The Hawthorns Bloom in May (4 page)

She looked around in the darkness and saw she was in a boat. It was full of children. At first, she thought she had never seen any of them before. Then, she looked more closely. In the dim light,
she caught sight of Hugh and Helen holding each other’s hands, Charley and Billy and little Sammy, Emily and Rose were hunched together with the baby, Bobby, all wrapped up in a white sheet. They were all frightened and so was she. She was sure the water was deep and she knew none of them could swim. What would she do when the men came back for the other piece of the ship to take it down to the bottom?

‘Don’t worry yourself, Rose. Sure haven’t we got through worse than this?’

She heard a familiar voice, felt a touch on her hand and a soft arm slide round her waist. Even without seeing her face, she knew it was Mary Wylie.

‘Sure this boat’s unsinkable,’ said Mary, laughing. ‘It’s like you an’ me. We’ll always come back up again. If Mary-Anne didn’t do for us, who could? Will we get out the griddle and make pancakes for the we’ans?’

There was a sudden threatening rush of sound. Rose woke with a start and heard a shower of sleet rattle fiercely against the bedroom window. In a few moments, it died away and left the room in silence.

‘Mary Wylie,’ she said to herself. ‘Oh, my dear Mary, how I wish you’d not died in the rail disaster. You always understood without having to be told. You knew what I was feeling when I didn’t even know myself.’

She lay still, warm and comfortable now, soothed by the steady rhythm of John’s even breathing. Here and now, at this moment, she was safe. And so was John. And so was her brother Sam. And so were all the children, her own children, Hannah and Sam and Sarah and her little grandchildren, Hugh and Helen. There was nothing to be done about the disasters and disappointments that life brought to everyone. She must give thanks for this moment of warmth and security and the memory of her dear friend, and store it up to give her courage in the future whenever she should need it.

The morning brought more squally showers and intermissions of brilliant light. John left early and promised he’d send a messenger with the Belfast paper. There was nothing to do but get on with her morning’s work until he arrived.

‘Missus Hamilton?’

Rose closed the oven door and straightened up cautiously, her back protesting after the effort of sliding a heavy casserole into position.

‘Yes. Yes indeed,’ she said, hurrying towards the young man who stood awkwardly against the doorpost, his waterproof cape dripping from the last heavy shower.

‘It’s all bad news, Missus,’ he said, drawing out a folded newspaper from under the cape. ‘She
hit an iceberg and sunk a couple of hours later. There’s fifteen hundred lost and no news yet of who’s saved and who’s drowned,’ he said, handing it to her.

‘Desperit business,’ he went on as she unfolded the paper and stood staring at the banner headline.

‘Had you anyone on her?’ Rose asked cautiously.

There was something in the tone of his voice that made her wonder if all the drops of moisture on his face were actually raindrops.

‘Aye surely. Ma cousin Hugh’s a boilermaker. Me mother’s people all work in the yard, but they’re plater’s and riveters, except Hugh. He was that excited he was goin’ and they cou’d only stan’ an’ watch. But they’re safe enough now, an’ likely he’s gone,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘But there’s still some hope, isn’t there?’ Rose began tentatively. ‘He might be among the saved. There are no names yet, are there?’

The young man smiled at her and shook his head.

‘Not much chance wi’ all them millionaires on board forby weemen and childer,’ he said, pressing his lips together. ‘He wou’d have deeved ye when he talked about them boilers, the size o’ them and how they worked together like,’ he said suddenly. ‘I diden understan the haf o’ what he said. I wisht I’d lissened to him rightly the last time I saw him.’

He turned away quickly without another word.

Rose sat down by the stove and read everything she could find about the
Titanic
. Some of the reports contradicted each other. One said there were 3,359 souls on board and 1,500 had been lost, but elsewhere it said 600 passengers were transferred without mishap. The figures simply didn’t add up. One report said the survivors were going to Halifax, another to New York.

No, there was nothing to give so much as a grain of comfort. Mr Bruce Ismay, the Chairman of the White Star Line was among the victims, it said, but no names of survivors were given. There was a great deal about ‘the space annihilating speed of wireless telegraphy’, the number of American millionaires on board, the likelihood and possibility of icebergs at this time of year, and ‘the need for incessant watchfulness on the part of mariner’s traversing the North Atlantic’.

Life was full of danger, she told herself, as she dropped the paper by her chair and leant forward to stir the fire. There was nothing new in that. It was just that sometimes it came so close, as it had on her thirtieth birthday, the day of the excursion to Warrenpoint, the day dear Mary Wylie threw her youngest son out of the window of a train with locked doors, as it ran backwards down a steep gradient into an oncoming passenger train. Ned had survived unscathed. He’d married a local girl only last summer.

For years she had been haunted by dreams of that awful morning, the sun beating down remorselessly as she tried to get the children home across the fields without them seeing the devastation, but the dreams had passed. She thought of Mary often enough, but until last night she had never dreamt of her.

They’d bought all the newspapers then too, looking for news of the injured, and details of the Board of Trade inquiry, but their own information had been more accurate than anything in the papers, for they heard immediately who had died overnight from injuries and who still lay critically ill in the infirmary in Armagh.

All the people involved had been friends or neighbours, or the friends and neighbours of someone they knew. This was different. So many, many people. People of all sorts and conditions. Millionaires and film stars. Owners of big American companies. Poor people emigrating with only a suitcase. Only some of these people were known, even indirectly, but it seemed the fate of each one became a personal matter because the ship they’d sailed in, confident they were safe, had been built by thousands of work people in Belfast.

She sat silent for a long time, just gazing into the warm glow of the stove and asking herself, over and over again, what could anyone do.

For the rest of the week no one talked about anything else but the loss of the
Titanic
. Each day brought new information to set against the rumours and speculations which had circulated as freely as the newspapers themselves. There was now no doubt about the cause of the disaster. The
Titanic
had hit an iceberg which had opened one side of the ship allowing the sea to flood to the so-called water tight compartments. Only some 680 people, had been accommodated on the lifeboats, mostly women and children. They were rescued by the
Carpathia
some hours after the big ship went down. One hundred and ninety bodies had been found and taken to Halifax for burial. The Americans had opened an inquiry and the surviving crew members and passengers were giving evidence.

Despite the claims of the White Star Line, there were already questions being asked about the speed of the ship and the route it had taken. It was now known that
Titanic
had received many warning messages about ice and icebergs and at least one passenger had ‘smelt ice,’ a distinctive smell familiar to crew who sailed in these waters. Why had the ship not altered course or reduced speed? Why was the Captain not on the bridge? Why the delay in responding to the iceberg warning?

Every new detail to emerge from the American
inquiry and the interviews with survivors was read and considered. For the people who built the ship and the families of those who’d sailed on her, it seemed as if understanding precisely what had happened would ease the pain. But it didn’t. It only provided a way of expressing some of the hurt and grief.

On Sunday morning, Rose and John attended a memorial service for the 1,500 victims in Holy Trinity, Banbridge. That afternoon, Sarah joined them and they went up to Belfast to the cathedral service, so that John could add to the collection for the widows and orphans of the Belfast crew members the contribution from the four mills.

To Rose’s great surprise, Sarah wore black. Quakers did not hold with this sign of mourning and when Hugh died, she’d not given a thought to mourning dress. Now, standing in the packed cathedral, a small dark figure, she looked pale, ravaged and heartbroken, though she held herself erect and composed and managed to sing ‘Nearer my God to Thee,’ without crying, which was more than Rose was able to do.

‘Hello, Ma. How’s your back?

Rose looked up from her book some days later, surprised there’d been no sound of a motor.

‘I can’t complain. It was entirely my own fault. I should know better than to garden for more than
an hour or two, but the day was so lovely,’ she replied ruefully, getting awkwardly to her feet and kissing her.

‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’ she asked automatically, for Sarah had seldom time for more than a short visit these days.

‘Yes, I think so,’ she replied, dropping her document case by the door and slipping off her jacket.

Surprised, but pleased, Rose drew the kettle forward on the stove.

‘Did you get Helen and Hugh safely back, yesterday? I’m sure they didn’t want to go,’ Rose said, looking over her shoulder as she crossed to the dresser.

‘Actually, they were quite keen when it came to it,’ Sarah replied thoughtfully. ‘I think all this
Titanic
business upset them and Mrs Beatty wasn’t herself at all till we got the good news about her niece.’

‘Has there been anything further from her?’

‘No, just that one word, ‘Safe’. I expect she’ll have to stay for the American inquiry, but the Americans have been very kind. I read that complete strangers were waiting at the docks with clothes for the survivors when the
Carpathia
arrived.’

‘Yes, I read about that too. And they paid the fares of the steerage passengers to wherever they’d been going. It’s some comfort to see such kindness,’
said Rose, as she collected china mugs and a jug of milk and came back to the stove.

‘It is, indeed,’ Sarah agreed. ‘It makes up for the likes of Sir Bruce Ismay getting off in the first lifeboat with his wife and secretary and enough empty places to have saved three or four whole families,’ she said bitterly.

Rose looked round quickly from spooning tea. She thought she saw Sarah flick something out of one eye as she sat staring fixedly into the orange glow of the fire.

‘Did you read about the Straus’s, Ma? Isador and Ida. They own Macy’s, the big store in New York.’

‘No, love, I don’t think so. Was it in the papers you brought yesterday?’

‘Perhaps it was today’s,’ Sarah replied uneasily. ‘I’ve brought them for you,’ she added flatly, as Rose handed her a favourite mug decorated with delicate sprays of forget-me-not.

There was a look on her face that Rose could not read. She seemed quite in command of herself, but then, she always did. The last time Rose had seen Sarah upset was more than a year ago, after a particularly bad accident at Ballievy. A machine guard had not been replaced after cleaning and a girl had been caught by her hair and died from her injuries.

They drank their tea in silence.

‘What happened to the Straus’s, Sarah?’

‘They went to the lifeboats and said “Goodbye” and Mrs Straus got in and sat down,’ began Sarah coolly. ‘And then she got up again and climbed out of the lifeboat and went back to her husband. She said they’d been together all these years and they weren’t going to be parted now. Then they went away along the deck together.’

Her tone remained steady almost to the last word, but when she said ‘together’ her voice broke into a choking sob and tears streamed down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands, her narrow shoulders shaking as she rocked back and forth in her father’s fireside chair.

‘Sarah, Sarah, love, what is it? Tell me what it is?’ Rose whispered, jumping to her feet and putting her arms round her.

She stroked her hair and kissed her neck and the small piece of forehead that emerged as Sarah wiped her face ineffectually.

‘Sarah, love. Tell me. Is it Hugh?

‘No, it’s me,’ she gasped, as she pulled out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket. ‘I wish I could have gone with Hugh. That’s wicked isn’t it?

‘The Straus’s were old and their children grown up. If Hugh and I had been on the
Titanic
, he’d have made me go because of Helen and young Hugh. But I wouldn’t have wanted to go. Not even for them. And that’s all wrong, isn’t it? I ought to love my children and I don’t.’

‘Oh Sarah, Sarah, you’re not
wicked
, you’re bereft. You’ve lost the man you loved. You’ve loved him all your life.’

‘I still love him. I’ll never love anyone else,’ she sobbed. ‘Whatever he says, I’ll never love anyone like I loved him.’

‘Of course, you won’t. You can’t love any two people in the same way. You can’t love the children like you loved Hugh, but that doesn’t mean you don’t love them.’

‘Doesn’t it? Sometimes I can hardly bear to look at them because they’re so like him. Hugh even
sounds
like him when he’s trying to be grown up,’ she went on, her voice stronger, though the tears still flowed.

‘I simply
cannot
imagine how I can go on living without him. Without joy. Without comfort. Just work and the children. No motor coming into the yard. No footstep in the hallway. No warm arms at night or in the morning. Never, ever again.’

‘Sarah, you’re too hard on yourself. It’s not a year yet,’ Rose said firmly, wiping her tears with her own handy. ‘You’ve done nothing but work. You’re tired out and everything’s worse when you’re tired. Do you remember when you were a little girl, how irritable you got? You were so cross the others used to be afraid of you.’