Promise Me This (16 page)

“Please, mum,” Annie begged of a lady taller than herself, “can you see? Is the name of Owen Allen on the list?”

The lady shook her head. “There are no lists yet, dearie. We’re waiting. We’ve been waiting all the morning and some since last night.”

“It’s the waiting—the not knowing—what’s so hard,” another woman turned and said.

“No news yet,” another voice added. “They said the signal’s weak, though how that can be after all this time, I don’t know.”

“Just the news that for sure and certain she’s gone down,” chimed in a man standing near Annie. “A gentleman came out and said there’s been loss of life and some saved, picked up from lifeboats by
Carpathia
. She’s turned round, taking survivors to New York. No names as yet.”

Annie felt her knees buckling and clutched the sleeve of the lady beside her.

“Here, missy, it won’t do to give way. We don’t know anything yet. The White Star Line says they’ll post the names of those saved soon as they get them.”

Annie did not remember Miss Hopkins pulling her from the crowd or walking her back to the school. She could never have said if she had been scolded for running to the docks. But she remembered the moment of realization, the sudden knowing that her brother would not have taken a seat in a lifeboat before every woman and child was saved. She doubted if he would go before any other man. And the knowledge felt like drowning.

On Wednesday the first survivor lists were posted outside the Canute Street offices. But Annie stayed inside the school, staring hour after hour at the window—not through the window but only at her own reflection. Somehow she felt that if she did not look at the lists, if she stared only at the glass between herself and the world outside, she could hold the end at bay.

Miss Hopkins gave up trying to hold back the children or their tears. “They need to be with their families,” Annie heard her say to one of the cooks. Annie turned away. She had no family but Owen.

Flags flew at half-mast. Men, and even women, appeared with mourning bands tied round their arms. Women dressed from head to toe in black. Buildings of business draped black crepe across their windows. Between the town and the docks, the trail of those seeking news remained steady.

Even grown men who had determined to keep watch until all the names were posted sometimes found the vigil too hard. They walked home for a cup of tea or to the pub for a pint. But the uncertainty, the very suspense, drew them back.

When Michael woke, he sensed first that the ship’s engines had stopped. Yes, he remembered Owen waking him, telling him that the engines had stopped. Owen would walk through the door of their cabin any moment for his turn in the bunk and tell him about the engines.

But that wasn’t right; he should not be awake before Owen walked in, and why did it feel as though it had all happened before? Michael ran his tongue over crusted teeth. He rubbed his forehead, pushed back his matted hair, tried to push the fuzzy feeling from his brain.

“So you’re awake, young man.” A kindly voice with a thick accent spoke. “Three days is a long sleep.”

Michael opened his eyes, blinking against the light. It wasn’t Owen. He tried to focus on the drawn and swarthy face above him, tried to concentrate on the man’s words.

“You gave us something of a scare, but I’d say you’re coming round.” The man turned away, busy with things Michael could not see.

The room wasn’t right. It was not Owen’s cabin. The Swede was not in the bunk opposite. The red-and-white White Star Line coverlet was gone, and in its place lay a blue woolen blanket.

Was he dreaming? His head hurt, but it didn’t feel like a dream. He remembered the seeds he should protect from the nosy Swede and ran his hand over his chest, over the pockets he and Owen had sewn inside the jacket he’d promised to wear, to never take off. But he was not wearing the jacket—only the shirt Owen had loaned him. Nearing panic, Michael tried to think—had he taken off the jacket? Where?

And then, in a rush, it all came back—Owen pulling off his greatcoat and fastening it and his life belt around Michael, Owen sending him off in a boat, Owen running to find Lucy Snape,
Titanic
plunging headlong to the bottom of the sea. No more lifeboats. No more ships.

“We’ve docked in New York. First class is unloading now. It will be a while yet before you can go. I’ve kept you away from the other passengers. I wanted to keep an eye on that fever. Exhaustion, most likely—but stay and rest a bit. I’d like you to try to eat something.” The man smiled. “A little hot food can do a world of good.”

The man rang a buzzer, and in a very few moments a steward came running. “Yes, Doctor?”

“A little hot broth for my patient, if you will.”

“Right away, sir.” And the weary steward was gone.

“We found your New Jersey address in your pocketbook.”

Michael stared at the man, not comprehending.

“In your coat pocket. Mr. and Mrs. Sean Allen of Swainton, New Jersey. Are they coming to meet you? Are they your parents, Owen?”

Still Michael did not answer. His heart raced, but he shook his head.

“You are Owen Allen, are you not? Are these not your things?” The man looked more concerned than suspicious. Michael did not know what to say. If Owen had not come to claim his coats or to claim Michael, it meant that he was nowhere on the ship. Reality bludgeoned the door of his brain, but Michael could go no further in his thinking.

“This is your coat?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael managed, relieved to see both the greatcoat and jacket.

“Are your parents meeting you? Do you need someone to contact them?”

Michael could not answer.

“Are you traveling with anyone?”

“No, sir. Not now.”

“Ah, I see.” The man looked all the more concerned. “I’m sorry, son.”

Michael could not hold back the pools behind his eyelids or the truth from his mind.

“The American Red Cross will assist in every way possible. I believe I heard some talk of one of the lines offering railway fare.” The doctor’s unexpected kindness threatened to break Michael’s reserve.

Michael forced his thoughts to a different path. Railway fare.
Owen said to go to New Jersey—that he would meet me there if we were separated.

The good doctor turned his eyes away. “Let me see what I can do.” He stopped at the door. “There are ambulances waiting to transport survivors to St. Luke’s and St. Vincent’s hospitals. It might be a good idea for you to be checked further—it would at least give you a longer rest before journeying on.”

Michael knew nothing of hospitals except that more questions would be asked of him. The doctor seemed to think he was Owen, and perhaps that was good; perhaps if the authorities believed that, they would let him into America.

When the doctor had gone, Michael wondered what would happen if he just got up and walked out. The doctor had said they were docked in New York. Could it be harder than walking onto
Titanic
in Belfast or off into Southampton? What was Owen’s worry about the officials in New York? Something about Ellis Island? He couldn’t remember.

Michael tried to sit up but felt the trembling weakness in his arms and legs, the buzzing in his head. He’d not heard or seen the steward come and go, but he drank every bit of hot broth the man had left. Michael’s throat still burned, but the hearty broth warmed him through and set his stomach to growling.

He stuffed the bread from the tray into his trouser pocket and rummaged through the cupboard for his boots. The room would not stand still. Michael wanted to lie back down, to sleep another day or two or three, but he had no such luxury. The sooner he disappeared into the streets of New York, the sooner he’d be forgotten.

Buttoning Owen’s jacket across his chest, then Owen’s greatcoat, he slipped from the cabin, softly closing the door behind him. He passed through the dining saloon, now empty. A clock bonged ten. He trekked hallways, breathing harder and heavier than he would have wished, holding the wall to steady the spin in his head.

Somewhere not far ahead, he could smell the night air. He heard voices and followed their twisted trail until he found himself edging a milling group of passengers.

“At least they’re not putting us through the rigors of Ellis Island,” a woman remarked.

“I’d trade this freedom for twenty interrogations and medical checks,” another replied, “if only my Harry was with me.” She choked back a sob, and the other woman wrapped her arm around her.

Michael swallowed the bile from his mingled broth and weak stomach, then filtered into their ranks. He walked, unnoticed, down the gangway of pier 54.

Relatives, held back by ropes and low fences, rushed the survivors, weeping in relief and weeping in anguish.

Michael felt lost and very much alone amid the confusing joy of reunions and the blatant outpouring of grief. He wormed his way to the street exit and finally toward the pier’s entrance.

But he was not prepared to step into the bewildering bombardment of newspaper reporters’ questions or the startling explosions of photographers’ magnesium flares.

“Ah. Why don’t they all just go home and leave us be? Haven’t we been through enough?” a sympathetic soul beside him offered.

Michael had no idea. He only knew he needed to find the railway the doctor had talked about. “Excuse me, sir. There’s a railway, someone said. Do you know of it, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, I do and am going to take it myself to Philadelphia. The Pennsylvania Railroad is offering free passage for us from Pennsylvania Station. Taxis should be waiting just ahead. As soon as the ambulances go, they’ll transport us. Is anyone with you, young man?”

“No, sir.”

The man nodded sympathetically. “Nor with me.” He pulled his collar about his neck. “Irish—I can tell by your speech. A long way from home, isn’t it?”

Michael looked away. He wasn’t certain where home was now, nor how that was different than it had been a month ago.

“Where is it you’re going?”

“New Jersey, sir.”

The man smiled patiently. “New Jersey’s a big place. Any more information than that?”

What had the doctor said? Michael closed his eyes, trying to remember. “Swainton, it is. Swainton in New Jersey, sir.”

“Yes. Near the seashore. You need a train to Philadelphia and then one on to Swainton.” Michael felt the man’s eyes upon him. “You’ll have to mind the stations. Don’t sleep through them or you’ll miss it.”

“No, sir. I won’t, sir.” Michael followed the man through the crowd and into the last of a line of taxicabs pulled to the curb. Gratefully he slumped against the door, his forehead pressed to the cold window, as the cab bumped and jostled its way through Manhattan.

Michael reached Philadelphia in the wee hours of the morning. His New Jersey–bound train did not depart until nine thirty. By the time it pulled to the Swainton stop, the morning fog had nearly burned away and the sun rose high in a cold, gray New Jersey sky. The ache in Michael’s head swelled and throbbed, and he could not swallow past the knot in his throat. His fever continued to climb.

“Just down the road, a half mile or so, you’ll find the post office and general store. Someone there will know the Allen nurseries, young man.”

Surely the conductor had been kind and helpful, but Michael dreaded finding Owen’s family. What would they think of him? Why was he showing up in Owen’s clothes with Owen’s dreams tucked in his pockets and Owen dead at the bottom of the sea?

What would they think when they learned he was nothing but a Belfast gutter rat and stowaway their Owen had taken pity upon? And yet he had been saved—saved by Owen, when he and so many worthy men and boys, and even women and children, had died.

The half mile of winding trail passed too quickly, despite the lead in Michael’s feet. He turned away from the bursting crocuses and budding daffodils splashed before the few and far-between houses. He closed his ears to scolding squirrels—creatures similar to but somehow different from those he had seen before—and the noisy mating rituals of red-breasted birds, a variety altogether new to him. The symphony of life grated, sprang before Michael in colors bright and garish against the black backdrop of his brain.