Bridget
What Bridget saw first was the sunlight. It crept through the thin curtains and across the panelled white walls and wooden floor. The room had a high ceiling. There was a dark wooden chair and a small table with a porcelain jug. Two paintings hung on the far wall, one of the sea, the other of a woman with a long neck. She’d never been in such a place before, somewhere so ordered and pristine. Nor had she slept in such a bed. The sheet that covered her was as soft as a rose petal, as was the blanket that lay on top. The pillows beneath her head were firm.
The silence was shattered by a crying baby, the thin wail of a small girl. Norah wasn’t far away. In the next room, perhaps. Bridget needed to go to her, but when she moved, pain cracked through her body. Up her legs it ran, and down her arms. In some places, it was no more than a dull ache. In others it was sharper, more insistent. Her shoulders were heavy, and when she looked at her hands, she saw that they were raw with blisters. Her arms were black with bruises.
Still, she had to get up and comfort her daughter.
Then the truth broke through. The cry was that of a younger child, not Norah. And Norah was in Ireland with Mary Ellen and Thomas. This place, with the white walls and the soft bed, wasn’t Ireland. She attempted to take a deep breath, but a spasm of pain hit her chest. She closed her eyes.
When she woke again, the light had dimmed. Two people sat at the end of the bed, an elderly man with wings of grey hair and a younger woman. The woman, who wore a blue and white dress, had shiny dark hair and a round face. Slowly, Bridget rubbed her eyes, which were crusted with sleep. Noticing her gesture, they smiled and exchanged a glance. The man, whom she saw was a priest, rose slowly. Then he picked up his chair and moved to the head of the bed.
‘Conas atá tú?’ he said, as he sat down again.
Briefly, she wondered if she was at home, after all. Why else would he speak Irish? There was, though, something strange about his voice. He pronounced the words too deliberately, as if scared of stumbling over them.
He tried again. ‘An cuimhin leat cad a tharla?’
The honest answer to his second question was that she remembered little. Images danced through her head. She had thought she was going to die, but following the example of some of the others, she’d clung to the wreck of the ship. She recalled screaming into the wind, screaming at Delia to keep holding on, and screaming at the rescue boat which she feared wouldn’t see them through the waves and the spray. Whatever had happened next had been stripped from her memory.
‘An bhfuil aon Béarla agat?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘I can speak English.’
‘That’s a relief,’ replied the priest, who had the brown face of a fieldworker. ‘We weren’t certain. I rarely have the opportunity to speak Irish these days, and I’ve grown slightly slow. At least we’ll be able to understand each other.’
‘Where am I?’ she asked, her mouth dry as slate.
‘You’re in Mrs Florence Stanhope’s boarding house in Cohasset, Massachusetts.’ He gestured towards the woman, who smiled again. ‘My name is Father Paul Garrity. Oh, and you’re welcome to America.’
‘I . . .’ she started. Her jaw ached.
‘You were pulled from the ocean. You and your baby. Do you remember?’
Bridget went to speak again. Her voice cracked.
Mrs Stanhope got to her feet, picked up the porcelain jug and poured water into a cup. ‘You need a drink,’ she said, ‘but take care or you’ll be sick. It’s four days since you’ve had anything to eat, and you swallowed a lot of seawater. And don’t worry. Now that you’re awake, we’ll get you something to eat. Something light tonight, I think.’
Four days, she thought. She’d been here for four days. With difficulty, she propped herself up on the pillows. Once more, she felt a surge of pain. She noticed she was wearing a white nightgown. Someone, presumably Mrs Stanhope, had dressed her. She had difficulty holding the cup but managed to take a few sips. No drink on earth could have tasted sweeter.
Her mind working more quickly, she realised that when Father Garrity had spoken of a baby, he’d meant Delia. He assumed she was Delia’s mother.
‘Is Delia alive?’ she asked.
‘She’s in the next room,’ said Mrs Stanhope. ‘One of the other survivors saw her and told us your names. “That’s Delia King,” he said, “and her mother’s name is Alice.” What a brave girl Delia was, holding on until the two of you were rescued. You should be very proud of her.’
Bridget knew she should explain. You think I’m Delia’s mother, she should say. But I’m not. I was about to pass her to Alice, only Alice disappeared under the waves. Instead, she asked another question. ‘How is she?’
‘Oh, she’s thriving! If only you had seen her crawling around the room earlier. She’ll be walking before you know it. Admittedly, she was weak when she first arrived, but the doctor examined her – we have a splendid doctor here in Cohasset – and he’s satisfied she’ll make a full recovery. Isn’t that magnificent news?’
‘It is.’ She hesitated before asking her next question. ‘How many of us are there?’
‘How many survivors, do you mean?’ asked Father Garrity.
‘Yes.’
‘Only seven, I’m afraid.’
Bridget gasped. He went on to explain that no other child had survived and only one other woman. ‘Nancy Quinn,’ he said. ‘She’s also from County Clare. She’s . . .’ it was his turn to hesitate ‘. . . not well. From what we can understand, she’s lost her husband and two daughters, may the Lord have mercy on them. She’s keen to go back to Ireland.’
Nancy Quinn. While the name wasn’t familiar, Bridget assumed the woman’s face would be. If Nancy was the only other woman to survive, Alice – the real Alice – must be dead. She shivered, prompting a look of concern from Mrs Stanhope.
‘And the men?’ asked Bridget, before taking another sip of water.
‘They’re in better health,’ said Father Garrity. ‘In fact, two have already left for Deer Island.’
Bridget must have appeared confused because Mrs Stanhope intervened to explain that this was a quarantine station in Boston Harbour. Her tone made it clear that she didn’t approve of the men’s transfer. ‘We gather there was a considerable amount of illness on the ship,’ she said. ‘The doctor who examined Delia believes she had typhus. That must have been a frightful worry for you.’
It’s not too late, Bridget told herself. You can tell them you’re not her mother. You can claim you were confused.
‘The doctor thinks that more people might have lived if they’d been stronger,’ added Father Garrity. ‘The poor souls were in no condition to fight such a terrible storm. No wonder so many lost their lives.’
Tell them. They will understand. ‘Is there a chance that anyone else will be found?’ she asked.
‘Alas, no. There’s a vigil near the shore in the hope that more bodies might be recovered, but even that’s not likely now.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m here to conduct the funerals. I live in Quincy. It’s not far away. Very few of the people in this town are Catholic. They’re fine people, all the same,’ he added, as though this was in doubt.
From the next room, they heard a shout. Delia.
‘Are you strong enough to see her?’ asked Mrs Stanhope. ‘I should imagine she would be delighted to see you. We were reluctant to bring her in before this, for fear she became upset.’
This is your final chance. Tell them. ‘I’d like that,’ said Bridget. ‘Thank you.’
When Florence Stanhope left the room, Father Garrity urged Bridget not to fret about anything. The locals were generous, he said, and would provide clean clothes and anything else she required.
‘Unfortunately, your own dress was badly torn,’ he said, ‘but Mrs Stanhope did find this in the pocket.’
From his own pocket, he produced a shell. Norah’s shell.
Bridget felt tears at the back of her eyes. She took the shell and passed it from one hand to the other. She closed her fist around it, making her blisters sting. ‘Thank you for keeping it safe,’ she said. ‘It’s all I have left.’
‘That’s not true, Alice. You have Delia, and what could be more important than your beautiful girl?’ He turned towards the door. ‘Here she is, bless her.’
There were bandages on Delia’s arms and a thin cut on one cheek, but otherwise she appeared unscathed. She was wearing a white cotton dress and the tiniest socks Bridget had ever seen. A lady’s daughter couldn’t have looked prettier.
‘Look at you,’ she said to the little girl in Mrs Stanhope’s arms. ‘All dressed up in your finery.’
‘The clothes belonged to my own daughter,’ said Mrs Stanhope, ‘and there are more where they came from, aren’t there, Delia?’
The baby made a hiccuping sound, as if she might cry. Bridget felt a flutter of panic. Suppose Delia failed to recognise her? Suppose she whimpered and wriggled? They would know then that Bridget was an imposter.
‘Hello, little one,’ she said, holding out her arms and praying the baby didn’t make strange.
Delia was wary, her brown eyes uncertain. Bridget’s body tensed under the scrutiny of Father Garrity and Mrs Stanhope. What am I doing? she thought. I might have fooled the adults, but I can’t fool a ten-month-old.
Then, as if her memories of the days and nights on the boat had come back to her, Delia stretched out her short arms and settled into Bridget’s embrace.
Mrs Stanhope wiped away a tear. ‘Isn’t that wonderful to see?’ she said to the priest, who agreed that it was.
Bridget inhaled the scent of Delia’s freshly washed hair and kissed her face. She couldn’t turn back now. Her words and actions were a bell that couldn’t be un-rung. She’d lost her own daughter, but another child had been given to her. A child with whom she had a bond. A child who’d twice cheated death. Her mind returned to the Mary and Elizabeth and to Alice’s claims that Bridget had saved Delia’s life. If it wasn’t true then, it was now. She’d saved her from drowning.
Alice would have wanted this, she said to herself.
Afterwards, when Delia was asleep, Mrs Stanhope assured Bridget that they could both stay until they had the strength to move on.
‘And when you’ve recovered sufficiently,’ said Father Garrity, ‘you can go back to Ireland if that’s what you’d prefer. Like I explained to you, it’s what Nancy – Mrs Quinn – hopes to do.’
Bridget couldn’t go back. Not because she was afraid to take to the sea again, or because there was nothing for her at home. She couldn’t return to Ireland with a baby girl who didn’t belong to her. Instead she would go to Boston. She would find work, find her brother, and take care of Delia as best she could.
She wept then for Alice, a brave woman who’d faced every day with enthusiasm and who’d been steadfast in her belief that their lives would improve.
‘Thank you,’ she said, the words barely audible through her tears, ‘but Delia and I will try our luck in America.’