by Hazel Gaynor
She listened with amazement at how Harry had spent years trying to track down the girl, Peggy Madden, whom he was sweet on, only to eventually find her in St. Louis, married with two children. Apparently she had laughed when she saw him standing in the driveway and swore that if she didn’t love her husband so much she would have run off with him there and then because he was the most persistent man she had ever met! Sadly, she had lost contact with Maggie by the time Harry found her—something to do with several moves and lost address books—but she and Harry became firm friends, keeping in contact until he was an old man. Harry had never married, saying that he never met a woman his mother approved of and that he would rather be happy and alone than be with anyone other than the Irish girl who filled his dreams every night.
Grace found herself wiping away the tears by the time Mr. Lockey had finished telling her about his wonderful uncle.
“It’s such a shame,” she said. “If only he’d got to the hospital earlier he might have been able to form a relationship with Peggy or hand the coat and letters back to Maggie himself.”
“Ah yes, but then we could also say ‘If only Titanic hadn’t sunk. If only that iceberg hadn’t been on a direct collision course with the ship. If only the lookouts in the crow’s nest had had a pair of binoculars.’ Harry was a great believer in getting on with the hand life dealt you. He never once felt sorry for himself. He often said that someone had given him a second chance in life, and that while he sat in that lifeboat waiting for the rescue ship, he promised God, and himself, that he would make the most of that second chance. He believed he was the luckiest man alive after escaping from Titanic.”
They fell silent for a moment then, each reflecting on everything they had shared and on the connection between them.
“Well, I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Lockey—I’d better head back to the car and free my mom! Thank you so, so much—for everything. You’ve no idea what this will mean to Maggie,” Grace said, gathering her belongings. “So many strange things have happened since she told me about being on Titanic. It would almost make you think that the ship doesn’t want to be forgotten—wherever it is.”
Mr. Lockey scribbled down his phone number and address before they parted with a brief embrace. Grace thought for a moment about her father and how she missed the feeling of comfort and protection his hugs had given her.
As she walked back to her mom’s car, she clutched the coat and packet of letters tight to her chest and wondered how Maggie would feel when she saw them again after all these years.
Cass County, Illinois
May 31, 1982
I met someone yesterday, Maggie,” Grace ventured as she made tea in her great-grandmother’s small kitchen. She waited for a response. There was none. Maggie was flicking through the TV channels. “Well,” Grace continued, placing the teapot, cups, and a packet of cookies on a tray and carrying them into the small sitting room. “Don’t you want to know who?”
“Of course I want to know who,” Maggie replied, shifting herself to a more upright position in her chair, “but only after you’ve found a nice plate for those biscuits and set them out properly. Did I teach you nothing, girl?” She sighed, waving her hand dismissively across the poorly presented tea tray.
Grace laughed and went back to the kitchen. “What is it about you and cookies anyway, Maggie? We’re never going to eat a whole plateful, are we?”
“That’s not the point,” the old woman chided. “If something’s worth doing, then it’s worth doing properly, even if it is only offering a biscuit with a cup of tea.”
Grace did the necessary arranging on one of Maggie’s “fancy plates,” as she called them, and sat down opposite her.
“And,” Maggie continued, “I saw them do it on Titanic and I promised myself that when I got to America, I would always serve my biscuits as nicely. So who did you see?”
Grace was almost afraid to tell Maggie about the letters, unsure of stirring up memories that her great-grandmother had clearly spent a lifetime trying to forget. She poured the tea.
“Well, I met a very, very nice gentleman named Edward Lockey.”
“Do I know him?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. But he knows someone who did know you.” Grace paused and looked into Maggie’s eyes. She could tell her great-grandmother was interested. “He read my article in the newspaper and contacted me because he recognized the name Maggie Murphy.”
“Oh? How? No one has called me Maggie Murphy for years and years.”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but his uncle was on Titanic too.” At this Maggie raised her eyes again, her interest piqued. “His uncle was a third-class dining saloon steward,” Grace continued. “His name was Harry Walsh.”
CHAPTER 35
Maggie’s hands flew to her cheeks as she let out a tiny gasp. She sat forward in her chair.
“The Harry? Harry Walsh? Are you sure?”
“Yes! I know—it’s unbelievable, isn’t it? That Mr. Lockey happened to read the article about you and that he also had a relative on Titanic who, it turns out, you knew—out of all those thousands of people.”
Maggie was lost in thought. “He saved my life, you know, Grace. I would never have got off that ship if it wasn’t for him. He took us to the ladder, you see, and . . .”
Grace leaned forward and placed her hands on Maggie’s. “I know, Maggie. I know.” She wanted to try to calm her great-grandmother before she revealed the next bombshell. “But that’s not all.”
Maggie looked at her, wide-eyed. “What? What else?”
“Well, sadly, Harry isn’t alive anymore.”
She paused then, giving her great-grandmother a moment to register this fact.
“Really? Oh, that’s sad. That’s very sad. He was such a nice young man. I so hope he had a happy life.”
“He did, Maggie. A very happy life. He lived to the grand old age of ninety—and he left something very important to his nephew in his will. That is why Mr. Lockey contacted me, because he wanted to return it to its rightful owner.” She paused and reached for the coat and packet of letters in the bag beside her. “He wanted you to have these.”
She handed over the items to Maggie, who recognized them instantly, her eyes widening in surprise.
“But this . . . this is my coat, and these . . .” She turned the packet over and over in her hands, lightly touching the brown paper and the fraying piece of string. “No,” she whispered. “No. It can’t be. That’s impossible.”
Grace explained as briefly as she could about Edward Lockey and how Harry came to have the letters. “They were in your coat pocket, Maggie. Harry found your coat when Titanic’s lifeboats were being lowered onto the White Star dock from the Carpathia when it reached New York. He was helping the crewmen and had gone back to your lifeboat to remove the S.S. Titanic sign to give to his father. He noticed the black coat in the bottom of the boat, found the packet of letters with the name Maggie on the front, and realized it must belong to you. He’d tried to find you on the Carpathia, but you hadn’t given your name to any of the officials. He even looked for you in the hospitals in New York. He kept hold of the coat and letters all those years in the hope that he would someday find you. And now he has.”
Grace wasn’t sure whether Maggie had heard a word she’d said. She sat quietly, turning the packet of letters over and over in her hands and rubbing her fingers along the handwritten Maggie on the front.
“Shall I leave you to read them?” she asked, sensing that her great-grandmother would like some privacy.
“Yes,” Maggie whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of the breeze whipping around the trees in the garden outside. “Yes, please. I think I’d like to read them alone.”
“Well, if you’re sure you’re not going to get too upset? Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”
Maggie smiled “I’ll be fine. It will be nice to see the familiar handwriting again, and finally I’ll see w
hat was written all those years ago. Now go. I’ll be perfectly fine.”
Reluctantly Grace gathered her bag to leave. “Well, okay then, if you’re sure. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning. I haven’t forgotten what day it is. Shall we visit the cemetery first and then go for afternoon tea?”
“Yes, dear. That would be lovely. I’ll see you at ten as usual.”
With that Grace kissed Maggie on the cheek and let herself out.
It wasn’t until Maggie heard the car pulling out of the driveway that she untied the string and took the letters from the packet. The paper was yellowing and stained in places with what she assumed to be seawater, but overall the letters were in excellent condition considering what they had been through and how long ago they were written. Harry must have taken extremely good care of them, she thought, smiling at the memory of the handsome young steward and his strange southern English accent.
She read first through the letter from Harry that explained how he’d found the coat and letters. She felt as though she were back on the ship, back in that lifeboat.
Steeling herself for what she was about to read, she opened the first four letters, the ones she had read while sitting in her bunk bed in cabin 115 on Titanic. She had thought it the grandest cabin imaginable at the time. Seeing the letters again, she could almost feel the vibrations from the massive engines that gently rocked her to sleep each night. She studied the letters carefully, relishing the sight of Séamus’s simple handwriting. Smiling at the memories his words evoked, she then started to read the letters she hadn’t previously looked at. Her heart leaped and soared at the words they contained, just as it had that first night she had danced with Séamus at the Brennans’ wedding. She read about the happy, carefree times they had spent together that summer until she reached the letters referring to the autumn, when her mother had fallen ill and Aunt Kathleen had arrived from America.
October 1911
It’s autumn now, Maggie. I can hardly believe I’ve been lucky enough to spend the whole spring and summer with you. Sometimes I think I will wake up from a long dream! We’ve all been busy with the potato harvest these last few weeks, and with your mam falling sick we haven’t had much time to see each other—but I’ve your face in my head all the time—I’m happy even to see a peek of those curls under your hat from across the market. I sometimes think I’d like to cut one from your hair and keep it for myself—that way I’ll always remember how your hair shone in the autumn sun—but I think you look loveliest when they fall about your face, so I wouldn’t want to take one from you. Some of the lads in the village tease me about you and ask me about being with a girl. I just tell them to get away out o’ that and mind their own. I wish everyone could know how it feels to be with you, then they would know why I walk around like a drunken eejit all the time!
November 1911
Things are different now, Maggie, with your dear mammy dead and your aunt Kathleen arrived from America to take care of you. I know you take comfort from her being here, but I can’t help but be worryin’ that she’ll want to be taking you back to America with her, come the spring. What with all her fancy notions of life there and all her talk of there being nothing to keep a young woman in Ireland, I’m afraid she’ll take you away from me, Maggie. I’m sure Kathleen will 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 steamship before the new year is out, I just know it. I hope I’m wrong, Maggie. I don’t know what would become of me if you left.
December 1911
Do you remember the snow, Maggie? The drifts against the fences and walls are as big as some of the houses. I haven’t seen you for days and days what with the roads and tracks being blocked up. I’ve never seen snow like it in my life, and neither has Da. He says when it snows like this it means there’ll be a change coming in the new year. I asked him what sort of a change. He just said “a change.” I’m worried for his health. The cold air makes him cough something awful day and night. He coughs so hard sometimes I think his lungs will burst out of him altogether. I am miserable sitting in the cold cottage, listening to Da’s retching and not seeing you. I can’t imagine what life would be without you now, Maggie. You make me so happy I sometimes feel like the biggest fool the way I fuss and moon over you so. I hope I didn’t embarrass you when I told you that I loved you. Because I do, you see. Very, very much, and I feel better for letting you know it.
Maggie’s heart raced as she absorbed the words, remembering everything Séamus had written, everything he described of the times they had spent together in Ballysheen. She remembered it as clearly as if it were yesterday, not seventy years ago. She could almost sense him in the room now, could almost feel his weathered laborer’s hands brushing against hers, could almost feel his breath on her neck. She shivered and continued reading.
January 1912
You told me that you are leaving and my heart feels like it will break and I wish I could change your aunt Kathleen’s mind on the matter. I know she doesn’t mind me being around the house sometimes—I’m pleased to be of some use to her by fixing 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—that she doesn’t have to take you away from me. Da’s coughing is worse and worse with the hard winter we’re having. The doctor says it’s something called emfazeemer (I’m not sure if that’s the right spelling 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.
Maggie continued, reading on through the letters for February and March, barely able to make out the words through her tears.
Thinking she had read them all, she began to carefully fold the letters to place them back into the packet. As she did, she noticed one more piece of paper. It was folded smaller than the others. Opening it out, she began to read.
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 in Ballysheen—sometimes it feels to me that ye have all died, what with the 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 cottage until they’ve all gone off in the traps. 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 da dead so he can be free of the burden of looking after him and sail off with his sweetheart? I said twenty Hail Marys after thinking such a dark thought and am sure I could feel Ma frowning at me from up above, God rest her.
April 10, 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 Brennans’ wedding, or the way your hair blows about your face in the wind. I will always wait for you under the cherry 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.
Yours, always,
Séamus Doyle
Maggie folded the letters and placed them carefully in the packet. She rested her head against the back of the chair and l
et 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 cataloged in the pictures displayed in the mismatched assortment of frames. She closed her eyes.
“Oh, Séamus,” she whispered as the tears fell slowly down her pale 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 dreamed 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 semidarkness 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 predictable, unchanging rhythm. She stood up slowly, grabbing the cane she used to steady herself, and walked through the house, turning on a few lights here and there until she reached her bedroom.
She knew what she was looking for.
Bending down slowly, she poked about under the bed with her cane, feeling for the small black suitcase. She wanted to look through her belongings. 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 absolution from the years of guilt and doubt she had harbored, from the crushing sense of remorse that she had survived amid so much death and destruction. She wanted to remember and then she wanted the whispers and echoes of that night to fall silently away so she could finally be at peace.
As she sat on the edge of her bed, lifting each precious memento from the small case, she knew what she had to do. Sharing her story with Grace, talking about Titanic and all those she’d loved and left in Ballysheen, reading the letters from Séamus—it all helped to heal a little of the pain of that terrible night. But Maggie 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 begun, back to Ireland, back to Ballysheen.