“The doors to the offices opened and several grimfaced men came out with stacks of freshly-printed newspapers.

E llen hunched her shoulders against the breeze as she stood with Amy in front of the offices of The Glasgow Herald, waiting for the latest issue of the newspaper to be distributed.

It was April 19, and four days earlier the newspaper had published a special edition, with the terrible headline blazing: Liner Disaster. Great Loss of Life. Ellen had read the story in horror. It was unthinkable that the great Titanic had hit an iceberg and sunk. At first the reports had said all lives had been saved and Ellen had breathed a trembling sigh of relief.

Then three days ago the newspaper put out another special report: An appalling disaster has occurred. The White Star officials admit it is probable that only 675 out of the 2,200 passengers and crew on board the Titanic were saved. Yesterday the Carpathia had arrived in New York with the survivors and today that short list would be printed in the newspaper. Ellen prayed she would see Henry’s name.

In the weeks since Henry had declared himself, Ellen had seen him every week for tea or a drive. Once he’d come with her to Springburn and met Ruby and Dougie. Ellen had been surprised and gratified to see how at ease he was in their kitchen, drinking tea from a tin mug and chatting to Dougie.

Blushed

“Did I pass?” he’d asked, his eyes alight with humour as they’d travelled back to Renfrew Street by tram. “Pass?” Ellen blushed at the shrewd understanding in Henry’s gaze.

“Come now, Ellen. You are still holding on to a bit of that silly snobbery. You brought me to Springburn to see if I would turn my nose up at your friends.”

“I brought you here because it’s an important part of who I am,” Ellen answered. “So yes, I wanted to see if you could accept it.”

“I ask again, did I pass?” Ellen couldn’t help but laugh, and she touched his arm lightly. “You passed,” she assured him. “With flying colours.”

Standing in front of the newspaper office now, the April wind buffeting her and Amy, Ellen had a horrible feeling that none of it mattered any more. The night before Henry had left for Queenstown to board the Titanic, he’d kissed Ellen for the first time.

He’d come to Norah’s to say goodbye, taking her hands in his, and telling her again that he loved her. “May I kiss you?” he’d asked, as shy as a schoolboy, and wordlessly Ellen had nodded.

Henry’s kiss had been brief, yet so very sweet. When he’d left Ellen had known what her answer was going to be. She would marry him.

Now Amy slid her hand in Ellen’s as the doors to the offices opened and several grim-faced men came out with stacks of freshly-printed newspapers. Ellen’s heart leapt right into her throat and she squeezed Amy’s hand hard.

“I don’t want to look,” she admitted in a whisper. “Is that cowardly? I almost don’t want to know.”

“I’ll look for you,” Amy said, and went forward to take one of the newspapers. She came back a minute later, the newspaper in one hand, the fresh ink smeared on her gloves. “All right,” she said, her face pale. “I’ll look.”

Numb and cold

Ellen squeezed her eyes shut as Amy started reading the list out loud. “Following is the list of passengers rescued from the Titanic as received by wireless.” Quickly she scanned the list. “They’re in alphabetical order.”

“Just look, Amy,” Ellen implored. “I can’t bear it.” “Madill, Miss Georgietta A.” Amy hesitated and Ellen opened her eyes, her heart, which had moments ago seemed to be in her throat, now plummeting towards her feet. “Minahan, Mrs. L.E.,” Amy read. “I’m sorry, Ellen. He’s not there.”

“Let me see it,” Ellen demanded, nearly ripping the paper from Amy’s hands while her friend watched miserably. She scanned the list, and saw the names in black and white. Then she flung the paper to the ground and turned away from Amy, desperate to compose herself.

Amy laid a hand on her shoulder, but Ellen barely felt it. She felt numb and cold inside, as cold as Henry must have been as he sank beneath the icy water. Oh, she couldn’t bear thinking of his last moments, knowing he was no longer in this world.

“The lists might not be complete,” Amy said. “There is still confusion around the whole thing. There might be more news tomorrow. More survivors.”

Ellen shook her head. “No,” she said flatly. “I know he’s gone. I can feel it.” She turned around, resolute now, thankfully cloaked in numbness. “I must go back to Norah’s. She will want to know.”

Norah took the news stoically, her lips tight as she gave one brief nod. “I suspected as much. It is a terrible tragedy,” she said and left the room.

The whole city seemed to be in mourning as the news rolled in. Over 1,500 dead, many of them Glaswegians who had been part of the ship’s crew.

Ellen felt as if she were in a fog; everything felt muted and distant, even irrelevant. She had not realised she loved Henry until recently, but the fact that she hadn’t even been able to tell him made the pain of his loss all the harder to bear.

Terrible

Two weeks after she’d heard the dreadful news, Ellen returned to Norah’s house to discover a letter from Henry’s mother, Edith McCallister, asking her to call on her.

With trepidation Ellen mounted the villa’s steps the next day. The weather had started to warm and the cherry trees in the garden’s pink blossoms were starting to unfurl.

Nerves leapt in her belly as she remembered the last time she’d climbed these steps, to attend the ball.

That evening had been both terrible and wonderful, for while she’d been miserable hearing the society ladies’ gossip about her, it had given her the determination to succeed.

Now a parlourmaid showed Ellen into the drawingroom; a fire burned in the grate even though the day was warm.

More on Monday

On Renfrew Street was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. For more great fiction, get The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Dave Young