The Girl Who Came Home

  Adjusting his cap one last time, Harry leaned down to give his mother a farewell kiss. Her cheeks were flushed and glistening with perspiration from all her fussing and rushing around.

  “Love you, Mum. I’ll send word when we dock in New York. And tell Dad I’ll bring him back a memento of some sort. If I find my way up to the first-class decks, it might be something half decent this time!”

  “Sally!” his mother called up the stairs, her voice breaking with emotion. “Your brother’s leaving. Come and say good-bye.”

  Harry watched his sister make her way slowly down the stairs and smiled as he noticed that her eyes were red and swollen. They’d been through this routine of saying their farewells plenty of times, but on this occasion, with their father so unwell, it had affected them both more than usual.

  “You going to miss me after all then, Sis?” he joked as she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Might do,” she said, barely able to look at him. “A bit.”

  He turned then and gave his mother a final embrace, both of them happy to linger longer in each other’s arms than they usually would.

  “I love you, son,” she said, rubbing tooth powder off his cheek with her thumb. “We’ll be coming down to the docks later, to have a good look at this ship and to wave you off.”

  “Well, then, I’ll wave back,” he said, smiling at them both as he slung his small duffel bag over his shoulder and walked out of the narrow terraced house into the bright morning sunlight.

  “And happy birthday again, love,” his mother called after him. “I’ll make you a cake when you get home.”

  He turned, gave her a thumbs-up, and strolled casually to the dockside, whistling as he walked.

  Helen Walsh closed the door softly behind her and let the tears fall freely.

  Through all his twenty-three years, Harry Walsh had watched his father head out to work at the docks every day, except Christmas. He had never heard him complain, grumble, or fuss, even when the bitterly cold winds that blew in off the Solent in the winter almost froze his hands solid. Harry had fond memories of scampering down to the pier with his father’s forgotten lunch, or walking with him, hand in hand, to watch as yet another newer, bigger steam liner sailed into view. Living by the docks was more than just a choice of home for Harry’s family, it was a way of life, and it was no surprise that Harry had loved boats since he was a little boy, no surprise that the ocean had called to him for his vocation.

  For the past five years, Jack Walsh had been employed as one of the construction workers building the new White Star Line dock, which would accommodate the huge transatlantic liners. He was proud of his work and liked nothing better than to sit with his son on an evening and tell him all about the impressive new dock they were building. “It spans sixteen acres, Harry,” he would tell him, “sixteen! And it’s been dredged to forty feet!” It was a scale on which nobody in the community had worked before, and they could barely begin to imagine the sight of the ships that would sail from there.

  Although she had been berthed in the White Star Dock for almost a week now, Harry hadn’t seen Titanic yet. His father’s health had been suffering, so his mother had decided that the family would go to stay with her sister in the Devonshire countryside until his father felt better and the coal strike was over, when there would be the chance of employment for the men again. Harry, his sister, and his mother had arrived back in Southampton the previous evening; his father had stayed on in Devon, feeling too unwell to make the return journey. It bothered Harry that after all these years of work his father wouldn’t get to see the biggest liner in the world set sail from his hometown, and he had tried to persuade him to come back to Southampton.

  “Stop fretting, son,” Jack had said. “You’re as bad as your mother. I’ll come down to see Titanic when she comes back. She’s not planning on anchoring in New York for the next forty years, y’know.”

  As he reached the top of the steady incline of his road, Harry could see in the distance the distinctive black tops of Titanic’s four funnels towering into the sky, the red flags of the White Star Line fluttering in the bright sunshine on the impossibly high masts at bow and stern. He smiled and broke into a steady jog, his heart racing with excitement.

  After weeks of unemployment and uncertainty in the town, there was a sense of jubilation in the air that morning. As he approached the new, purpose-built dock, Harry caught the sounds of drums and trumpets from one of the many local bands who had been hired to entertain the first-class passengers as they waited to board. The chatter and cries of the crowds who thronged the dockside grew steadily louder as he walked nearer. Horseshoes clattered on the cobbled road beside him as the wheels of the carts bringing more passengers generated a steady rumble that reverberated through his body. The incessant cries of the seagulls were the only familiar sound to him among all that was new. All these noises amalgamated into one exhilarating melody of thrill and anticipation as he turned the final corner.

  Nothing could have prepared Harry Walsh for the sight of that ship in Southampton docks. No amount of description or expression could have conveyed what his eyes saw now. The sheer enormity of her was breathtaking. He stopped walking and gazed in silent awe; the black steel bow soaring into the sky, the letters TITANIC emblazoned across the front in white. Her funnels reached so high above the waterline that he almost fell over backward, he had to lean his head so far back to take them in. The gleaming steel hull, the endless lines of portholes, every single iron rivet completely fascinated him. She was, quite simply, the most unimaginable thing he had ever encountered, towering above every other vessel in the dock. Even the other mighty liners Oceanic and New York, which were berthed, out of action due to the coal strike, seemed to resemble children’s toys in Titanic’s mighty presence. Harry and all the passengers already massing around the dockside were dwarfed by her, and he felt suddenly insignificant, totally overwhelmed.

  “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

  Harry turned to the voice behind him.

  “Billy Wallace!” he exclaimed, relieved to see his good friend, who would also be working as crew on Titanic, slapping him on the back as they shared a comfortable embrace. “She’s bloody unbelievable, all right. Bloody unbelievable!”

  “She certainly is that,” Billy agreed, craning his neck to try to take in the height of the ship. “D’you know, some fella told me that you can drive a whole locomotive through one of those funnels and a double-decker tramcar through each of the boilers—and there’s twenty-nine of ’em. Imagine that!”

  The two friends stood side by side for a moment, mesmerized. Harry caught a whiff of beer and cigarette smoke off his friend.

  “You been in The Grapes then?”

  “Ah, just for one, y’know. For good luck an’ all that. There’s half of Southampton in there, and every last man seems to be heading off to work on Titanic. As usual, some great fools have been drinkin’ since last night—I doubt they even know what day it is, never mind what ship they’re supposed to be working on. Eddie Collins for one certainly ain’t gonna make this sailing, I can tell you. He’s slumped on a table at the back of the snug. Arthur Smith says he ain’t moved in two hours.”

  “Eddie Collins? But he doesn’t even drink ale.”

  “Well, apparently he does now. And quite good at it he is too, by all accounts.” They both laughed. “Anyway, we can’t stand here gawping at her all day,” Billy continued, nudging his friend in the back. “There might be some idiots still propping up the bar, but I don’t suspect Captain Smith will be best pleased with anyone who turns up drunk, or late, to report for duty on his ship. Come on.”

  The two friends moved through the swarming crowds, unable to take their eyes off Titanic as they pushed and shoved their way toward the crew assembly point. All around them was frantic activity: men hefting heavy mailbags onto their shoulders and walking with them up the temporary gangways, the pale white hulls of Titanic’s lifeboats swaying gently high above their hea
ds. Passengers with their hats on their laps and overcoats placed casually over their arms sat about on piles and piles of luggage and crates, sharing a cigar, playing cards, or chatting about the journey ahead. A lone bugler on the pier played a haunting tune as porters joked among themselves while they waited to transfer luggage from the dockside. Signal lamps were inspected by port officials and Titanic’s officers, who recorded their notes in important forms attached to clipboards. It was an exhilarating sight to Harry and was somehow perfectly organized in all its apparent madness.

  Reaching the crew assembly point, he and Billy joined a line of men, mostly familiar faces, a mixture of young and old, friends and neighbors who nodded to each other or exchanged a friendly embrace. For some, this would be the last time they would sail before retirement; for others, it was the first transatlantic crossing. For all, there was a shared sense of relief to be working again and an unspoken excitement about the prospect of sailing on this, the biggest and most luxurious ocean liner ever built.

  At the front of the queue, several of Titanic’s officers processed the crew members’ details. Harry added his signature to the sign-on list, noting his previous voyage details: Majestic, 1911, First Saloon Steward. Second Mate Lightoller passed him his steward’s badge as he added Harry’s details to the crew agreement.

  “To be worn at all times to enable passengers to identify any steward whom they might wish to complain about,” Lightoller muttered, without taking his eyes off his paperwork.

  Harry studied his badge, admiring its copper base with the raised metal star bearing the number 23. “That’s funny,” he said as the badge was affixed to his right arm with an elastic fastener, which, he noticed, also displayed the distinctive red swallowtail flag of the White Star Line. “That’s my age exactly. Today’s my twenty-third birthday.”

  “Really.” Lightoller sighed, still not looking up. “Happy birthday. Next!”

  Harry picked up his duffel bag and moved off toward the gangway leading to the third-class decks. He turned to Billy, who had been assigned to first class.

  “See you in New York then, mate,” he said, aware of the fact that with the ship being so vast, they were unlikely to come across each other once on board.

  “Yep. See you there. Of course, you’ll be there a bit later than the rest of us, what with you being in steerage an’ all.”

  “Ah, sod off.”

  The two friends parted, laughing, and Harry unfolded the deck plans he had been given and set off to find his quarters on E Deck.

  Like most of the other crew members’, Harry’s accommodation was in the main working crew passageway, which ran the length of the ship. He knew that this corridor, like the crew corridors on other liners he’d worked on, had the nickname Scotland Road after the street of alehouses in Liverpool, which was well known to sailors and those who worked the docks. Dozens of people—cooks, stewards, waiters, plate washers, pantry men, and storekeepers—milled around this endless passageway now. The ship was teeming with activity. The victualing crew was already hard at work in the galleys preparing lunch and the evening dinner; deckhands were constantly brushing and sweeping the decks to make sure they were immaculate for the boarding passengers. There was a definite industriousness, a steady sense of purpose about every single person aboard the ship.

  After several wrong turns and missed staircases, Harry located his dormitory cabin. He dropped his bag on one of only two simple iron bunk beds still available among the rows and rows arranged in the large, sparsely furnished room. He chose the bottom bunk, the top one already being occupied by a bag and an overcoat. Placing his coat on the pillow of his chosen bed, he sat for a moment to say a short, silent prayer, as he always did before he set sail.

  As the third- and second-class passengers started to board—the first-class travelers being permitted the privilege of waiting a little while longer—the call was raised for the crew to report to their stations. Harry sprang into action, glad of the chance to begin the work he had been looking forward to for so long.

  Having already negotiated the labyrinth of corridors, passageways, and stairwells on E Deck to get his bearings, he was efficient at showing his passengers to their quarters. He enjoyed listening to their gasps of amazement and comments as they walked through the pleasantly furnished general room toward their cabins, which, although simple and functional, were of a standard beyond that which the majority of steerage passengers had experienced on other liners.

  As he returned to the gangways, he overheard several passengers being refused entry to the ship, having lost their tickets or failed the steerage passenger health inspection. Some were just too drunk from the hours they had spent in the local alehouses and were returned to the White Star offices to exchange their tickets for another sailing and given stern instructions to sober up before they attempted to board the next ship. How awful, Harry thought, to have planned for this journey and now, at the foot of the gangway, be unable to come aboard. He didn’t feel sorry for the drunks, but he did feel sorry for the sickly.

  At noon, the blue peter pennant was run up the foremast to signal Imminent Departure. Ascending the three flights of stairs to the promenade deck to get a final look as Titanic set sail, Harry got another sense of her size. Forty feet above quay level and still only halfway up the ship, he leaned over the side. In each direction, for as far as the eye could see, was a wall of blackened steel. They were high above the rooftops of the buildings below them, and the people on the quayside looked miniature.

  “You wouldn’t want to be afraid of heights, really, would you?”

  Harry turned to his right, where a young, fresh-faced boy stood, his knuckles white from grasping the railings so tightly.

  Harry laughed. “You certainly would not. It’s something else. It really is.” He considered the boy. “First time sailing?”

  “Yep.”

  Harry smiled, remembering his first crossing of the Atlantic. “Well, enjoy it.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Harry’s the name,” he added, holding out his hand. “Harry Walsh.”

  “Will,” the boy replied, shaking Harry’s hand firmly. “Will Johnson.”

  With the last of the passengers and supplies on board, at 12:15 P.M. the triple-valve whistles were blown three times, their deep tones echoing off the buildings on the quayside. The mooring ropes were cast off, and the tiny tugboats, which looked like scurrying ants alongside the mass of Titanic, spewing black smoke from their funnels, moved into place to push her out to sea.

  Harry observed the crowds of onlookers all along the quayside, hanging out of the windows of the dock offices and White Star Line offices, many waving white handkerchiefs and raising their hats as a final farewell to their family and friends who massed around the portside railings of the poop deck. He knew that some didn’t expect to return to these shores, a fact which made the scene particularly poignant. He searched and searched the faces in the crowd for his mother and sister but couldn’t see them. It struck him that he had never wanted to see their faces more than he did at that moment.

  As the band played a fanfare of triumphant music, the engines were fired up, sending a shudder through the lower decks. The three massive propellers sprang to life, churning the water into a whirling, broiling mass. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm of its beat seeming to match the pulse of the mighty engines.

  Titanic was on her way.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ballysheen, Ireland

  April 10, 1912

  It had been a cold, clear February evening when Séamus Doyle first asked Maggie Murphy to dance with him. They were guests at Jack and Maura Brennan’s wedding, and she’d stepped outside for a moment to take a breath of fresh air, it being so hot and sweaty inside. She’d been admiring the brilliantly starry, moonless sky when he’d appeared, as if from nowhere, at her side.

  “Maggie Murphy,” he’d said, extending his calloused hand in invitation, a palpable edge of nervousness to his soft vo
ice, “would you like to dance?”

  It was the first wedding Maggie had been to, and although she would attend many others in her lifetime, she would never forget that particular one, because of that remarkable sky and the unexpected invitation from Séamus.

  She had just turned sixteen at the time but felt as though she had already loved Séamus for most of her life. He was nineteen, the son of a laborer, the grandson of a laborer, and a laborer himself. His crippling shyness was what most people noticed about him. But not Maggie. She’d noticed his gentle manner, the freckles on his bare arms, his unusually long eyelashes, the way his feet turned inward slightly when he walked, the way he licked his lips when he was nervous, the way he cared, uncomplainingly, for his sick father. She’d noticed all of this from a distance, too shy herself to acknowledge the feelings she had for this inconspicuous young man.

  The wedding day had brought with it a sprinkling of snow and a rousing hooley, family and friends traveling from the outlying villages of the parish to join in with the céilí and the craic late into the night. Maggie’s heart had fluttered when she’d noticed Séamus among them. The flush in her cheeks hadn’t escaped her mother’s attention either. “You look very warm, Maggie. Perhaps you should get some air outside,” she’d said, smiling.

  Maggie knew Séamus from their school days and from Sunday Mass in the parish church. For as long as she could remember, she’d admired him at Wednesday market and the annual summer fairs. She knew that he always walked the three miles from his home to Ballysheen because his father couldn’t afford a donkey and cart. She knew that he sold his sheep at market and sold their wool for the Foxford Woollen Mills. She knew that he played the melodeon well and that he had once ridden a horse faster than anyone else during the races in Michael Philbin’s field. She knew all this about him, and had often wondered if he’d noticed her at all.