The Girl Who Came Home - a Titanic Novel (3 page)

‘
She certainly is that,’ Billy agreed, craning his neck to try and 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, completely mesmerised. 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 the massive ship as they pushed and shoved their way towards the Crew Assembly point. Around the ship there was frantic activity; man 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 heads; passengers with their hats on their laps and overcoats placed casually over their arms were sitting 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 playing almost as if to himself; porters sharing cigarettes and a joke as they waited to transfer luggage; seven or eight men raising the passenger gangway from the dockside, others leaning out of a large, square door in the ship several feet above, shouting instructions to those below and hoisting the ropes to secure the gangway at the top; signal lamps being inspected by port officials and officers who recorded their notes in important forms attached to clipboards. It was a chaotic sight, but somehow organised in its apparent madness.

Reaching the Crew Assembly Point, they joined the line of men ahead of them. They were mostly familiar faces, a mixture of young and old, friends and neighbours who nodded to each other or exchanged a friendly embrace. For some, this would be the last time they would sail in their career before retirement, for others it was their first transatlantic crossing and 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 member’s details. Harry added his signature to the sign-on list, noting his previous voyage details of
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 who they might wish to complain about,’ Lightoller muttered without looking up at the individual his command was directed to.

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 replied drolly, still not glancing up from his paperwork. ‘Happy Birthday. Next!’

Harry picked up his case and moved off towards the gangway which led 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 based in the main working crew passageway which ran along the length of the ship. He knew that this corridor, like the crew corridor on other liner’s he’d worked on, had the nickname ‘Scotland Road’ after the street of ale houses in Liverpool which was well-known to sailors and those who worked the docks. Dozens of people milled around this endless passageway now; cooks, stewards, waiters, plate washers, pantry men and storekeepers. The ship was teeming with activity, Victualing Crew were already hard at work in the galleys preparing lunch and the evening dinner, deck hands 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 that morning.

After several wrong turns and missed staircases, Harry eventually located his dormitory cabin. He placed his bag on one of only two simple iron bunk beds remaining among the rows and rows which stood in this large, sparsely furnished room. He chose the bottom bunk, the top one already being occupied by a bag and an overcoat. Placing his own bag 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 travellers 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 towards their cabins which, although simple and functional, were of a standard beyond which the majority of steerage passengers had ever experienced.

As he returned to the gangways, he overheard several passengers being refused entry to the ship, having lost their tickets or failing 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 ticket for another sailing, given stern instructions to sober up before they attempted to board the next ship. How awful, he thought, to have planned for this journey and now, at the foot of the gangway, being unable to come aboard. He didn’t feel sorry for the drunks, but he did feel sorry for those with nits or other medical issues.

At 12.00 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 the sheer scale of the ship. Forty feet above quay level and still only half-way up the ship, he leant 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 lad stood, his knuckles white from grasping onto the railings so tightly. Harry laughed.

‘
You certainly would not. It’s something else. It really is.’ He considered the lad, thinking he looked familiar. ‘First time sailing?’

‘
Yep.’

Harry smiled, remembering his first crossing of the Atlantic. ‘Well, enjoy it lad.’

‘
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 12.15pm the triple-valve whistles were blown three times, their deep, low tones echoing off the buildings on the quayside. The mooring ropes were cast off and the tiny tug boats, which looked like scurrying ants alongside the mass of Titanic, spewed black smoke from their funnels as they 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 the faces in the crowd for his mother. He couldn’t see her and was surprised to discover his feelings of disappointment.

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 into 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 - County Mayo, Ireland, 1912

It was a cold, clear January 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 with all the dancing. She was admiring the unusual, moonless yet brilliantly starry 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 voice, ‘would you care 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 wedding, because of that remarkable sky and the unexpected invitation to dance.

She was just turned sixteen at the time and felt as though she had already loved Séamus for most of her life. He was nineteen, the son of a labourer, the grandson of a labourer and a labourer himself. His crippling shyness was the thing which defined him, the thing which 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 inwards slightly when he walked, the way he licked his lips when he was nervous, the way he cared, uncomplainingly, for his sick father. She 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 hoolie, family and friends travelling 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 amongst them.

She knew him from school 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; his father being unable to afford a donkey and cart, and she knew that he sold his sheep at market and sold their wool for the Foxford 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.

How her heart soared as they danced together that evening, her entire body seeming to lift skywards with the whirling, soaring music, spiralling high up into the rafters along with the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands in time to the beat of the bodhran as Séamus guided her awkwardly in the dance. She knew then that she never wanted this man to leave her side. He never would; it was she who was leaving.

It was exactly a year to the day since they’d danced at the Brennan’s wedding when she finally found the courage to tell him.

‘
I’m goin’ to America Séamus,’ she’d told him, as they sat by the fireside playing cards on a wet, dark January evening. ‘It’s all decided. I’m to go with Aunt Kathleen to Chicago. Peggy Madden, Katie Kenny and the Brennans are to travel with us, and some others.’ The crackle and spit from the fire filled the silence which descended upon the young couple then. Séamus didn’t speak. ‘We’re to go in the spring.’

The rain lashed against the windows. There was no other sound. Even the fire seemed to momentarily hush itself.

‘
We’re to sail on a new liner called Titanic. They say it’s the biggest, finest, safest ocean liner there’s ever been built,’ she added, more to break the unbearable silence than anything. She felt silly then. Why had she told him this? Who cared about the ship or how big it was? That was the sort of stuff Peggy Madden and Pat Brogan were interested in, not her. To Maggie, the ship they would sail on was an entirely insignificant fact amid the reality of what the departure meant for her and Séamus.