As she considered a tenth attempt, Peggy came bounding into the cabin. She’d been out on the deck for a stroll after the religious service they had attended that morning and her cheeks were flushed red from the breeze, her hair whipped into straggly rat’s tails by the moist air.
‘Maggie Murphy,’ she cried in mock anger, throwing herself down onto the bed between her two friends, bringing the distinctive scent of fresh, sea air into the room. ‘If you are still feckin’ around with that note, I’ll murder you with my own hands, I swear to God I will. Come on, we’re to meet Lucky Harry for our personal tour and I’m sure he’ll not be hangin’ around for us colleens all mornin’.’
The girls had arranged to meet the English steward that morning to have a secret look at the upper decks. Although he’d said it would be a birthday treat for Katie, they all knew that it was for Peggy’s benefit really, the young lad obviously having fallen for her quick wit and country girl looks. Maggie carefully folded the piece of paper with her short message to Séamus and tucked it into her skirt pocket just as her Aunt Kathleen walked into the cabin. The three girls sat perfectly still and stared at her.
‘Well, if ever I saw a sight of girls who were up to no good, I’m seein’ it now in front of my very eyes,’ she said, putting her coat and handbag onto her bed. ‘What are you up to the three o’ ye?’
The girls glanced anxiously at each other, Maggie feeling the note in her pocket as if it were stolen diamonds. Peggy was the one to speak up. ‘Nothin’ much Kathleen, there’s nothin’ much for us to be doin’ on this ship after a few days. We were just goin’ to check on the ship’s log and go for a stroll on the decks or maybe join some of the others for a game of cards.’ Kathleen seemed placated, but just to make sure, Peggy continued. ‘Miss Murphy, how many more days is it now until we get to New York? We couldn’t remember whether it was two or three.’
Kathleen looked at them all, apparently convinced by Peggy’s tale, feeling momentarily sympathetic for these young girls, stuck in the confines of a ship when they were so used to running in fields and busying themselves with chores.
‘Only two more days girls and then ye will have the whole of America to explore. Go on now, be off with you, but mind you’re not causin’ any trouble.’
Grabbing her coat and making sure the packet of letters from Séamus were still in the pocket, Maggie walked casually out of the cabin with Peggy and Katie. As soon as the door closed behind them and they felt sure they were out of Kathleen’s earshot, they ran, giggling, along the labyrinth of endless passageways and corridors, across stairwells and past elevators towards the steward’s cabins on Scotland Road where Harry had agreed to meet them.
Far from being the bored young girls of Peggy’s pretence to Kathleen, these were some of the most exciting days they had ever spent, with new people to meet every day, hot meals served to them three times a day, warm running water to wash themselves in and the prospect of a new life in America to look forward to. If Maggie hadn’t felt such an ache in her heart for Séamus back in Ireland, she felt sure that she would have the same, carefree attitude and lust for life which she saw in Peggy and Katie. For now, she felt as if she was going through the motions; occasionally forgetting herself and joining in with the craic and the daily surprises of life aboard this ship, but something would then remind her of what she had left behind, like the bottle of Holy Water she felt in her coat pocket now. She’d forgotten she’d put it there after one of her neighbours gave it to her on the night of the American wake.
Maggie had been at those sorts of gatherings before, to drink tea and eat treacle cake and send off a cousin or a neighbour or a family friend and wish them well on the journey ahead. This time it had been different. This time there were so many of them leaving together, a mixture of young and old from five different villages in the parish; this time, she was one of the departing travellers.
As the American wakes usually were, the evening had been an odd combination of celebration and despair, excitement and dread, haunting ballads and rousing song. For every tear there was raucous laughter, for every lament and prayer a tale of courage and hope. Maggie had observed the back-slapping, the raising of the glasses of porter and poitín, the dancing of the jigs and the reels to the strains of the fiddle, up and down, up and down the Brennans’ kitchen into the small hours of the morning. She’d sat on an upturned crate in the corner of the kitchen and wondered if anyone knew of the feelings of sadness and trepidation stirring in her heart.