He thought again about the letters he had written to her. Was this her reply? Had she read them all; read his final question? His hands trembling with excitement at what she might say, he read the words:
Marconi Wireless Telegraph Company Of America
27 William Street (Lord Court’s Building) New York
From Maggie Murphy, Titanic to Séamus Doyle, Ballysheen, Co. Mayo, Ireland.
Dearest Séamus, all is well. Titanic is a fine ship. I hope your Da is well. Don’t wait for me
Séamus sat motionless, reading the few words again and again. Don’t wait for me. Had she given up on him; on their future? Had she read his letters and was this a rejection of his proposal?
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, Maggie. Not this. Please, not this.’
Letting the piece of paper fall to his lap, he leant his head back against the chair and gave in to the despair he’d suppressed since he’d watched the carts bearing the Titanic passengers rumbling off down the road. He gave in to the grief he’d denied himself since discovering his father’s lifeless body in the bed after returning from his night-time walk, his sleep having been disturbed by dreams of Maggie crying for help. An aching loneliness flooded his soul; a consuming emptiness he hadn’t felt even when he’d watched his father’s coffin being lowered into the ground.
As the wind continued to rampage across the landscape he so loved, tearing centuries-old trees from their roots and sending chimneys crashing down onto the roofs of the houses they had stood proudly upon for decades, Séamus sank to his knees and sobbed with despair; his desperate cries exceeded only by the howling wind, his endless tears surpassed only by the ceaseless raindrops which streamed down the small windowpanes.
*
Sometime later, around dusk, he was roused by a knock at the door. Forgetting where he was momentarily, he sat upright and looked around the room for his father, rubbing his swollen eyes. Then he remembered; his father was dead in the ground and his sweetheart had declined his offer of marriage.
He got up wearily and trudged to the door, barely able to face the prospect of speaking to anyone else that day. ‘Who is it?’ he sighed, rubbing his hands through his sandy hair which had curled in the damp from the rain.
‘Father Mullins,’ came the reply through the door.
‘Right so Father.’ Séamus righted his clothes which were crumpled and misshapen about himself and opened the door. ‘Come inside Father. Please excuse the mess – and myself,’ he added, looking self-consciously at the floor. ‘A drop of porter, Father?’
‘No Séamus, not for me son.’
The Priest stepped inside, brushing the rain from his coat and hat, his cheeks flushed from the force of the wind, his eyes blazing with intensity, as they always did. He took a quick measure of his surroundings. ‘You’ve no fire lit yet Séamus – I hope you’ll be seeing to that next. It won’t do to be sitting about in this place all alone and cold y’know.’ There was a stern, purposeful edge to his voice. It was a voice Séamus had been listening to at Sunday Mass for as long as he could remember and he took notice when this man spoke. ‘Your Da wouldn’t like that at all now, would he?’
‘No Father, he wouldn’t. He liked his warmth. Whatever little else we had he would always see that there was peat burning in the grate. I’ll see to it right away. I was just having a little nap, y’know, after the business of the burial an’ all.’
The Priest nodded and stepped towards the small window. ‘He was a great man indeed. Hard worker – and very proud of his boys y’know.’ He nodded at Séamus to impress this upon him before sitting down at the table which stood in the centre of the room. ‘I’m afraid I’m visiting many homes in the Parish tonight Séamus. I’ve received some rather unfortunate news.’
Séamus noticed then, for the first time, the strain etched across Father Mullins’ usually peaceful looking face. ‘Oh? What is it Father?’
‘I hate to bring this news to you tonight of all nights, with you having just buried your father, God rest his soul.’ The two men paused for a second then to cross themselves in respect to the dead man. ‘Inspector O’Brien was in contact with me earlier today,’ he continued. ‘He had himself been alerted by a Mr Thomas Durcan in Castlebar. He is the local shipping agent for the White Star Line. I’m sorry to say, Séamus, that he reports that Titanic has foundered in the Atlantic.’
‘Foundered?’
‘Yes. We believe that she struck an iceberg two days before she was due to arrive in New York and according to the White Star Line office in Liverpool, she sank to the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.’