‘We arrive in New York tomorrow evening,’ she heard someone close by say. ‘And not a moment too soon. This ice is wreaking havoc with the minds of the poor unfortunates. They must be terrified it’s going to happen all over again.’
‘Well, I commend the bravery of Captain Rostron,’ the man’s colleague replied. ‘There aren’t many men who would have acted as swiftly and calmly as he did, and then set a course directly through the ice fields so as to get us back as quickly as possible. Nerves of steel he must have – or a sixth sense.’
‘Excuse me sir,’ she whispered.
The man heard her and turned. ‘Yes Miss?’
‘What day is it today?’
‘It is Wednesday Miss. April 17th.’
‘Wednesday,’ she repeated. ‘Thank you.’
She closed her eyes then and slept.
PART V
'Commander Str Carpathia, Vitally important that we receive names, balance survivors including third class and crew. Last message received with names nine am today. Please do your utmost give us this information at earliest possible moment. White Star Line.’
Marconigram Message sent from White Star Line, New York to Commander of Steamship Carpathia, 16th April 1912
CHAPTER 29 - Chicago, May 1982
‘Grace, there’s a man on the phone says he’d like to talk to you.’
‘Oh mom, can you do me a favour and tell him I’m out,’ Grace shouted from her bedroom. ‘It’ll just be another reporter looking to get their pound of flesh out of Maggie.’
The interest in Grace’s article about Maggie’s Titanic story had been amazing. Since she’d received the phone call from Professor Andrews to tell her that Bill O’Shea had fallen in love with her article, life had become crazy. When it finally appeared in print, on May 16th, Grace and Maggie’s names were all over town, literally overnight. Grace was being hailed as the young girl who’d scooped the biggest story of the year – possibly the decade – and was already being touted as one to watch by the sensitive and heart-felt way she had handled the story. Maggie was a local hero.
With the success of the article and the revelation that a Titanic survivor was living among them, other local newspapers and journalists also wanted a piece of the action and the phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the publication of the piece; everyone wanting to cover the story in their own newspapers and magazines, wanting photos of Maggie, photos of Grace, photos of the family altogether. There had even been a piece in a local paper about Grace and how tragically her life had been destroyed when her father died. It was all becoming a bit intrusive and Grace was hesitant to talk to anyone else – wary of their real intentions.
‘He says it’s very important,’ her mother shouted back up the stairs. ‘He says he’s honestly not a reporter and that you will definitely be interested in what he has to say.’
Not believing a word of it, Grace put down the admissions form she was completing – necessary, if tedious paperwork for getting herself re-enrolled onto the journalism course she had left two years ago – and walked casually downstairs. Sighing and rolling her eyes, she took the receiver from her mother who mouthed he seems very nice before wandering back into the kitchen to finish washing the breakfast dishes.
‘Hello. This is Grace Butler,’ she announced into the receiver disinterestedly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Miss Butler. Oh, erm, hello. Thank you so much for taking my call.’ The voice on the end of the line was a man’s voice; he was well spoken if slightly nervous. ‘Erm, Miss Butler, I’m afraid this is all going to sound a little strange but I would appreciate it if you would hear me out.’
Grace warmed a little to the pleasant, polite voice at the end of the line and sat down on the bottom step, tracing the pattern on the carpet with her bare toes as she admired the neon pink nail polish she’d applied earlier that morning. ‘OK,’ she said, distracted. ‘I’m listening.’
‘My name is Edward Lockey. I read your amazing article in the paper last week. It’s a remarkable story and beautifully written, might I add. Your great-grandmother is an incredibly brave woman.’
Grace was used to hearing this from the dozens of reporters who had called to speak to her about Maggie’s story over the last week. She gave her usual response. ‘Yes, thank you. She is an amazing lady indeed.’
‘Well, it turns out to be quite a coincidence that I read your article. I don’t usually read the Tribune you see, I’m more of a Sun Times man, but I was with my sister last week and she always gets the Tribune and…..oh well look, that doesn’t really matter now. Basically Miss Butler, I think I may have something which will be of interest to your great grandmother. You see, an uncle of mine was also on Titanic.’
Grace sat up then, her attention caught. ‘Really? Oh my gosh.’
‘Yes. He was a third class saloon steward on the ship,’ he continued. ‘He sailed from Southampton in England.’ Grace felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as goose bumps formed all over her arms. ‘He sadly passed a few years ago, but when he died a few of his personal possessions were given to me. I’d never really paid much attention to them before, but then I read your article and something clicked.’
Completely captivated now by this quietly spoken man and his connection to Titanic, Grace wanted to know more. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What clicked?’
‘Well, you see – and I am aware that I may be completely mistaken here – but my uncle had, in his possession, a ladies coat and a packet which he believed to be love letters. The name Maggie is handwritten on the front of the packet of letters and there’s a note scribbled onto them, which I presume was written by my uncle. I have it here in front of me. Would you like me to read it to you?’
‘Yes, yes please.’ Grace was now on the very edge of the step.
‘OK, let me just find my reading glasses. Ah yes, now, here we are. It says, ‘Possessions of a Miss Maggie Murphy who travelled from Ireland on Titanic with her aunt and two girls - Peggy and Katie. Items found in lifeboat on the Carpathia.’ I have to assume, Miss Butler, that these items belong to your great-grandmother.’
Grace couldn’t believe it. Maggie’s letters. The letters from Séamus. After all these years.
‘That’s amazing,’ she gasped.
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ the man continued. ‘And from what I hear among members of my own family, my uncle was very keen to see these items reunited with their owner. With no means of finding her after the Carpathia docked in New York, he kept them in the vague hope that one day he, or the coat and letters, would find her again.’ He paused for a moment to take a breath. ‘I am hoping that after all these years, they possibly have.’
Grace couldn’t speak for a moment.
‘Miss Butler? Are you still there?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, I’m sorry. I’m here. I just can’t believe it! I can’t believe you have Maggie’s letters. Are they all still there?’
‘Well, Miss, I’m not sure, but the packet certainly seems to have been kept in very good condition. My uncle was very particular about them and insisted that nobody read them – those were his specific instructions in his will. He apparently told members of the family that he believed they were love letters from a boyfriend Maggie had left behind in Ireland and that only if Maggie was found, should they be read.’
Grace was stunned, her heart racing at what this would mean to Maggie. Her letters finally returned to her. It momentarily crossed her mind that it might all be a bit too upsetting for her. She often seemed reluctant to talk about Séamus, as if thinking about him upset her too much.
‘This is just incredible Mr…….’
‘Lockey. Edward Lockey.’
‘This may be a silly question Mr Lockey…’
‘Please, call me Edward,’ he interrupted, laughing.
‘Sorry, Edward, but was your uncle’s name Harry by any chance?’
Now it was his turn to be surprised. ‘Yes! Harry was his name! How did you know that?’
&nbs
p; ‘Maggie kept a journal on Titanic,’ Grace explained. ‘She mentions a Harry often, or Lucky Harry as she and the girls she shared a cabin with seem to have called him. She told me a steward called Harry helped her get to the lifeboat. It must be him.’
They spoke for a few moments more about the incredible coincidences: Edward reading Grace’s article and him being related to the man who had helped Maggie get off the ship and that he now had what they believed to be Maggie’s lost coat and letters. It was simply amazing.
‘I think it would be useful to meet,’ Edward Lockey continued. ‘I’d prefer to hand over the items to you in person if that isn’t too much of an imposition? I certainly wouldn’t want to rely on the postal service to get them back to Maggie; it would be terrible if they were to go missing after all this time.’
Grace agreed and they made arrangements to meet the following week at a coffee shop they both knew in downtown Chicago. She thought it best not to say anything to Maggie just yet – in case the man turned out to be a crackpot. The letters clearly wouldn’t change anything for Maggie now, whatever they said, but Grace hoped that they might bring her some sort of closure; allow her to lay to rest some of the ghosts which had haunted her life since that night.
She put down the phone and walked through to the kitchen.
‘So?’ her mother enquired from inside the larder which she was re-arranging. ‘Was it another reporter?’
Grace sat down at the kitchen table, absent-mindedly taking a banana from the fruit bowl. ‘No, he really wasn’t a reporter. It’s unbelievable mom. He says he’s the nephew of someone else who survived Titanic and we think it’s someone who Maggie knew.’
Her mother appeared then, wiping her hands on the front of her trousers. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah! Really! And he seems genuine. And you’ll never guess what?’
‘What?’
‘He thinks he has Maggie’s coat and the packet of letters. You know the ones she says she left on the Carpathia. The letters from Séamus.’
The two women sat at the kitchen table then, as they often did when they had something important to discuss and Grace filled her mother in on all the details which Edward Lockey had passed onto her. They both agreed that there was a chance that he was a hoaxer, but deep in their hearts, they both hoped that he was genuine.
On the morning that Grace had agreed to meet Edward Lockey, she received a letter. In her hurry to make the agreed rendezvous time, she almost walked past the pile of post her mother had placed on the small console table in the front porch, assuming that it would just be bills for her mom as usual. But something made her stop and pick them up. She recognised his handwriting immediately.
‘Jimmy,’ she whispered.
Trembling with excitement and dread, she ran up to her bedroom, sat on the edge of her bed and carefully opened the envelope. Her heart fell at the sight of a single piece of notepaper folded in half Good news comes in large packages she remembered her father saying when she had first applied to college courses and was waiting for news as to whether her application had been accepted or not If it’s bad news, it’ll be short and sweet. This was definitely short and sweet.
Hesitating, afraid of what she would see written on the page, she unfolded the single piece of paper.
Hey stranger. Read the article - amazing! I told you you’d find a story eventually. How about a coffee? He didn’t need to sign it.
Despite there being only a few words written on the page, they were the best words she could have ever hoped for. She read them over and over and over again. It was an olive branch. It was more than an olive branch. He wanted to meet her for coffee. He’d read her article. He was still here. He was still interested – maybe. A million thoughts and emotions swirled and span around Grace’s mind.
Since opening the box of letters she’d kept under her bed all these years, she’d held out some hope of a reunion. I guess this is just too hard for you, he’d written in his final letter. I’m not sure I really understand Grace, but I am trying to, I really am. So I’m going to leave you now, to heal in peace. I’m not going to write to you again Grace because it’s too painful when I don’t hear back. Take your time and mourn your father as you need to. I don’t know how long that’s gonna take – possibly forever? But, maybe, someday when you’ve gotten over this, and feel a little better, maybe you could write me? Maybe I could buy you a coffee and we could start over? Think about it. You know where I am. Always, J xx
After reading that, she’d written to Jimmy’s old home address and sent a note for his attention via Professor Andrews along with the manuscript for her article. She’d left her phone number but having not heard anything had assumed he had given up after all this time and had moved on with his life. This small note which she held in her hand now, told her otherwise.
Recognising the number he’d added to the bottom of the note as a Chicago number, she wondered whether she should call straightaway. Life is fragile she heard Maggie saying We never know what’s waiting around the corner.
Her mind was made up. She ran downstairs, stopping for a moment to check her appearance in the hall mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled. She looked like the girl who used to stare back at her from the mirror; a girl whose lust for life and whose vibrancy oozed through her every pore. The girl looking back was a girl she hadn’t seen for a long time.
She adjusted her hair and dialled the number quickly before she could change her mind. The phone rang and rang at the other end. Her heart raced, her mouth as dry as sandpaper. ‘Pick up, pick up, pick up,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Hello.’
Her heart did a somersault at the sound of his voice. She had to fight back the tears as she responded. ‘Jimmy, she whispered, her voice shaking. ‘It’s me. It’s Grace.’
CHAPTER 30 - New York, 18th April 1912
Catherine Kenny handed her yellow ticket to the inspectors at the top of West Street. Satisfied that she was a relative awaiting the arrival of the Carpathia which was expected at around midnight that evening, she was permitted access to the fenced off area and made her way to join the hundreds of others already gathered at the docks.
The flags in New York harbour, which were all lowered to half-mast, flapped and snapped in the wind which gusted over the exposed harbour, rattling the flag poles, blowing out the ladies’ skirts and lifting umbrellas from rain-soaked hands. It was just gone three o’clock in the afternoon but the darkening sky cast a hue of nightfall over the entire city.
Catherine knew she had several hours to wait before the expected arrival of the rescue ship, but she didn’t care. She didn’t feel the wind or the pouring rain. She didn’t worry about catching a chill. ‘I’d rather stand in a blizzard than spend any more time alone in this blessed house,’” she’d told her neighbour who had called in earlier that day to enquire as to whether there was any further news of Katie. ‘I’m walking in and out of the guest room like a caged tiger,’ she’d explained. ‘I’ve spent weeks preparing for my sister’s arrival and now I don’t know whether the bed will ever be slept in. I stand and stare at those pillows and wonder whether they’ll always remain as smoothed and plumped as I have made them with all my fussing and ironing. I would give anything to have Katie’s beautiful head to rest upon them and mess them all up again.’
She hadn’t been to work that day or for the several days since news of the Titanic disaster arrived, her heart was so full of despair it was hard to summon up the energy to wash and dress on a morning, let alone travel across the city and wash Mrs Walker-Brown’s endless floors.
As it transpired, one of the other employees at the Walker-Brown residence had called to Catherine’s door to pass on a message from Mrs Walker-Brown that Catherine’s services wouldn’t be required for the time being. Mrs Walker-Brown had apparently taken to her bed with grief for her daughter who, despite being listed as one of the survivors, appeared to be returning on the rescue ship without her fiancée. Mrs Walker-Brown was
unable to bear the thought of her daughter having suffered such horror and could not imagine what terrible conditions she was travelling in on the rescue ship. She was distraught to learn that Robert had, most probably, perished when the ship went down and was inconsolable, refusing to eat and not wishing to see anyone until her daughter was safely returned to the family home.
According to the young kitchen maid who visited Catherine, Vivienne Walker-Brown’s pet dog Edmund was also listed among the survivors. She assumed the officials had considered ‘Edmund Walker-Brown’ to be the lady’s son, and not just a dog.
Catherine had seethed with anger when she heard this, unable to comprehend how a dog could be permitted to survive when so many had lost their lives.
Now, as she walked along the wharf, oblivious to the steadily falling rain, she wandered past the yellow taxicabs and limousines which cast their lights onto the rain-soaked pavement, reflecting the sights of the dock buildings and freight cranes at her feet. She could barely register the absurdity of the situation which would permit some survivors to walk off the Carpathia into immediate luxury while others would undoubtedly arrive without a cent or a pair of shoes to their name.
Alongside Pier Fifty Four, the Cunard pier, the lines of ambulances waiting to ferry the shaken and injured survivors to hospital reinforced the severity of the situation and the scale of the tragedy. It struck Catherine for the first time, that even arriving safely in New York would be, by far, the end of the ordeal for these poor people, many of whom would still be far from their final destination.
As she walked, she caught fragments of conversation which shocked and scared her all over again.
‘Not enough lifeboats by far they’re reporting. There wasn’t a chance for half of the passengers. It’s a disgrace. Probably saving room for some more mahogany panelling for the First Class Staterooms.’