by Maureen Lee
She was so tired she expected, like Annemarie, to fall asleep immediately. After all, they hadn’t slept a wink the night before, sitting on the cart, stamping their feet to stop them from turning into blocks of ice, cuddling up to each other in a vain effort to keep warm. They’d arrived in Dun Laoghaire, more dead than alive, and had spent the next two hours in a café drinking endless cups of hot tea until they began to feel almost human again.
They had emerged to find a piercing wind had arisen, and the waters of the Irish Sea were spuming and frothing angrily when they boarded the ferry to Liverpool. Mollie had been looking forward to a restful journey, an opportunity to catch up on their sleep, but Annemarie had been sick the whole way and most of their time had been spent in the lavatory with her sister’s head buried in a sink. She prayed the same thing wouldn’t happen on the passage to New York.
When sleep refused to come now, she beat the pillow with her fist in an attempt to make it softer, but it had no effect. She did her best to think about nothing. When that didn’t work, she tried counting sheep, but that was no good either.
She wondered what the time was. It had been just after 5 p.m. when they’d landed in Liverpool. By then it was dark and the piercing wind had become a howling gale. The Queen Maia was moored by the landing stage, Mollie was told: they could board whenever they pleased. They did not set sail until the next afternoon. The landing stage was a short walk along a busy road crammed with horses and carts and hundreds of people of all different colours speaking strange languages she’d never heard before. Annemarie lagged behind, as pale as a ghost, while the icy wind penetrated their thick coats, and blew up their skirts and down their necks, making their eyes water and their ears ache. Mollie allowed her imagination to stretch ahead to when they would be living with Aunt Maggie in her apartment in Greenwich Village, ‘no distance from Washington Square’, according to one of her letters.
The Queen Maia, a great white vessel with three funnels, had rows and rows of portholes like little, black eyes that stared at them balefully. Annemarie had uttered a little, fearful cry and Mollie put her arm around her thin shoulders.
‘It’s all right, sis. It’s only a ship.’ She produced their tickets and passports, surrendered the suitcase to be delivered to their cabin, and was directed towards a gangplank level with the dock.
The floodlit quayside was frantically busy. Food was being taken on to another part of the ship: bags of flour and crates of wine, sides of beef and trays of leafy vegetables. Trolleys were pushed at a demonic speed, a giant crane transferred cargo to the hold, and people rushed to and fro - aimlessly, as far as she could see. An extremely elegant lady clad in white fur was negotiating a gangplank leading to the upper part of the ship, followed by a uniformed man carrying an assortment of parcels. There seemed to be an awful lot of unnecessary screaming and shouting.
A steward showed them to their cabin along a maze of narrow corridors, the motion of the boat gentle, almost soothing, considering the fierceness of the weather. Their suitcase was waiting for them.
The first, possibly worst, part of the journey was over, thought Mollie now as she lay in the bunk, tired out of her wits, but unable to sleep, having counted so many sheep she never wanted to see another for the rest of her life. Music came from some distant part of the ship. ‘I’m just wild about Harry,’ a woman was singing.
She pulled the clothes over her head when one of their fellow travellers came in, undressed, and used the lavatory with a great deal of grunting followed by a horrible smell. The bunk below creaked when she got in.
The other passenger arrived in what could have been hours later or might only have been minutes: Mollie’s head was swirling with clouds of tiredness and she couldn’t tell. A guttural voice from down below said, ‘I see you on deck with man. Is it what you do for living, get paid to go with man? Is why you go to America?’
‘Mind your own business, you nosy German cow. You’re only jealous ’cos no man’d go with you for a hundred quid.’
Mollie opened one eye. The light would appear to be permanently on and she saw a young woman with a pretty, heart-shaped face and bright yellow hair wearing a little cocked hat with a bent feather and a partially bald fur cape. With a series of dramatic gestures, she removed the hat and cape, kicked off her shoes, undid the buttons of her satin blouse and slipped out of a black silky skirt that was much too thin for the wintry weather, then slid into bed in her petticoat, leaving the clothes on the floor.
‘Tomorrow, I report you to steward. Why you got no luggage? You not should be in cabin, you belong in steerage with immigrants.’
‘Oh, shurrup, Gertie. You’re keeping me awake.’
‘My name is Gertrude Strauss, Miss Gertrude Strauss.’
‘Nighty-night, Gertie.’
From then on, there was silence in the cabin, until Gertie began to snore, by which time Mollie had, at last, fallen asleep.
When she woke, a murky light was visible through the porthole, which was too high to see out of. Annemarie was dead to the world and the yellow-haired girl, already dressed, was sitting on the opposite lower bunk filing her stubby red nails. She smiled when she saw Mollie looking down on her. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said cheerily. ‘You’re awake. I’m Olive Raines from Deptford in London. Who are you and where are you from?’
‘Mollie Kenny. I’m from County Kildare in Ireland. That’s my sister, Annemarie, in the bed over yours.’
‘Annemarie’s a pretty name - and she looks pretty, too. Such lovely-coloured hair, sort of blue-black. What colour eyes has she got?’
‘Violet, and her hair almost reaches her waist. Everyone admires it.’
‘Really! Mind you,’ she added, almost as an afterthought, ‘you’re quite pretty, too.’
‘Not as much as Annemarie.’ Mollie, with her ordinary brown hair, ordinary brown eyes, and a face that was often described as ‘interesting’, had always known that she didn’t hold a candle to her beautiful sister. She lowered her head over the side of her bunk to introduce herself to Gertie, but the bed underneath was empty.
‘Miss Strauss has gone for a walk before breakfast.’ Olive rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Have you met her yet?’
‘No, but I heard her come in last night. I heard you, too.’
‘Did you hear what she said?’
‘Yes.’ Mollie had known what Gertie had meant when she accused Olive of being paid to go with men. There was a woman who lived in a cottage just outside Duneathly who made her living the same way. Her name was Eileen. None of the women would speak to her and she never went to Mass - perhaps she didn’t dare. She’d often wondered why the Doctor hadn’t gone to Eileen, but perhaps he was worried his reputation would suffer and he’d sooner inflict himself on his daughters.
‘Oh, well.’ Olive gave her an arch look. ‘A girl has to earn a few bob the best way she can. What way do you earn a few bob, Mollie?’
‘I’ve never worked, not properly. My mammy wanted me to stay at school till I was sixteen and train for a career like my brother, Finn, but she died almost two years ago and I left to look after the Doctor and Annemarie and my two little brothers.’ It wasn’t as arduous as it sounded. Fran Kincaid came in daily to do the heavy work and Nanny, who’d looked after all the children from Finn downwards, took care of Thaddy and Aidan. Mollie’s main tasks had been to see to the meals, act as receptionist for the Doctor, and keep his records up to date.
‘The Doctor?’ Olive raised her arched black eyebrows, which were about an inch higher than eyebrows normally were. The roots of her blonde hair were dark brown.
‘My father,’ Mollie said abruptly.
‘That’s a strange way to refer to your pa - the Doctor. Anyway, Mollie,’ she put the nail file in a worn leather handbag, ‘would you mind looking the other way for a mo while I use the lavvy?’
Mollie disappeared under the clothes until Olive had finished, then requested she do the same for her. Afterwards, she got washed in the little
corner sink, put on her clothes, twisted her hair into a thick plait, yanked it over her shoulder, and tied the end with a blue ribbon. ‘What time’s breakfast?’ she asked as she laced up her boots.
‘Between eight and ten.’ Olive was in the process of painting her lips vivid scarlet with the aid of a hand mirror. ‘Don’t ask me what time it is now, because I’ve no idea, though there’s plenty of people about so I reckon it must have gone eight.’ As she spoke, there were footsteps in the corridor outside accompanied by a child’s excited laughter. ‘How long are you staying in New York, Mollie?’
‘We’re going to live there with our Aunt Maggie in Greenwich Village,’ Mollie said shortly.
‘What about the Doctor - your pa? Don’t he mind? I mean, who’ll look after him now you’ve gone?’
‘The Doctor doesn’t mind, no, and he’ll soon find someone else to look after him.’
Olive’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re running away, aren’t you? That’s real spunky of you, Mollie. I’ve known people who’ve run away before, but never as far as America.’
There seemed no point in denying it, so Mollie didn’t bother. ‘What about you? Are you running away, too?’ Last night Gertie - Miss Strauss - had said Olive should be travelling steerage with the immigrants.
‘Me? No, I’m eighteen years old and off to start a new career on the stage. I can sing and dance, but haven’t had much luck so far.’ She stood and kicked her leg so high it was almost level with her shoulder. ‘I bet you can’t do that.’
‘Indeed I can’t,’ Mollie admitted.
Olive smirked. ‘I’m going to change me name to Rosalind Raines. It sounds better than Olive. Eh, what about your sister? I take it she’s getting up today?’
‘I’ll leave her to wake up of her own accord. We had no sleep the night before last and she was sick on the ferry from Ireland. She’s probably worn out.’
‘And you’re not, I suppose! Well, I’ll love you and leave you, Mollie. It’s so stuffy in here, I can hardly breathe. Tata.’ She left with a cheerful wave, slamming the cabin door and waking Annemarie, who groaned, sat up, and began to retch so hard that Mollie was worried she’d crack a rib. She grabbed a towel and held it over her sister’s face, but it was so long since either of them had eaten that there was no food left to bring up.
‘There, there, darlin’,’ she said softly, and began to wonder if going to New York was turning out to be a great big mistake. In her present state, Annemarie wasn’t up to the long voyage cross the Atlantic. They might be better off in Liverpool until she felt better, but the Doctor might suspect they’d come this far when he could find no trace of them in Ireland. He knew people in the city, other doctors, with whom he corresponded.
She bit her lip. Perhaps the best thing was to stay on the boat. Annemarie might improve once she got used to it and the sooner they got to New York - and dear Aunt Maggie - the better.
Her sister was asleep again, her head falling forward until it almost touched her knees. Mollie gently laid her down. It was hard to imagine this was the same, vivacious girl with whom she’d shared her life since she was born. Even Mammy’s death hadn’t dampened Annemarie’s high spirits for long. She’d used to pretend their mother was still there; had brought her home wild flowers from the fields to put on the kitchen window-sill; had drawn pictures, sung for her, convinced that, wherever she was, Mammy could see and hear. Her sister had lit up the Doctor’s house with her bright eyes and infectious laughter. But now she lay on the bed like a corpse.
All of a sudden, Mollie felt quite overwhelmed by their situation. She was sixteen, used to coping, particularly since Mammy died, but now everything was getting beyond her. The last few weeks, since the ‘thing’ had happened, had been nightmarish. But she wouldn’t cry. She rubbed her cheeks with her knuckles, willing away the tears that threatened to fall.
‘I’ll have some breakfast, a hot drink,’ she said aloud. ‘It’ll do me the world of good.’ She felt guilty for leaving her sister on her own, but if she didn’t have something to eat soon, she’d become ill herself and that would never do.
It was cold on deck, but the wind had died down, the sun was out, and it was a tonic to breathe in the fresh, salty air. She swallowed great gulps of it as she took in the still busy quayside and the majestic buildings opposite. There was a clock on one: half past nine, she noted, later than she’d thought. Liverpool appeared to be a splendid city. If it hadn’t been for Annemarie, she wouldn’t have minded having a look around. The ship didn’t sail until some time this afternoon.
There were quite a few people out for a stroll around the deck, most of the women smartly, if not richly dressed, their skirts shockingly short, ending just below their knees. It was a style that hadn’t yet reached Duneathly where ankle-length skirts were still in vogue.
She made her way to the third-class dining room. It was much grander than she’d expected: wood-panelled with glass-shaded wall lights and a striped carpet on the floor. A steward took her name and cabin number and led her to a round table big enough for eight. The other six must have already eaten, as only two places were set.
‘I have a Miss Annemarie Kenny on my list,’ the steward remarked. ‘If she doesn’t come soon, we’ll stop serving.’
‘My sister isn’t well: she won’t be having breakfast this morning.’
‘I hope she’s better soon,’ the man said sympathetically. He would have been remarkably handsome had he not had such a fearful squint. ‘If it’s the seasickness, you can get something for it from the ship’s doctor.’
‘Thank you, I’ll remember that.’
A few minutes later, she was tucking into bacon, eggs, and sausages, accompanied by an entire pot of tea to herself as well as a basket of crusty rolls, jam, and butter. The jam was raspberry, her favourite.
The world seemed a much-improved place after she’d finished eating and her stomach was full - she’d almost drowned herself in tea. She returned to the cabin. Annemarie was the only one there, still asleep, breathing evenly, looking quite peaceful. Mollie decided to go back on deck for a while. It smelled nicer and she’d like to have a last look at Liverpool: she’d almost certainly never see the place again.
She was leaning on the rail, admiring the clear blue sky and a sun that was more cream than yellow, when a girl of about her own age leaned beside her. Her fair hair was a mass of ringlets and she wore a bright-red coat with a fur-lined hood. Mollie’s sensible navy-blue one looked desperately old-fashioned beside it.
It turned out the girl was American. Her name was Rowena and she’d boarded the Queen Maia in Hamburg where dozens - it might have been hundreds - of immigrants had been herded into the steerage compartment below where it was absolutely horrid. The stench was indescribable, she’d heard, and it was apparently so crowded that there was hardly room to move.
‘You should have seen them, poor things,’ Rowena said in a voice thick with emotion. ‘Their clothes were little more than rags and they looked so wretched. A lot of the women had babies in their arms, and the older children and the men carried all their worldly possessions in bundles on their backs. It was so sad I wanted to cry.’
‘They probably don’t feet sad and wretched,’ Mollie said. ‘They’re setting off for a new life in a new world. They might be a bit scared, that’s all.’
Rowena conceded this could well be the case. ‘My grandparents were immigrants,’ she said proudly. ‘That’s why I know so much about it. They came to America forty years ago without a cent: Papa was only two. But they started their own bakery and did really well for themselves. Papa has just taken us, my brother and me, to Hamburg, to see the place where he was born and look up some of his cousins.’
It was all extremely interesting but, after a while, Mollie felt bound to excuse herself. The big clock across the way showed half past eleven: Annemarie had been on her own for ages. ‘My sister’s sick, I’d better go and see if she’s all right.’
‘If she’s OK,’ Rowena said eagerly,
‘perhaps we could all have a game of cards in the lounge this afternoon? That’d be neat, wouldn’t it?’
Mollie agreed that it would indeed be ‘neat’, and they exchanged cabin numbers in case they missed each other at lunchtime.
She knew something was badly wrong when she reached the cabin and heard the screams coming from inside. She almost fell through the door and found an hysterical Annemarie sitting up in the bunk yelling, ‘Mollie, Mollie, Mollie,’ over and over again. A small, tubby woman with iron-grey hair was holding her by the arms, saying soothingly, ‘All right, little girl, Mollie come soon.’
‘I’m here, darlin’,’ Mollie cried. ‘I’m here.’ She tried to reach her sister, but before she could get near, the woman slapped Annemarie’s petrified face. Annemarie stopped screaming and began to cry instead.
‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ Mollie gasped, appalled.
‘It all right, I am nurse. Your sister having nervous fit, now she better. Now she just cry, much better to just cry.’ The woman, who looked in her sixties, proceeded to gently stroke the back of the sobbing girl. ‘What wrong, child?’ She turned to Mollie and asked in her guttural voice, ‘What wrong with your sister?’
Mollie sank, trembling, on to one of the lower bunks. On reflection, a sharp slap was the best way to treat a person with hysterics. This must be Gertrude Strauss; she was being very kind. Last night, she’d got a completely different impression of the woman. ‘Annemarie had a very bad shock a few weeks ago and she hasn’t recovered since. Normally, she’s full of the joys of spring.’ At this, Miss Strauss looked bemused. ‘What I meant,’ Mollie explained, ‘is that normally she’s an exceptionally happy person, if rather highly strung.’ She’d never leave her sister alone again. Until Annemarie was back on her feet, she’d eat all her meals in the cabin.