A Song Across the Sea

by Shana McGuinn

  The party guests soon began to make their good-byes and scatter into the night. Tara and her mother took their leave as well and collected Paddy from his pint-sized pals, though he protested all the while that he was having too grand a time to leave.

  The ride home was a quiet one. Silvered moonlight spilled over the dirt road and settled, ghostlike, on the mist rising up from the ditches.

  “It’s a fine thing Mrs. O’Shaughnessy is doin’ for you, isn’t it, Tara?”

  Tara nodded. She knew what her mother meant. In the years since her father’s death, there’d been no money for music lessons, yet Mrs. O’Shaughnessy wouldn’t hear of Tara stopping her lessons. “I’ll teach you for the sheer pleasure of it,” she’d told Tara. “Although there’s little more you need to be taught from a technical standpoint. What’s needed now is for you to find your own voice. Your true voice. The one that has nothin’ to do with breathin’ from the diaphragm and practicin’ scales.” When Tara still didn’t understand, the old woman had said: “The voice of joy you locked away deep within you when your father died.”

  Tara glanced down at Padraig. He’d fallen asleep leaning against her. In a low voice, she told her mother what had happened in the Hennesseys’ garden.

  Her mother was quietly furious. “He’s an evil man. The Muldoon’s were always nothin’ but trouble, and he’s the worst of them. Treatin’ you that way! If your father were still with us…”

  Her mother took to her bed three days later saying she needed “a wee rest.” Tara knew it was more than that. The ghastly pallor of Kitty’s face and the hacking cough that shook her small frame frightened Tara. If her mother was not better in a few days, Tara decided, she’d ride over to the next county and bring back the doctor.

  Chapter Four

  “God shall wipe away all the tears from their eyes: and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, now crying…”

  The little churchyard was still save for Father Ryan’s solemn voice. The sky was oppressively heavy with clouds, the air dense with the threat of rain.

  Tara was numb. She rested her hands on the small, sturdy shoulders of Padraig, who stood in front of her. She was dimly aware of the others gathered at the graveside. Aunt Bridey and Uncle Kevin were there, of course, along with their children. Even impetuous Sheila—a buxom girl who seemed to be growing up a little too fast—was subdued by the solemnity of the occasion. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, the Hennesseys, Brady from the next farm over, a goodly number of farm families and village families—all were simply black-garbed blurs to Tara.

  It was soon over. Her mother was planted in the earth next to her father, both of them taken from this life much too soon.

  “You’ll come home with us for a cup of tea,” urged Aunt Bridey. “You and wee Padraig. It’ll not do you any good to go home to an empty house just after bury’ your poor mother—my dear sister.”

  Sitting in Bridey’s cozy kitchen a short time later, Tara did feel a little better. The noisy babble of her cousin’s voices tugged at the outer edges of the melancholy that enclosed her like so many layers of gauze. Padraig was outside climbing trees with his cousins. She wondered what he made of it all. His father had disappeared from his life when he was a wee baba. Now his mother was snatched cruelly away. Padraig must feel overwhelmed by events he could barely comprehend.

  Tara sipped at the tea Bridey poured for her, not really tasting it.

  Bridey put some potatoes on to boil for supper then sat back in a chair.

  “You and Padraig will come and live with us,” Bridey sniffled. “It’s the least we can do for poor Kitty, God rest her soul.”

  Bridey’s invitation was sincere, but it would be unimaginable to accept it. Bridey and her husband were even poorer than the McLaughlins. Their paltry fields produced such pitifully scant crops that Kevin had to work a job in town, as a laborer, in addition to toiling on his farm. And all those mouths to feed, with another on the way! The strain of two more people on this household would be intolerable.

  “Thank you, Aunt Bridey. It’s very kind of you, but we can’t impose on you like that.”

  “But what else can you do? You can’t keep the farm goin’ by yourself. You’ve worked like a mule these last few years and you’re barely gettin’ by. And now, with your mother gone…”

  The truth of Bridey’s words made her head ache. There were decisions to be made, but she couldn’t think of them just now.

  • • •

  “Are you mad? America! A girl of your age boardin’ a boat and goin’ off to America? And what will you do with Padraig, if I might ask?” Uncle Kevin didn’t bother to hide his displeasure and astonishment. Usually a man of a few words, he was finding plenty of them at this moment.

  “Tara, darlin’, you can’t really mean it.” Aunt Bridey was even more flustered than usual. “What would your poor mother think of it?”

  “She’s not here,” Tara said calmly. “It’s up to me now to decide what’s best for meself and Padraig.”

  Bridey was unconvinced. “But we offered—”

  “I know you did. And I’m more grateful than you can know. But we couldn’t put you out like that, with your own family so large. Surely you can see that.”

  “And what will become of the farm?” Kevin demanded. “Have you given no thought to the farm your father worked so hard to buy?”

  “I have. I’ll sell it for passage money. Brady’s been wantin’ it for a long time. I’ll get a decent price for it.”

  Bridey seemed on the brink of hysteria. “You’re not thinkin’ clearly, Tara. You’re distraught over your mother. You know nothin’ about America. It may be full of wicked people and dangerous animals!”

  Tara shook her head stubbornly. “I’ve made up me mind.”

  Uncle Kevin sighed. “You always were a willful child. Your father was too free with you. If your sainted parents were still alive…”

  “I’ll sell the farm and most of the animals to Brady,” Tara told him, “but I thought I’d give Maggie to you. She’s a fine milker.”

  Kevin brightened considerably. “Aye, she is.”

  “On one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “That you take Molly as well, and keep her comfortable in her old age. She’ll not go to the knacker’s. She’ll die peacefully, when her time comes.”

  “Are you mad? I’ll not waste good hay on a cow that’s dried up!” The very idea incensed him. He was a farmer, rooted in practicality.

  “Then you’ll not get Maggie.”

  Kevin took a deep pull from his pipe and tried to calm himself while glaring at his headstrong niece. She was looking him straight in the eye, as unmoving as a stone. It didn’t help that she was nearly as tall as he was.

  Tara ruthlessly pressed her advantage home. “I’ll sell her to Brady if I have to.”

  “You’re silly for wastin’ feelings on an old cow.”

  “They’re mine to waste.”

  Finally he shook his head and sighed again. “Sure and you drive a hard bargain.”

  “I’m after sharpenin’ me skills for negotiations with Brady.”

  “I pity the poor man,” Kevin remarked, looking up at the ceiling. “He’s no idea of what he’s in for.”

  They shook hands formally on the agreement. Tara was confident that Uncle Kevin would abide by his word, even if he loathed the idea. He was an honorable man. Once he shook hands on a matter, he stuck to it.

  Tara walked her aunt and uncle out to their pony and trap. Kevin would be back to collect the cows in a few days, after he’d readied some stalls. Padraig ran to bid them goodbye. She wondered where he’d been. Since the funeral, Paddy had taken to disappearing for entire afternoons, returning silently at nightfall with a disturbing, haunted air about him.

  “Thank you, again, for bringin’ the currant cake,” Tara told Bridey. “It was delicious.”

  Bridey blushed with pleasure, then turned serious. “I worry about you, Tara. You’re only sixteen.
Too young to be goin’ off to America on your own. How will you keep yourself there? Terrible things can happen to young girls who are on their own, without their families to look after them. You don’t even know. Bad men take advantage of them.”

  Tara had a vague notion of what Bridey referred to. “I’m mature for me years, Aunt Bridey. You know that. I’ve had to be. I’m strong and smart enough to find honest work. And don’t forget—many others have gone on before me and made new homes for themselves in America.”

  “At least let Padraig stay and live with us. He’s just a child. It’s not right to uproot him like this.”

  Bridey had unwittingly struck a nerve. Was it fair for Tara to take the little boy away from the only home he’d ever known and take him with her into an uncertain future? She looked down at Padriag, sick in her heart.

  “What about it, little man? Would you like to live with your aunt and uncle and all your cousins? You could stay in school with your friends.”

  Paddy slipped his small hand into hers, his blue eyes resolute.

  “I want to go with you, to America,” he declared.

  It didn’t take long to conclude the rest of the arrangements. A bargain was struck with Brady for the land, the house and all its contents, except for the few things she would pack to take with her. Maggie and Molly were settled into their new home in Uncle Kevin’s barn. Tara cried bitterly as Molly, being led away, craned her neck around for a last, uncomprehending look at her. The old cow had no idea why she was being taken away from the girl who’d cared for her and loved her all these years.

  Tara visited Mrs. O’Shaughnessy for the last time, nearly as upset by their parting as she’d been by her mother’s death. The big recital had taken place on the day of the funeral. Tara had missed it, of course.

  “Do be sure to come back and visit,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, though they both knew it was unlikely. Passage money was dear. Those who made the crossing usually didn’t come back.

  Tara packed a cooking pot, a tea pot, a sharp knife, some utensils and her and Paddy’s clothing into two large carpetbags, along with the filigreed gold locket that had been her mother’s. She folded the lovely scarlet dress and slipped it into the bottom of the bag, hoping there’d be some occasion in America where she could wear it. With growing excitement, she arranged passage for herself and Padraig on a ship docking at Queenstown. A spanking new ship, she was told—one that would make the long journey quickly.

  On the day of their departure, Tara and Padraig walked through their former fields for the last time. She had spent so many years so close to this land. How could she leave it? Buttercups and daffodils were just beginning to bloom along the hedges, bursts of bright yellow that brightened the damp April morning. The trees were alive with the noisy chatter of birds. In her heart Tara said goodbye to the emerald meadows and headlands, to the ditches harboring fox borrows and the stone walls that hugged the gently sloping hills. The land had no answer back. There was nothing here for her anymore. Nothing but sorrowful memories.

  Tara and Padraig arrived in Queenstown and boarded the great ship with a horde of other emigrants. She sensed the nervous eagerness of those around her, and tried to quell her own trepidation. What would happen when the ship landed in New York? Some of her shipmates already had jobs arranged in America. She was sure—or was hoping, anyway—that the money from the sale of the farm would take care of her and Paddy until she found gainful employment. And a permanent place to live. Many of her fellow passengers were going to live with relations. For the first time, she realized just how tenuous, how inadequate her plans were.

  She located the sleeping accommodations for herself and her brother. Well below deck, they were, in steerage. As humble as their third class berths were, they’d still taken a large chunk of her money. The rest of it Tara carried in a pouch hidden beneath her skirts.

  Tara took Paddy back up to the deck so they could view the shoreline as the ship pulled out of the harbor. High above them, on the first class deck, people dressed in finery the likes of which Tara had never seen waved to friends on shore and toasted each other with champagne. They seemed oblivious to the shabby emigrants massed on the deck below.

  The ship churned out of the harbor and into open sea. At last Tara’s doubts began to lift. She was doing the right thing. America was a young country, bursting with life and possibilities. How could she fail to find a place for herself there?

  It was reassuring that the ship carrying them there was so large, though she had nothing with which to compare it, since this was her first time on the high seas. Perhaps many ships were this big. She leaned over the rail to read the white letters painted on the hull. Even its name denoted size, she thought with satisfaction.

  Titanic. Now there was a grand name for a ship.

  Chapter Five

  By the second day of the voyage, Tara grew accustomed to the rolling motion of the sea. Others were not so lucky. They stayed below in their bunks most of the time, suffering from queasiness and groaning in discomfort.

  Paddy felt seasick not at all. He quickly became pals with another Irish emigrant his own age, one Danny Flaherty. Tara had some misgivings about the friendship. Little Dan had a wild streak in him. She could see that at once in the crooked grin and the cocky walk that was much too precocious for a six-year-old. The way he spoke to her bordered on insolence! Very soon Padraig and his cohort were busy exploring every corner of the ship, including areas where they were forbidden to go. The third class steward had to return the pair of sheepish-looking boys to her several times, after they were caught in some minor misadventure or other.

  “They sneaked into Boiler Room Number Six,” the steward told her on one occasion. “It’s dangerous—no place for a couple of kids.”

  The steerage passengers quickly settled into shipboard routines. The men smoked pipes and played cards, while the women passed their time sewing and gossiping with each other.

  Tara tried to be friendly with some of the other Irish, but she soon realized she was the target of gossip. “Too young to be traveling alone,” she’d heard one old biddy sniff, when she thought Tara was asleep. “And a girl lookin’ like that? She’ll come to no good when we land, mark me words. She’ll end up in the clutches of some evil man, rougin’ her cheeks and makin her work on her back.”

  Tara was stung by the crude prediction, then furious. These stupid women knew nothing about her! How dare they presume that she had loose morals? That she was destined to be a lowly prostitute. They were jealous, she thought. Jealous of her youth and—she admitted to herself, feeling a little foolish—of the way she looked. Well she couldn’t help either of those things, could she? And despite her age, she’d already had what she felt was a lifetime of heartache and responsibility. They’d no idea how mature it had made her.

  The unfriendliness of the other women only strengthened her determination to make good in America.

  So except for sleeping she forsook Third Class quarters and spent most of her time up on the starboard well deck, reading in the open air, though April in the Atlantic was not what one would call balmy.

  Padraig and Danny were, on this, the third full day of the journey, racing around the deck with a dozen other children in some wildly improvised game of tag. Tara kept a watchful eye on them while she read. The children and their parents hailed from many different countries. It made the attire on the deck a colorful mishmash of peasant skirts, vividly striped aprons and kerchiefs covering women’s heads.

  Something on a deck above them caught Tara’s eye. She looked upward. There stood one of the First Class passengers, a woman in a billowy ankle-length gown of polka-dotted peach organza. She carried a matching parasol trimmed with ribbon. Her lavish hat was so adorned with feathers it looked, Tara thought, as if a flock of birds needing rest from the stiff winds buffeting the North Atlantic was resting on her head.

  The woman leaned over the rail, laughing and pointing at the quaint native costumes she saw below. Sever
al other First Class passengers joined her at the rail to take a look.

  Tara was livid. Who were these arrogant people, who gawked so freely at others? They regarded those meandering on the deck below with undisguised amusement, as if they were animals in a zoo.

  The woman in the polka-dotted dress said something to another woman, whom Tara took, by her plain gray dress and starched white apron, to be a maid. The maid disappeared and returned a few minutes later. She handed some small items to the woman, who turned and tossed them into the air in front of her.

  The children’s game came to an abrupt halt. Coins, pieces of candy, even some oranges rained down into their midst, causing a mad scramble. Padraig dodged several other children to grab for his share. Tara was ashamed to see some adult passengers also leaping forward for the trinkets.

  The woman and her companions were delighted by the commotion she’d caused.

  “Look, Tara! See what I’ve got.” Padraig opened his grimy fist to reveal three small coins and a piece of hard candy.

  “You’ll return them.”

  Padraig looked crestfallen. “A lady threw them away. She didn’t want them anymore.”

  “We’re not beggars, Padraig, to be crawlin’ on the ground after rich people’s leavin’s.”

  “But she didn’t want them!”

  “Neither do we.”

  She took him by the hand and walked to an open space in the center of the deck. Standing there, her shoulders set defiantly, she looked up until she’d caught the eye of the woman in the organza gown.

  “Throw them down, Paddy.”

  “I won’t!”

  “Throw them down, Paddy.”

  Sullenly, he dashed the trinkets onto the deck. A little girl quickly picked them up, squealing in delight.

  Tara, still looking at the woman, made sure her voice was loud and strong, so that her words wouldn’t be blown out over the sea. “We’re not beggars and we’ll not be needin’ your charity!” she called out. The woman, taken aback, looked embarrassed and turned away from the rail.