The Girl Who Came Home - a Titanic Novel Read online

  ‘Not bad love, not bad at all… for a Walsh,’ she replied, tugging at his waistcoat to remove a slight pucker and pulling at his cap to straighten it. ‘Now, you remember to work hard Harry Daniel Walsh,’ she added, ‘and mind that you look after those third class passengers just the same as you would any of those wealthy Astors and Guggenheims. The poor might not have the fancy hats and the fancy shoes but they deserve to be treated good n’ proper, you hear?’

  With her family roots set deep within the working class society of Southampton’s docks, Helen Walsh had no time at all for the stuck up, obnoxious American millionaires and socialites who, it was believed, were to sail on the Titanic to make business contacts or to give them something to boast about at one of their fancy dinner parties. Nevertheless, her background didn’t prevent her from being a proud mother, and she was absolutely delighted that her son was going to be one of the three hundred stewards who would work on this much talked about ship, taking great pleasure in telling all her friends and neighbours about it. And although the gossip-loving, spying-on-the-neighbours part of her would have quite liked to know exactly how ostentatious the first class accommodations were, she was especially pleased that Harry had been assigned to steerage class, to look after people like themselves.

  Despite his mother’s obvious delight that it would be Titanic that her son would sail on, it hadn’t actually been Harry’s intention to work on the ship at all. He’d originally been assigned to work on a smaller liner, the Celtic, which should have left Southampton a week ago. As a result of the coal strike she had been berthed, along with most of the other transatlantic liners. Harry had got word just a week ago that he had been re-assigned and would now work a return shift on White Star Line’s new ship, Titanic.

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

  ‘I love you and I’ll send word when we dock in New York, alright. 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!’

  They shared a final embrace, for some reason both of them happy to linger a little longer than they usually would.

  ‘I love you too son,’ she replied, rubbing a slight toothpaste mark off his cheek with her thumb. ‘I’ll be coming down to the docks myself you know a little later, to have a good look and wave you all off.’

  ‘Well, then I’ll wave back,’ he said, smiling as he slung his small duffle bag over his shoulder and walked out of the narrow, terraced house into the bright morning sunlight.

  ‘And Happy Birthday again love,’ she shouted 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 wiped away the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

  For all of the twenty three years of his life, Harry had watched his father head out to work at the docks every day, with the exception of Christmas. He had never heard him complain, grumble or fuss, even when the bitterly cold winds which blew in off the Solent in the winter almost froze his hands solid. He 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 wasn’t just a choice of home for Harry’s family, it was a way of life and it was probably 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 in life.

  For the past five years, his father had been employed as one of the construction workers, building the new White Star Line dock which would accommodate the huge transatlantic liners. Jack Walsh 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,’ 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 even begin to imagine the sight of the ships which 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 recently so his mother had decided that the family would go and stay with her sister in the Devonshire countryside for a few weeks, until his father felt better and the coal strike was over, when there would be the chance of employment for the men again. Harry and his mother had arrived back into Southampton the previous evening; his father had stayed on in Devon for a while longer, 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 the previous evening.

  ‘Stop fretting lad,’ he’d said, ‘you’re as bad as your mother. I’ll come down to see her 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 at the tops of 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 definite sense of jubilation in the air that morning. As he approached the new, purpose-built dock, he 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 hundreds of passengers who thronged the dockside grew steadily louder as he walked nearer, the hooves of the horses bringing more passengers clattered on the road beside him, the wheels of the carts generating a steady rumble which reverberated through his body, the incessant cries of the seagulls a familiar sound to him among all that was new; all the noises amalgamated into one exhilarating melody of thrill and anticipation as he turned the final corner.

  And then he stopped.

  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 caused him to stop dead in his tracks as he 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 backwards 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 mere 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 the Titanic, slapping him on the back as they shared a comfortable embrace ‘She’s bloody unbelievable alright. Bloody unbelievable!’

  ‘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 hi
s 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?’