Treasured Kin and Fancy Things

April 14, 1912

The message came in from the Cape Race lighthouse station at 10:37 pm

“RMS Titanic has hit a burg. Taking on water."

Marg Delaney, near the end of her shift at the St. John’s Department of Posts and Telegraphs, dropped her cup and covered her mouth with her hands. Her coworkers could see from the stunned look on her face that something horrible had just happened.

With no more information than was printed on that small message, Marg couldn’t help but feel dire concern for the crew and passengers of the ship, and even more so for her best friend, Ellen Youden, who was pregnant with her fourth child, and whose sister was on that boat.

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Ellen had been eagerly awaiting her sister's arrival. Elizabeth would be travelling to St. John's in three weeks after a brief visit to New York. It had been ten years since the two sisters last saw each other, and it was all Ellen spoke about when meeting up with her friend Marg. Whether it be for shopping, gardening, or just a good gossip session with their afternoon tea, Marg knew well her friend's excitement regarding her sister's upcoming visit.

When Ellen left her family home in Ireland, Elizabeth was only 12 years old. The youngest child in the Hennebery brood of twelve, she was a full eight years younger than Ellen. Her big sister couldn't wait to see the baby of the family all grown up.

Ellen met her husband, Samuel Youden, while employed as a seamstress in Galway. A fisherman, who worked on a trawler, Sam's boat made port in Ireland several times over the north Atlantic cod season. From the moment he met the blue-eyed Irish beauty, he fell head over heels in love and, in a short time, convinced her to marry him and move across the sea to the island nation of Newfoundland.

Elizabeth was devastated that her favourite sister was moving so far away, and Ellen was equally heartbroken at having to leave her baby sibling behind. They promised to write letters weekly and have Elizabeth come to Newfoundland for a visit when she was old enough to travel on her own. After ten long years of dreaming and planning, the time was finally here.

Elizabeth could have come earlier and on a more direct route had she wanted, but when she heard that the new extravagant passenger liner Titanic was landing in Ireland, she insisted on sailing on that ship. Rail service took her from Galway to Cork, followed by coach to her destination in Queenstown.

"Lizzie always liked the fancy tings," Ellen told her friend Marg when she joined her at Bowring’s on Water Street to purchase a welcome gift for her younger sister.

She recalled a story from back home when she was a teen and Elizabeth was still a child. Ellen always enjoyed her afternoon tea in a bone china cup and saucer, part of a set that was gifted to her mother. Elizabeth was intrigued by the beautiful design of the china but disappointed that she could not enjoy a cup with her sister, as she was too young for tea.

“I’m gonna get me the fanciest teacup in the world when I grows up," she told her big sister.

Ellen, choosing a gold-trimmed, three-legged china cup adorned with green leaves and pink and white flowers, and paired with a matching saucer, knew she had found the perfect gift.

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Marg sat on the bench outside her friend's home after finishing her shift at the telegraph office. She knew that she should be the one to tell Ellen about the ongoing disaster 400 miles off the coast but didn't know how. She also knew how upsetting the news would be and was rightly concerned about her friend and the baby she was carrying.

As she stood in front of the two-story white home, Marg could see candlelight shining from the upstairs windows. She knew Ellen must still be awake, so she slowly shuffled to the front door and tapped on the knocker.

After trying for more than five minutes with no response, Marg felt strangely grateful for not having to speak with Ellen that night. She assumed her friend was probably taking her nighttime bath and unable to answer the door. Surprised that her husband Sam didn't answer either, Marg decided it was probably for the best. She would come back first thing in the morning, hoping Ellen didn’t receive the terrible news from someone else first.

Marg arrived outside her friend's home at 7:00 am. Whereas the previous night she had received only scant bits of information on the fate of the RMS Titanic, that morning, she understood more of the terrible tragedy that occurred. RMS Carpathia had arrived at the scene of the accident at 4:00 am to find no sign of the ill-fated luxury liner and was in the process of rescuing survivors.

When Marg entered the room, Ellen was sitting up in bed, swaddling her newborn baby. Her tear-stained face and forlorn cries made it immediately apparent to Marg that her friend had already heard the news.

Unsure how, but wanting to help, Marg wrapped her friend in her arms and held on tightly through Ellen’s shaking sobs. She was terrified for her sister, and Marg knew it, but she also knew that Ellen had just gone through childbirth and tried her best to keep her friend calm.

Marg’s words of reassurance didn’t do much to soothe her fears. As the days went on and news of rescued passengers began trickling in without Elizabeth Hennebery’s name on the list, Ellen’s hope was fading further with each new message.

Two months later, when the last of the recovery ships, SS Algerine, came back to port without her, Ellen had to accept the sad truth that her baby sister Elizabeth may never be found, that she would be counted among the untold number of unfortunate souls resting forever in Davy Jones' Locker.

“Sugar, Nan?”

I turn to my grandmother in time to see her wiping her eyes with her floral handkerchief as she shakes her bowed head "no." I place two cups of tea on the table and turn back to cut slices of her freshly baked raisin bread. The smell of cinnamon and sweet molasses wafting through the kitchen is typically a Pavlov's dog trigger for me. I love, love, love my Nan's raisin bread.

My appetite is fading, though. Standing back on to her, buttering a slice of the still-warm bread for each of us, I'm unsure how to react. The sight of my Nan wiping tears from her eyes, her beautiful blue/grey eyes, is new to me. I've never seen her cry before, not at her sister's passing and not even at my Pop's funeral.

Nan is a kind but stoic woman. The wife of a plumber, she raised six children without much help from my seemingly always-at-work grandfather. She kept a spotless and welcoming home, grew her own vegetables, and babysat seven of her grandchildren while our parents were at work.

I've never really seen her sad or angry. Sure, we would get out of hand sometimes and get on her last nerve, and then she would chase us with the straw broom that she used to sweep the kitchen.

“I’ll beat the devil outta ye heathens, yet," she would yell while chasing us out the door.

None of us ever really got hit by that broom, though, and we could all see the grin on her face, even from fifty feet away.

Holy water was another threat she used to calm us down and get us out from under her feet. When she reached for the bottle, we knew it was time to scatter. Nan, a devout Irish Catholic, told us the holy water would burn our "devil skins." We didn't know if it was true, but we weren't taking any chances, being the evil little imps we were. Out the door, we'd run, with our arms covering our heads to not get our faces burned, as she dipped her fingers in the bottle and flicked the drops our way.

“Now git outdoors and play, but don’t get yer clothes dirty, and if ye goes to the park, stay outta the water."

Of course, we didn't listen. Victoria Park was not much more than a five-minute walk from our grandparents' home and included an outdoor swimming pool. On a warm summer day, it's the first place we headed. Then we'd spend the next hour or so riding the swings or spinning each other at warp speed on the merry-go-round until we were ready to puke. It got the job done, though. By the time we were ready to head back to Nan and Pop's place, there was no trace of wetness on our clothes.

I don’t know why my grandmother is so afraid of water. I have never seen her so much as dip her feet in any of the many ponds and rivers we picnicked at during our childhood. She always had a panicked look whenever any of us went in past our knees, and being reassured by our parents that we all knew how to swim, didn't seem to be much reassurance to her at all.

My Mom insisted that my brothers and I learn to swim. She was never allowed to herself and eventually seemed to inherit the same fear my Nan has. Unfortunately, it spread through the family. The only one of my grandmother's six children who can swim is my Mom's youngest sister, who took it upon herself to learn as an adult.

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I finish preparing the raisin bread, give Nan her saucer of melted cheese from the oven, and join her at the table. Still unsure what to say to her and feeling a strange mix of wonderment from the story she just told me and sadness from seeing her tears, I simply ask if she's ok.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she replies. "Just feeling a little nostalgic, thinking about old times."

I thank her for sharing a part of our family history I had no idea about. I am near twenty years old, but until this moment, had never known we had any connection to the Titanic tragedy, much less that I had a great-aunt who died that night. I can’t help but wonder if my Mom knows, and if so, why she didn’t tell us.

I also can't help but wonder why Nan is thinking about this right now, and not to sound cruel, but why she is crying over an aunt, she never met. Of course, I can't ask her that. Instead, I ask if her mother told her anything about her Aunt Elizabeth other than what she's already told me.

She tells me she was named after her, which has already become apparent, but she doesn't remember her mother speaking of her often. She does remember attending memorial services and lighting candles in church for her aunt on her birthday.

I clear the empty teacups from the table and offer to help prepare vegetables for Sunday dinner tomorrow. She declines my offer, saying she is tired and will do it in the morning. I can once again see the sadness in her eyes, and it's breaking my heart.

Not wanting her to go to bed feeling down, I try to lighten her mood. After all, I am an "odd sock," as she's told me numerous times, so I know I can get a smile out of her or even a laugh if I change the subject. There's no better sound in the world to me than Nan's laughter. It's genuine gut-busting laughter, it's contagious, and sometimes it's downright scary.

Like it was last Sunday, after our weekly family gathering. When the last of the stragglers had left for the night, seems someone forgot to close the front door. I was in the washroom adjacent to the kitchen when I heard the door slam, and my sweet, innocent Catholic grandmother’s voice say

“What da hell is wrong with dat crowd I raised? Are dey all born on a fuckin’ raft?”

Entering the kitchen with an ear-to-ear grin, I ask, "What kind of raft was that, Nan?"

As the saying goes, she nearly pissed herself laughing when she knew she was caught. She was chuckling so hard, in fact, that I thought she was choking. Thankfully she was fine, and I was laughing just as hard.

I want to hear her laugh again, so I tell her a few lame jokes, which cause her to giggle. I ask if she wants to hear some "real" jokes, but she threatens to wash my mouth out with soap, so I digress. It's great to see her smile and hear her laughter after witnessing her sadness just a few minutes ago.

We talk about her birthday, which is coming up in two days.

“You got a big day coming up on Monday, Nan. How are we gonna celebrate?”

“Ah, don’t you worry about dat. It’s nothin’. Just a nudder year closer to da sod.”

“But it’s a big one, Nan. You know the family’s gonna have something planned.”

“Don’t you worry ‘bout dat, and don’t ya dare buy me anything.”

She says the same every year. She doesn't want anyone to make a big deal of her birthday and insists it's just another day. Yet, every year, she circles the date on her calendar. When I tease her about that, she says she circles that date so she can remind everyone not to bother. I don't believe it, but I can't help but giggle.

Nan thanks me for spending time with her and listening to her story and then says she's ready to tuck in for the night. I get up to hug her before leaving. As I am holding her, I notice the cup and saucer under the lit bulb in the china cabinet and wonder if it's the same one that was meant for her aunt Elizabeth. I don’t ask, though. She’s in a better mood now, and I don’t want to bring her down again.

I squeeze her a little tighter as my eyes travel up the wall to the floral-painted calendar. I feel a cold chill running down my spine when I fix on the circled date. Somehow, it’s all starting to make sense now in a surreal but spooky way. Her sadness, her fear of water, and the real reason she circles her birth date.

My Nan will be 70 in two days, on April 14, 1982.