‘Excuse me sir,’ she whispered.
The man heard her and turned. ‘Yes Miss?’
‘What day is it today?’
‘It is Wednesday Miss. April 17th.’
‘Wednesday,’ she repeated. ‘Thank you.’
She closed her eyes then and slept.
PART V
'Commander Str Carpathia, Vitally important that we receive names, balance survivors including third class and crew. Last message received with names nine am today. Please do your utmost give us this information at earliest possible moment. White Star Line.’
Marconigram Message sent from White Star Line, New York to Commander of Steamship Carpathia, 16th April 1912
CHAPTER 29 - Chicago, May 1982
‘Grace, there’s a man on the phone says he’d like to talk to you.’
‘Oh mom, can you do me a favour and tell him I’m out,’ Grace shouted from her bedroom. ‘It’ll just be another reporter looking to get their pound of flesh out of Maggie.’
The interest in Grace’s article about Maggie’s Titanic story had been amazing. Since she’d received the phone call from Professor Andrews to tell her that Bill O’Shea had fallen in love with her article, life had become crazy. When it finally appeared in print, on May 16th, Grace and Maggie’s names were all over town, literally overnight. Grace was being hailed as the young girl who’d scooped the biggest story of the year – possibly the decade – and was already being touted as one to watch for the sensitive and heart-felt way she had handled the story. Maggie was a local hero.
With the success of the article and the revelation that a Titanic survivor was living among them, other local newspapers and journalists also wanted a piece of the action and the phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the publication of the piece; everyone wanting to cover the story in their own newspapers and magazines, wanting photos of Maggie, photos of Grace, photos of the family together. There had even been a piece in a local paper about Grace and how tragically her life had been destroyed when her father died. It was all becoming a bit intrusive and Grace was hesitant to talk to anyone else – wary of their real intentions.
‘He says it’s very important,’ her mother shouted back up the stairs. ‘He says he’s honestly not a reporter and that you will definitely be interested in what he has to say.’
Not believing a word of it, Grace put down the admissions form she was completing – necessary, if tedious paperwork for getting herself re-enrolled onto the journalism course she had left two years ago – and walked casually downstairs. Sighing and rolling her eyes, she took the receiver from her mother who mouthed ‘he seems very nice’ before wandering back into the kitchen to finish washing the breakfast dishes.
‘Hello. This is Grace Butler,’ she announced into the receiver disinterestedly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Miss Butler. Oh, erm, hello. Thank you so much for taking my call.’ The voice on the end of the line was a man’s voice; he was well spoken, if slightly nervous. ‘Erm, Miss Butler, I’m afraid this is all going to sound a little strange, but I would appreciate it if you would hear me out.’
Grace warmed a little to the pleasant, polite voice at the end of the line and sat down on the bottom step, tracing the pattern on the carpet with her bare toes as she admired the neon pink nail polish she’d applied earlier that morning. ‘OK,’ she said, distracted. ‘I’m listening.’
‘My name is Edward Lockey. I read your amazing article in the paper last week. It’s a remarkable story and beautifully written, might I add. Your great-grandmother is an incredibly brave woman.’
Grace was used to hearing this from the dozens of reporters who had called to speak to her about Maggie’s story over the last week. She gave her usual response. ‘Yes, thank you. She is an amazing lady indeed.’
‘Well, it turns out to be quite a coincidence that I read your article. I don’t usually read the Tribune you see, I’m more of a Sun Times man, but I was with my sister last week and she always gets the Tribune and…..oh well look, that doesn’t really matter now. Basically Miss Butler, I think I may have something which will be of interest to your great grandmother. You see, an uncle of mine was also on Titanic.’
Grace sat up then, her attention caught. ‘Really? Oh my gosh.’
‘Yes. He was a third class saloon steward on the ship,’ he continued. ‘He sailed from Southampton in England.’ Grace felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as goose bumps formed all over her arms. ‘He sadly passed a few years ago, but when he died a few of his personal possessions were given to me. I’d never really paid much attention to them before, but then I read your article and something clicked.’