Jessie
Jessie had brought the old photo album with her so that the others could have a proper look at the picture of Norah and at Bridget’s going-away letter.
While they did, she sat at Gina’s kitchen table and went through the box of Bridget’s belongings. She smiled at the shell and was impressed by the condition of the books. It was the letters, however, that she’d been longing to see. They were so old, so precious, that she felt she should be wearing white cotton gloves, like a museum curator or an art restorer.
She kept spotting new lines and nuggets of information. She wrote down names and locations that might help in telling Bridget’s story. Some questions remained unanswered. Why, for instance, hadn’t Norah told her sons that she’d written to Bridget in America? Why hadn’t she wanted them to know about their family in Boston? Whatever her reasons, they were unlikely to get to the truth now.
Kaitlin and Gina had been trying to find out more about the lives of those who’d been important to Bridget. Kaitlin had tracked down a descendant of Frederick and Charlotte Edgecombe. The woman, who was called Avery Wainscott, knew a little about her great-great-great-grandparents and would be happy to meet them. Unfortunately, she’d said, the Mount Vernon Street house was no longer in the family. As far as she was aware, the current owner was a tech entrepreneur.
Later, they would go to see the street where the McDonagh family had lived. In the coming days, they’d visit the other places Jessie had been reading about, including Cohasset where Bridget’s American life had begun. A few years back, a memorial had been placed near the spot where the small group of survivors had been brought ashore. One of the men on the organising committee was related to Florence Stanhope, the woman who had taken care of Bridget and Delia after the shipwreck.
The night before, Kaitlin and Jessie had stayed awake, talking and talking about the ways in which their lives were entwined and about the twists that had brought them together.
For some reason, she’d been reluctant to speak about Ger. It was only after several drinks and some determined coaxing that she’d told Kaitlin about kissing him on the street in Clooneven. ‘I know, I know,’ she’d said. ‘We may as well have taken out an ad on local radio.’
‘So this will be an ongoing thing?’ asked Kaitlin.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Jessie.
The cemetery was protected by a stone wall and high black gates. On the far side of the gates, a modest red-brick chapel was surrounded by scores of weathered headstones. While some were ornate, more, like the one marking where Bridget and Martin had been buried, were plain, their inscriptions obscured by time.
‘This is them,’ said Gina, stopping beside a thin grey stone. ‘You know, I must have passed this place a thousand times, and until a few days back I didn’t realise I had family here.’
‘How many graves are there?’ asked Jessie.
‘About fifteen hundred, I think, and many of the folks buried here would have had similar stories to Martin and Bridget.’
‘They were a remarkable lot,’ said Kaitlin, swiping at a tear.
Gina crouched to place a bouquet of red roses beside the stone. ‘They surely were. Honestly, I feel privileged to be related to them.’
Jessie took out the red notebook, which had become her constant companion. She wrote down everything that might be relevant, hoping that in the months ahead her jottings would provide inspiration. Already, sentences and paragraphs were taking shape in her head.
For a moment, she stood and allowed the stillness to sink in. They were only a couple of hundred metres away from a snarl of traffic. In the distance, she could see the towering buildings of Boston’s financial district. Yet in here it was so peaceful she could have been standing on the beach in Clooneven.
She thought of Bridget and Martin and of how they’d been tested in ways she found almost impossible to imagine. She thought of the others buried here. Their descendants had become politicians and lawyers, carpenters and cooks, teachers and soldiers, quarterbacks and rock stars. Some had written newspaper columns. Some had built roads. Some had robbed banks. Their lives were woven through the city’s story.
She thought, too, about what changed over the decades and what was immutable. How would Bridget feel about those who’d come after her? she wondered.
Kaitlin turned to her. ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
Jessie recalled something Etty had said on the night she’d first produced Bridget’s letter. It was something she’d thought about on many occasions since, and she repeated it now.
‘I think what matters,’ she said, ‘is that we remember.’