Everything rushed back at her, memory after memory, season after season spent among this countryside; conversations, laughter, tears, heartache – it was all still here, all still hidden among these timeless stone walls and the enduring topography of the landscape.
She asked Jimmy to take her to the lake first.
It was exactly as she remembered it, as if she was looking at a snapshot taken seventy years ago. Nothing had changed from the morning when she and her thirteen fellow travellers had departed – it was as if time had stood still, as if these fields, mountains and lakes had been waiting for her to return.
Jimmy and Grace waited in the car as Maggie picked her way steadily through the long grass, brushing the jinny joes from her skirt, using her stick for balance where the ground undulated beneath her. She stood at the edge of the lake, lost in a lifetime. Breathing in the fresh, clean air, filling her lungs with the goodness and life contained within it. She watched the water, as the breeze sent a flurry of ripples skidding across its surface. Snippets of past conversations skipped through her mind; Peggy and Katie laughing about life in America, Séamus asking her to dance, her aunt telling her in clipped, purposeful tones that she was bringing her to a better life in America. She felt her own hesitancy and sense of dread as she’d climbed up into the trap; she sensed his presence, felt him standing next to her, his arm slung casually, protectively around her shoulders.
After a while, Grace and Jimmy joined her and they sat for a time by the lakeside on the coats which Jimmy had brought out of the car, listening to Maggie’s memories, the young couple entirely entranced by the silence and beauty of the place.
‘For seventeen years I called these hills and fields home,’ Maggie told them, wistfully. ‘For seventy more I’ve called somewhere else home, but this is where I belong. Now, I am truly home.’
A single cloud drifted momentarily across the sun, casting a shadow over the ground. As it passed, Maggie closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of warmth flooding her body. She felt in her coat pocket for the small bundle of letters held together with a frayed piece of string and smiled.
‘Are you ready to go into the village?’ Grace asked, helping Maggie to her feet.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she replied, smiling.
Grace noticed her wipe a tear from her cheek – she looked vulnerable. She could almost see the seventeen-year-old girl she had been when she’d last set eyes on this place.
Jimmy parked the car and they strolled together then up the village main street, the locals going about their business, laughing and chatting outside the post office and the butchers, unaware of the significance of the old lady walking amongst them.
The parish church of St. Patrick’s looked just as it had all those years ago with its high, arched windows and soaring spire. The cool, hushed interior was a welcome relief from the bustle and noise outside and Maggie stepped forward to light a candle at the high altar. Jimmy and Grace waited towards the back of the church, giving her some privacy in her thoughts and prayers.
‘Hey Grace, look at this,’ Jimmy whispered, pulling her towards an engraving on a stone slab set into the wall by the door. The two of them stood and stared, amazed by what they saw.
Dedicated to the memory of all those who left this parish on 10th April 1912 to sail on the Titanic’s maiden voyage to a new world and who perished when she sank in the Atlantic ocean on 15th April 1912. We will never forget them. And to the only known survivors Maggie Murphy and Peggy Madden. We welcome you home. Always.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Grace whispered. ‘They remembered them. They remembered them all. This is what she always wondered. Whether they were known and remembered. She’ll be so pleased.’
When Maggie finished praying, they took her to the inscription. She stood silently reading all the names of those she had travelled with and loved, reaching out to feel the lettering etched into the cold slab of stone, running her fingers across each name as if she were running her hand across the cheek of the person it belonged to.
Kathleen Murphy, 44 years
Ellen Joyce, 33 years,
Katie Kenny, 24 years
Patrick Brogan, 22 years
Maura Brennan, 35 years
Jack Brennan, 37 years
Eileen Brennan, 32 years
Michael Kelly, 17 years
Mary Brogan, 29 years
Bridget Moloney, 23 years
Maria Cusack, 22 years
Margaret Daly, 26 years
The Priest, who had been watching their interest in the plaque for some time, wandered over to tell them something of its history. He explained that for several years the loss of life on Titanic from the area was not talked about, but that over the years, descendants of the travellers had felt it right and proper to acknowledge the event and remember, every year, those who lost their lives on April 15th. He pointed then in the direction of a grassed area to the right of the church where he informed them stood a bell which was rung once every minute, for fourteen minutes, on 15th April at 2.20am to mark the moment when Titanic sank.