Siobhan

"Grammie would want you to have this," my mother said, thrusting a large, musty box toward my pregnant belly.

I turned my face from the offensive odour. "Put it over there on the table," I replied, pointing toward the coffee table, unsure what to think of the box marked "Memories" and it was tied shut, barely, with twine that was crumbling with the weight of age.

Mom did as I asked then turned to me, her grey eyes stern, "You're the one who was always interested in tracing our family history. Your grandmother knew that. It was something you shared. She wanted you to finish her work."

I nodded. Mom wasn't telling me anything I didn't know. Grammie and I had spent the last 4 years researching our family tree. Right up until her death last week at almost 104, she was sharp as a tack.

We were working on tracing her mother's side of the family, without much success, before she got sick. She always wanted to know more about the woman that gave her life and in so doing, lost hers. All she had was a name, Mary Alice Topliff and her father's assurances that she was a fine woman with fair features and a melancholy mind. I felt I owed it to her to find the answers she was looking for. I just didn't want to deal with that box at that moment.

"I'll grab a clean box and dump whatever's in there into it and take it home," I advised, heading toward the door. "I have a couple in the car."

I brought a new box in and gingerly opened the old one, trying my best not to inhale the stench of age, dust and damp. I reached inside and started carefully removing papers, photographs, little booklets, and assorted clippings, trying not to stir up the dust as I transferred them to their new housing.

I wasn't really looking at anything in particular. I was just trying to get the job done. Once the stuff was out of the old box, I figured I could let them air out on my porch for a few days before getting into them.

"You dropped one," mom said, pointing to an envelope on the floor, by her feet.

Annoyed, I looked down at it and then at her. Only one of us was 7 months pregnant. She seemed to understand. She bent down, picked it up and handed it to me.

It was sealed and addressed to a "Mr. And Mrs. Gallagher, Kilmacrennan, County Donegal, Ireland." Intrigued, I opened it and began to read:

June 17, 1918,

Dear Mr and Mrs Gallagher,

I do hope this letter finds you well. I am sure it will come as a surprise to you.

My name is Mary Alice Charlebois (nee Topliff). I'm originally from Lancashire, England but now live in Halifax, Canada.

I feel I must write to you - to tell you about your daughter Siobhan (may she rest in peace). I wanted you to know what a wonderfully kind person she was. Although I'm sure you're already aware of that. And I wanted to give you a sense of her final days. Your daughter, you'll be proud to know, died a hero.

It pains me greatly to recount those fateful days. Not only because I survived and she did not, but also because I've been afflicted with terrible melancholy and nightmares ever since. My hope in writing this letter is not only to bring you peace, but to bring some to myself, especially since I am now with child. As you can well appreciate, a mother plagued with the mental afflictions I've mentioned is neither use nor ornament to a young family.

I remember the first day I saw Siobhan, it was in the very early morning hours of April 10, 1912. I was immediately taken aback by her tall slender stature and shockingly thick mane of red curls. I'd never seen that much hair on a human being in all my days before and I dare say since.

She had a ready smile and big green eyes. She looked positively stunning in her uniform! So stunning I swear that she could well have been used in promotional material.

We made our way to each other, both seeking out a friendly face in unfamiliar territory, I expect and found out we were both employed in the Victualling Department, I as a scullion and she as a stewardess. I learned that she had over a year's experience serving in fine restaurants in and around London.

And as luck would have it, we were roomates, both assigned to E-24. Five other girls would join us in the room for our journey.

We chatted excitedly as we unpaked our things and explored our surroundings. We did both rather quickly as we were expected to take our stations in advance of passenger boarding. The air was electric that morning, full of all the excitement and optimism of the adventure that awaited us. I didn't even notice the chill in the air as the sun began to rise over us.

We, Siobhan, myself, and I dare say all of the crew felt we were part of history in the making, a veritable living link between the past and the new, modern future. I suppose we younger crew members felt this more acutely than some of the older ones, but that, I cannot say for sure.

I still remember the dull roar of excited chatter as we were given a tour of the great ship! I could hardly hear what was being said by the matron that took us around for all the ohhhs and ahhhs. Everywhere we looked there was something amazing, almost incomprehensible to take in. From the grand dining halls and turkish baths to the exquisite finishings throughout. Mahogany, crystal chandeliers, the very best linnens I expect money could buy.

Everything was postively gleaming with a fresh newness. Even the kitchen I was assigned to was sparkling with a cleanliness I'd not ever seen. So clean, it was almost a shame to sully it with dirty pots and pans.

We were soon put to work and I didn't see Siobhan until much later that evening, when our shifts had ended. The work was long and hot and the shifts never-ending. But it was honest work and the magnitude of our humble efforts on the larger footprint of history was forever back of mind, spuring us on. We were the crew of the largest, most luxurious, modern sailing vessel to ever grace the seas. Purpose built through the wonders of our advanced age never to sink. Heady days, indeed.

I was the last girl back to the bunk. I remember walking in, weary and heat stained to the lively chatter one would expect from young women 16 - 26. Siobhan was seated cross-legged, her pinafore flowing over her knees. Her eyes were wide and bright, squealed my name.

"Mary Alice," she bounced as she spoke, "you simply must try this custard I brought back from the first-class kitchen, it's a dilly, I tell you, a right dilly!" She thrust a small container and spoon at me.

I tasted it and she was right. It felt like a little piece of heaven in my mouth! So smooth, so creamy! I'd been accustomed to making custard back home, but there was something in the texture, a richness, and the flavour, a robustness I cannot adequately describe.

Suffice to say, Siobhan smuggled custard out of the first-class kitchen for us girls every chance she got. She was a clever one, your Siobhan. While the other staff tried and often were caught swiping expensive items like meats, she simply dished out small portions of custard into covered containers and concealed them in her apron.

Don't be hard on her for that. It wasn't the act of dishonesty you might think of it as. It was more a bit of fun and, to be truthful, we very much relished tasting luxury. The opulence, the spendour of the first-class accomodations and dining, quite frankly, for young working women was too inticing a seductress to ingore. We all did it. I suspect a blind eye was turned for the most part, as long as we weren't taking too much.

I myself became quite adept at bringing back bread and cheese. And Agnes, a serious, stout girl from Leeds, with a button nose and a sharp, wised-up manner, was somehow able to liberate a bottle of whiskey two evenings running.

I don't take pride in saying we all partook, but we did. I didn't care for the taste or sensation. It burned going down and smelled just dreadful. But we did have a fine time.

We chatted, all of us, but particularly Siobhan and I, about life and our dreams and the boys we'd known and those on board. Many of the young men abord the ship were quite clearly on the make, looking for fun. There was none to be had among our lot, that I can tell you.

Siobhan had more than her share of suitors. This should come as no surprise to you and no doubt doesn't, being as striking a girl as she was. It pleases me to report that she was not one of "those types" of girls. She was not at all interested in boys on the make. She was a good and decent girl.

In fact, she confided in me, our second night, that she planned to marry a young man by the name of O'Malley, James, if memory serves. He was a local boy you'd have known of. A very kind and decent sort, with, as she put it, eyes as blue as berries and hair as black as the night sky.

Young James, it seems, had been courting your daughter and decided to move to America ahead of her to set up land and home. Her intention was to join him there. He, from her telling, purchased a 100 acres in a place called Maine and earned his living primarily from fishing, but also had a small farm for provisions and the like. She was quite proud of him and spoke of him often.

The few days we spent together are days I will always treasure. We girls of E-24 became so close so quickly, we were known around the glory hole area (that's the seafaring slang for staff accommodation) as "Squad 24." And Siobhan and I were as close as two gals could be without being sisters. Perhaps even more than being sisters. I have a sister, two years my senior and I've never shared with her some of the things I shared with your Siobhan.

I could go on and on about all the fun we had when we weren't working hours on end in hot, sweaty conditions, but that's not the purpose of this letter. I provided you this look into our life at sea to let you know your daughter was happy aboard the Titanic. And more than that she was loved, by everyone she encountered and especially by me.

It's the events of April 14 and 15 that no doubt are most pressing to you. And it is these events I wish to recount to you now, honestly and without reservation. I only ask that as you read my words, you keep a mind and heart that's open.

On the night of the 14th, we'd all done the usual things we did after work. We gorged on custard and ham pies and imbibed in a little wine that Agnes got hold of. We giggled about the boys on board, the ones that I mentioned before that were on the make, the simps, the goofs, the ones that tried to act all posh, imitating what they saw among passengers and the handful that were quite alright really.

None really looked my way. I was neither surprised nor particularly disappointed in that. I was, as mother said, a sensible looking girl, not beautiful, not unattractive, just sensible. It would, she explained, take young men a bit of time and growing up to appreciate my unique appeal. She was correct. But back to the matter at hand.

After our lively chatter, we settled in for the night. We'd all fallen asleep, even Agnes who was usually the last. And suddenly, I was roused from my slumber by a strange noise. I can't say it was terribly loud. In fact, it didn't seem to stir any of the other girls.

It sounded like scratching and bumps, a crunching of sorts. As if the ship had grazed something or perhaps run over a bunch of marbles or pebbles. Panic filled me instantly and I poked the top bunk where Siobhan slept, waking her.

Waking her woke Agnes, who I can tell you was not pleased. She ordered us to go back to sleep. I told her about the terrible noise, she said it was nothing, that boats at sea make noise. Her grandfather had been a sea captain, so we took her word for it.

I never did get back to sleep. I accepted Agnes' word, but I couldn't help feeling something was wrong. I can't explain why. I knew the ship was unsinkable and I didn't feel as though I were in any immediate danger. All I can say is there was a general feeling, an unspecified sense of dis-ease that filled my soul.

I got dressed quietly so as not to wake the others and peeked out the door. All was quiet. Not a soul was about. I lay back down, trying to settle myself, to calm myself. I was being ridiculous, prone to dramatization, my father would have said.

I may have dozed back off, I can't say for certain. But the next thing I remember is banging on our door. A matron, Mrs. Ellis, was pounding loudly. It was Agnes that got to the door first and called back to the rest of us, "Everybody on deck, we're taking on water!"

The room became a blur of activity as we rushed around collecting ourselves. And we soon saw that outside our door, the entire ship was a rush of activity. The floor was covered with water, enough that our feet got wet and there was a slight tilt to the ship, something akin to riding over rough waters.

Siobhan took my hand. We vowed to stay together no matter what. We were scared, but we had no idea of the danger we were facing. Several officers directed us to help passsengers onto life boats as a precaution. We did as we were told.

Everything on deck was orderly. It didn't seem there was any cause for great alarm, at least at first. Men were standing back, allowing women and children to proceed. I could hear the band playing.

I remember seeing one man, a tall, dapper fellow, helping to lower his heavily pregnant wife into a lifeboat. He then stood back, hands clapsed behind him, tall, relaxed and nodded as the boat took her and several other women and children away.

A rescue vessel was well within sight we'd heard.

Then the mood changed.

As the number of visible liferafts dwindled from 5 to 4 to 3, the panic became evident. People began to become a little more forceful, more insistent. Men began trying to get on and were promptly removed. At one point, an officer shot his pistol into the air. It was a warning to any men that they'd be shot should they try to board the lifecraft ahead of women and children.

People began to cry and scream as the ship became lopsided in the sea. Different classes of passengers asserted their status as a means of securing a place on the remaining safety craft.

We, the female crew were lined up and placed on boats alongside passengers, much to the chagrin of some second and third-class passengers who felt they'd not been afforded the same access as those passengers in first class.

Siobhan and I continued to hold hands as terror engulfed us. We trembled at the uncertainty of our fate, but still held out hope that it would all turn out fine. Such optimisim is the province of youth, I suspect.

Agnes and the others got onto the second to last boat. Siobhan and I hugged each other tight as the waves crashed around us. The water was cold, but the prospect of dying in it was even colder. There were a few passengers in front of us, lined up for the last life boat I could see.

I remember turning to her and saying, "Surely there are more lifeboats?"

And she smiled and nodded, her eyes almost blazing with fright, if green eyes can blaze.

And then, I just blurted it out. I can't explain why. All I can say is I saw that last boat, almost full and one of the crew putting one finger in the air, so as to signify one more would fit. I turned to my best pal, your daughter and quickly blurted out, "I have a confession."

She said nothing, but let me proceed.

I don't even know how the words came from my mouth, but they did. "I'm with child," I cried breathlessly into the wind. "I'm not proud of it," I continued. Then I made up some nonsense of my also having a suitor in America that I was to join and marry.

The officer took Siobhan's arm and hollered, "get in." She pulled back and pointed to me, then thrust me forward, hollering, "she's in the family way, take her!"

I looked back quickly at her as I got into the boat. She nodded confidently, wiping water from her delicate face and called out, "I'll get the next one and meet you."

As we paddled away to safety, it was like time was standing still, except for watching the great ship sinking, slowly, then more quickly from our sight. Another boat never came.

That is my great shame and the source of my terrors and melancholy. That your Siobhan died to save me. She did so believing I was carrying a child that I was not carrying.

I can't tell you why I did it. All I can tell you is that at 17 and faced with the terrifying prospect that your life, a life you've not even begun, is about to end, a person will do anything to preserve that life. And I do mean anything. When that terrifying prospect of your own demise hits your very bones, it will force the best of people to do crazy things.

People always want to say they'd be noble, that they'd make the sacrifice. Some might. Most do not. I watched grown men shove women aside, women with babes in arms, to have an opportunity to be rowed to safety. I watched people turn against their fellow being, asserting wealth and privilege, their station, as a means to secure a place on the lifeboats over those who were less affluent. I watched them blatantly argue that their lives were worth more than another's because they simply had more money.

The will to survive is much stronger than any moral code in some of us and I, sadly, am afflicted thusly.

Siobhan and I held each other and vowed to stick together to the end. I broke that vow in a split-second, desperate bid to save my own life.

I can't even honestly tell you I'm sorry. Yes, of course, I'm deeply ashamed of my dishonesty and my actions.

I've never disclosed any of this to another living soul. Not even my husband. I dare not. He is a man of robust moral character and I fear the stain of shame that would colour his view of me is something I simply cannot bear. To have him look at me with such disgust, or worse yet, pity, no, I just cannot.

I regret deeply that the best friend I ever had died the way she did. But I can't say I regret that I lived. I cannot take that fact back. I am alive. Alive but tormented all of my days.

My nights are filled with dreams of frigid, salty water engulfing me, swallowing me while Siobhan looks on, a menacing look on her face as I struggle to take my last breath, only to wake at the very brink.

I'm haunted by not only the horrors of that night, but even more by the wonderful times we shared. And even more how I dishonoured the pure and loving kindness of a true friend in one fateful moment.

Yet I still can't regret my life. I just can't bring myself to that point. Maybe I should, but I can't. I'm glad to be alive, as tortured as that life is. Reading this, you might wish me dead. I accept and appreciate that.

I write, I suppose, seeking forgiveness. And if not forgiveness, understanding. Understanding for a girl, who at 17, knew nothing and could do nothing more than cling to her very existence by any means necessary. Understanding for a girl that, in the terror of a life and death situation, made a snap judgment and chose herself over her pal. Understanding for a young girl that had no choice at all.

If you cannot forgive me or understand, that's somehting I will have to bear for the rest of my days. But please, do know, your daughter Siobhan Gallagher, at just 19, was and always will be the best friend I ever had. She was beautiful both inside and out. She was better than I was when it came down to the wire.

Because of her, I live today. Because of her, I was able to marry. Because of her, my own child will be born in two short months, not the child I made up, but a real child, conceived of a deep and abiding love years later.

She is never far from my thoughts. I can still see those beautiful green eyes shining and that thick red mane, tied up, although never neatly, every time I close my eyes. My heart is forever haunted with visions of what she might have become. The children she might have had.

Your daughter died a hero so that I could live a coward. If that's all you take from this letter, I suppose that's the best I can offer. Should you wish to reply, my return address is on the front corner of the envelope.

Yours Very Sincerely,

Mary Alice Charlebois (nee Topliff)

I folded the volume of pages gingerly as tears streamed down my face. My heart ached for my great-grandmother and for her beautiful friend. I began to sob, my hands shaking as I placed the letter back in its original envelope.

I wasn't sure what to think. Was my great-grandmother wrong for acting to preserve her own life? Was it a selfish act? Maybe, but without it, I wouldn't be here today. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

Could I be proud of a woman who sacrificed her best friend for her own survival? Could I even judge it? What would I have done in similar circumstances? My head swam with questions that I had no answer to. I was disgusted. I was ashamed. I was incensed. Who does that?

And I was sympathetic. And grateful. And understanding. I wept for her. I wept for Siobhan. I. Just. Wept.

The enormity of her sacrifice. The enormity of my great-grandmother's actions. A split-second lie that saved her life. It was too great to fully comprehend. The more questions that popped into my mind, the less I knew.

All I knew was that my great-grandmother, Mary Alice Charlebois, died days after giving birth to my grandmother, Alice.

Well, not really. I knew one more thing. I had a name for my coming daughter. A proud name. One that carries the selflessness and bravery of a young woman who died so that 110 years later, she could live, Siobhan.