s the gentlemen-only smoking room,” Harry whispered, pointing to a room across the deck. The girls craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the handsome gentlemen who were sitting about in crimson leather chairs, smoking cigars as they read their newspapers or wandered around the room, chatting with friends and admiring the artwork on the walls or the painted glass panels in the windows, which shone brilliantly in the sunlight streaming through them.

  “And that’s the Palm Court,” Harry continued, enjoying his role of tour guide while keeping a good lookout for officers or senior stewards, who would not be at all pleased to see the group of them lurking in their hiding place. “See, there are palm trees and plants climbing the trellises. I bet you didn’t reckon on there being proper plants growing on a ship!”

  The girls were not at all interested in the flora; instead they gazed wide-eyed at the elegant ladies who sat in the wicker chairs and poured tea from dazzling silver pots into delicate china cups, the stunning cobalt blue and gold of the exclusive Titanic china glinting in the sunlight. Small white vases of elegant pink roses and white daisies sat on each table; silver sugar tongs rested on dainty saucers next to succulent slices of fruitcake, the sight of which almost made the girls drool.

  They watched in silent awe as three young ladies, about the same age as themselves, chatted and laughed at one of the tables nearest to them, their Oriental-style silk dresses draped elegantly over their slim hourglass figures, ending just below the ankle to show a hint of their exquisite shoes. At another table, a group of older ladies—possibly their mothers, Maggie thought—were equally elegant in their more reserved lace blouses with stylish narrow sleeves and full-length skirts. All the ladies, young and old, wore huge hats decorated with all manner of accessories: lace, feathers, satin, ribbons, and stuffed birds. Maggie noticed a small boy behind them playing with a spinning top.

  The three friends were stunned into silence by the splendor and grace of it all. It was as if they were watching their own private silent movie, unable to hear the conversations but able to admire the rich plums and teals, the soft pastel peaches and pinks, the virginal white, every conceivable manner of fabric, color, and style which seemed to be sitting in that room.

  “See that girl there with the cigarette holder and the long white gloves?” Harry whispered, pointing out the particularly elegant lady sitting nearest to them. “She’s a famous singer in the Broadway shows. Vivienne Walker-Brown.” The girls had never heard of the woman, but she oozed such style and sophistication that all three of them wanted to trade their lives for hers immediately. “And that’s her stupid little dog, Edmund, sitting under her chair,” he continued. “It goes everywhere with her. I took it for a walk the other day, I’ll have you know. Ugly little thing. I was half tempted to throw it overboard!”

  At that, Peggy snorted a laugh so loud that it almost gave away their hiding place. If it hadn’t been for the violinists entertaining the ladies, Maggie was sure they would have been heard.

  “Peggy Madden! Shush!” Maggie scolded as they clambered quickly back down the ladder before anyone could arrest them or throw them overboard.

  By the time they were all safely down, all four were laughing, partly with nerves and partly at the thought of Harry throwing a famous Broadway singer’s dog overboard.

  “Well, that’s all very nice an’ all,” Peggy announced as she finally composed herself, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks, “but I bet they can barely breathe trussed up into their corsets like stuffed turkeys. You wouldn’t catch me sitting up there for all the fancy teacups in china.” At the foot of the ladder, she turned to face Harry. “Well, young man, that was a very interesting excursion,” she announced in a mock upper-class accent that had them all in a fit of the giggles again. “Thank you very much,” she continued. “I . . . we look forward to seeing you at dinner, don’t we, girls?”

  The flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes were visible to them all as she turned to walk down the passageway to their cabin.

  Maggie hung back, grabbing for the paper from her pocket.

  “I wrote my note,” she said, passing the folded page to Harry, feeling awkward at handing over her private words to a relative stranger, few words though they were. “You promise not to read it now, will ye, just give it to your friend, so?”

  “Of course I won’t read it. That’s your words written down, and it’s none of my business what you’re saying or who you’re sayin’ it to. The Marconi boys will have to read it, though, y’know, in order to send it. You did know that?”

  He looked at Maggie, feeling for her embarrassment.

  “You great eejit, Harry, of course I know that,” she replied, cuffing him on the shoulder. “And thanks for it. For helping me, like. Are you sure they won’t be needin’ the money, ’cause I don’t have that many shillings with me.”

  “They’ll do it as a favor to a friend,” Harry replied. “Now don’t be worrying about it. I said I’d help you and I will. I’ll take it up to them straightaway. Now, get lost all of you, I’ve your lunch to get ready!”

  The girls walked back to their cabin, chattering nonstop about what they had just seen.

  “Imagine, girls,” Peggy whispered. “If we work hard and marry well, we might sail back to Ireland on Titanic one day and sit among those ladies on that veranda. What about it, eh? Wouldn’t that be a fine thing?”

  “It would, Peggy,” Katie replied wistfully. “It certainly would for sure. But for now, a full belly, clean hands, and a game of rummy on the deck of one of the finest ships ever to sail the Atlantic ain’t too bad for three cailíní from Ballysheen, is it?”

  Laughing, they dashed past the uilleann piper, who was walking back to his cabin.

  “Mornin’, ladies,” he announced, raising his cap to them. “And fine form ye all seem to be in today.”

  “It’s my birthday,” Katie shouted as they ran past him, “and what better place to be celebrating it, eh, Mr. Daly?”

  He smiled; their good humor was infectious. “No better place indeed, miss,” he replied. “No better place at all.”

  CHAPTER 18

  For a few rare moments, Maggie found herself alone in the cabin. She was enjoying life on board the ship more than she thought she would, but sometimes it overwhelmed her. There was so much noise all the time, from the baby bawling where it lay in its suitcase in the cabin next door to the constant drone of the engines and the endless fall of footsteps rushing along the corridor outside their cabin, crew and passengers coming and going at all hours of the day and night. They were noises Maggie wasn’t us
ed to, and she found it exhausting at times, yearning for the pitch blackness and total quiet of her familiar cottage bedroom.

  When her aunt, Peggy, and Katie were occupied elsewhere on the ship, as they were now, Maggie often took the chance to return to the cabin for some peace and quiet. She used the time to write in her journal or to read one of the letters from the packet Séamus had given to her. She had read three of the letters so far, one for each day she’d been on Titanic. In his letters, Séamus had written about the times they had spent together, the first three letters covering the months from the start of their courtship in February last year through to that April. Maggie was surprised by the tenderness of his writing; at how vividly he recalled the details of their time together during those months.

  She took the packet from her coat pocket now, carefully untying the piece of string which held the bundle together. She took out the piece of paper at the front, marked May 1911, and unfolded it. The noises outside the cabin walls faded into the background, and a silence enveloped her as she began to read.

  May 1911

  Dear Maggie,

  It is May now and the spring is here. The cherry blossom trees are still in full bloom. They are a mighty spectacle all right—I’d barely noticed them before, but now I can see them for all their loveliness, as you do.

  I stood and watched you for a while today. You didn’t know I was there, but I hid myself behind the barrels which were being loaded off the wagon outside O’Carroll’s. I watched you under the cherry blossom tree as the drayman hoisted the barrels onto the ground and rolled them past me into the hatch of the cellar. I’m sure he thought I was in trouble and hiding from someone, not watching my lovely cailín.