When she had told me her frightening story, I told her all about how I got onto the lifeboat and how Harry was charged with rowing it to safety. I wept as I explained that Maura and Eileen were unable to leave Jack Brennan and that the young lad, Michael Kelly, wasn’t allowed to climb aboard what with it being women and children first. We held each other and wept for everyone and prayed to God for sparing us and vowed to live a long and happy life as thanks for being given this chance. Peggy is to travel on to St. Louis to meet her sister. We have exchanged addresses and promised that we will keep in contact.
Wednesday, 24th April, 1912
I dreamt last night that the steward, Harry, was looking for me and Peggy. He was asking for us but the nurse told him we had already been discharged. He seemed to have something important which belonged to me and wanted to return it. I tried to shout out, ‘I am still here’, but no words would come and then I woke up and Harry was not there.
Peggy left early this morning. We shared a pitiful, teary farewell and promised to keep in touch. I feel frightened now that she has gone – I feel alone again and wish she was travelling on with me to Chicago.
*
I am on a train with the few pathetic possessions I own and wearing donated clothes which hang off me and make me look like an unloved ragdoll. How Aunt Kathleen would flush with embarrassment if she were here to see me now.
When it was time to leave the hospital, I cried. The nurses have looked after me so well. I told one of them I might like to be a nurse myself when I’m better and have properly recovered from all this. She said that nurses have to be incredibly brave and special people – so I would make a very good one. She hugged me tightly and I never wanted that hug to end. It reminded me of how Mammy used to hug me when I was a little girl.
Before I left the hospital, I walked around to the beds of the other survivors who are still there – there are not many now, most having recovered well enough to move on or return home. I will never forget those people - their sad, empty faces and weak smiles of a vague hope for the future. We shared an understanding as we held hands and looked into each other’s eyes.
So, I am finally leaving New York, the city I had heard so much about and was so excited about seeing from the bow of Titanic as we sailed gracefully into the dock to be greeted by all the well-wishers and the fluttering flags to welcome us all from our triumphant maiden voyage. Who could have ever known the conditions we would find ourselves arriving in.
I never even saw the Statue of Liberty and doubt whether I ever will. This place will always hold dark memories for me now and I think I am best to leave those memories among the echoing corridors and starched bed sheets of the hospital.
I still feel very unsteady on my feet and am sure my hands will never function right again. The nurses told me that I am still suffering from shock and exposure and that it could take months for me to recover fully.
*
I am huddled into a seat on the train, hoping that nobody will pay me any attention at all, although I can feel them looking at me and whispering and guessing my story. Sometimes I catch their eye and they look sympathetically at me, trying to show me with their tilted head, furrowed eyebrows and bland smiles that they understand; that they know of the suffering I have endured. I stare back. They can never know of the suffering I have endured.
It is odd to think that I had never been on a train in my life until just over a week ago – I thought I felt an aching sadness in my heart then as we puffed out of Claremorris station. How could I ever have known that there was a greater sadness waiting for me out there on the great Atlantic Ocean.
Thanks be to God for the borrowed coat and the donated clothes or I would be sitting here in just my undergarments, shoes and the cloak Kathleen had bought for me to travel in. How I wish I had my own coat and the packet of letters. How I would love to read them now as I sit here all alone. How I would love to see Séamus’s writing and touch the paper which his hands touched.
I wondered today about my message to Séamus and whether it was ever sent by that Marconi boy – whether it ever reached him. I hope so. He must be worried to death if he has heard any of the news about Titanic. My message might lift his spirits and maybe, after hearing of what has happened, and knowing that I am all alone, he might be able to come to America himself soon.
I find it all too upsetting to think about. I will stop writing now and try to sleep until I reach my destination. I can barely stand the thought of seeing Aunt Mary; she will be so sad about her dear sister and I wish I could be arriving here with her as we had planned.
*
It is almost impossible to rest with the rocking and thumping of the train carriages and with people needing to inspect my ticket and step past me to get on or off at a station. I’m so exhausted I barely said thank you to the lady from The Catholic Women’s League who gave me $200 and a few more donated clothes. She’s moving through the train making sure that all the Titanic survivors are being met by a relative at the other end. I hadn’t even noticed there were any other Titanic survivors on the train. I have hardly looked up from my feet I am so sad and so ashamed to be travelling like this.