Dear God Almighty, how did it ever come to this? How did that bright spring morning when we left Ballysheen turn into this – a train journey with not a soul I know for company and with all those I travelled with, bar one, dead and lost forever in the sea.
I wish I had never left my home, wish I had never left Séamus. At this moment I wish I had never been rescued from that ship. I think it is easier for those who perished and will never have to face their future alone – like I do.
I wish I was back under the cherry blossom tree watching the petals fall around me. I doubt I will ever know such happiness again as I knew in those months I spent with Séamus in Ballysheen.
I think my heart is actually broken and may never be mended again.
CHAPTER 32 - Ballysheen, Ireland, 20th April 1912
The day Séamus Doyle buried his father nature unleashed an almighty storm across County Mayo and blew down all but two of the cherry blossom trees which lined the road through Ballysheen. It was an awful sight to behold, their thin trunks cracked and split by the force of the wind.
‘Snapped like matchsticks,’ an old woman muttered as Séamus stood and surveyed the scene of devastation. ‘And yet would ye look at those two, standing strong as iron, as if there was never a breath of wind at all.’
He was relieved to see that the sixth blossom tree was one of the two still standing – he knew it because the initials MM SD for himself and Maggie were still there, scratched into the bark by his own whittling knife.
The howling wind and lashing rain fell across the parish without relent that day, seemingly sympathising with the solemnity of the occasion as the Priest stood at the graveside and tried to make sure his prayers for Séamus’s father could be heard over the cacophony of the weather. Later in his life, Séamus would speak about that raging storm, the worst in the history of the Parish, and how he had felt his day couldn’t possibly get any worse until he received a telegram message from the R.M.S. Titanic.
The postmaster’s wagon rumbled down the lane shortly after the graveside mass. It reached the small, stone cottage at the same time as Séamus, who stood in the doorway with his cap in his hand and his shoes smeared with the freshly dug earth which the rain had quickly turned into rivers of flowing mud.
‘Afternoon to ye,’ the postmaster shouted in an attempt to make himself heard over the howling wind as he pulled his dappled horse to a standstill on the rutted pathway. ‘By God it’s a wild day to be sure. Never seen weather like it I haven’t and I’m forty years living here.’ He jumped down from the cart and stepped around the front. ‘You should be gettin’ inside with a fire burnin’ lad, never mind standing around in the doorway.’ Séamus didn’t respond. ‘Anyway,’ the postmaster continued, ‘here’s a thing ye don’t see every day – a message from the Marconi radio operator on the Titanic, no less!’
Séamus’s attention was caught instantly. ‘From the Titanic? How?’
‘The wonders of technology, eh?! Sure, how would I know how it gets here from a ship in the middle of the ocean,’ he laughed, rubbing the drops of rain which had collected in his eyebrows, ‘but it has, and it’s addressed to ye.’ The man stood still, as if expecting Séamus to share the contents of the message with him. ‘Well, cheer up then. It’s not every day a fella gets a message from the biggest ocean liner ever built!’
Séamus didn’t speak. He simply reached out to take the small envelope in his hand before turning his back on the man and entering the cottage.
‘Well, there’s manners for ye,’ the postmaster muttered to himself, climbing back into the sodden cart and pulling sharply on the reins. His horse skittered to attention, shaking its mane, sending water flying into his face and a stream of curses gushing from his mouth. With a clatter of hooves on the slippery stones, Séamus heard the postmaster ride off and, relieved to be on his own, closed the door behind him.
Settling himself into the threadbare chair next to the empty fireplace, he took a second to look around, to survey his surroundings with new eyes. This was his home now; these were his walls, his possessions, sparse and tattered though they were. He was a nineteen year-old man and what he saw before him now was the sum of his life so far.
It had been a tough life, with plenty of tragedy and with his Ma and Da now dead and buried. How he hoped that what he held in his hands would be a turning point, would be the answer he had been praying for every night since Maggie left. Rubbing the edges of the thick, cream card, he studied the various postal markings and the image of the Titanic itself on the outside. He’d never seen a telegram before, let alone one from such a prestigious ship. He could only assume it was from Maggie, although how she had been able to send the telegram he had no idea.