Echoes of Destiny: Part 19
Day Trip
Kieran invites the Bransons and Mary for a day at the beach while they take a break from investigating Mary's identity.
The train ride to the beach was filled with the gentle rhythm of the tracks and the soothing sound of the ocean breeze that seeped in through the open windows. Mary and Tom sat side by side, sharing snippets of conversation and stolen glances as the scenery passed by. The book of poetry lay in Mary's lap, its pages fluttering occasionally in the wind.
As the train drew closer to the beach, the excitement in the air was palpable. Families and groups of friends chatted and laughed, their anticipation adding to the cheerful atmosphere. Mary couldn't help but feel a sense of joy bubbling up within her. It was as if the worries and uncertainties of the past were momentarily cast aside, replaced by the promise of a day filled with sun, sand, and shared moments.
The train eventually came to a gentle halt, and the Bransons and Mary disembarked, meeting Kieran at the station exit, then making their way to the sandy shore. Breid set up a comfortable spot for their picnic, spreading out a checkered blanket and arranging the food in a neat arrangement. Mrs. Branson unpacked sandwiches, fresh fruits, and a thermos of tea, while Mary settled down with the poetry book, ready to lose herself in the verses of love and longing.
Tom took a moment to stretch his legs and admire the vast expanse of the beach before him. He turned to Mary with a smile, gesturing toward the sea. "Shall we take a walk along the shore? The waves have a way of inspiring contemplation."
Mary returned his smile, tucking the book under her arm. "I'd be delighted, Tom."
They strolled along the edge of the water, their footsteps leaving imprints in the soft sand. The sun glistened on the waves, casting a golden hue on everything it touched. As they walked, along the surf they discussed the poems in the book Mary brought with her. "I always find the poems on first loves to be so enchanting".
Tom began to speak about his thoughts on love, his voice carrying a sense of sincerity and depth.
"Love, to me, is not just a fleeting emotion," Tom mused. "It's the connection that withstands the tests of time and adversity. It's the kind of love that lingers in the quiet moments, the shared glances, and the feeling of being truly understood."
Mary listened intently, her heart swelling with a mixture of admiration and affection. "It's a beautiful way to look at it," she replied softly. "To find someone who sees you, truly sees you, and cherishes every part of you."
They continued their leisurely walk, lost in conversation that flowed effortlessly between them. Tom shared his thoughts on relationships built on mutual respect and partnership, while Mary nodded in agreement, her own ideals aligning with his.
As they meandered back to the picnic area, Mary couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment settle over her. The day at the beach had provided a much-needed respite, a moment of clarity amidst the uncertainty that surrounded her. And as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting a warm glow over the sand and sea, Mary knew that this was a memory she would treasure – a memory of a love worth having, of shared dreams and whispered conversations, and of a journey that was only just beginning.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a soft, golden glow over the beach as Mary and Tom sat on a driftwood log near the shoreline. The rhythmic sound of the waves created a soothing backdrop to their conversation.
Mary gazed out at the water, a dreamy look in her eyes. "You know, Tom, there's something enchanting about first love. The innocence, the excitement, the way it fills your heart with butterflies. It's like stepping into a world of possibilities."
Tom smiled gently, his green eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and wisdom. "Ah, first love," he mused. "It's true, Mary, there's a certain magic to it. But you see, I've always been more intrigued by the lasting kind of love. The love that stands the test of time, that weathers the storms, and grows even stronger with each passing day."
Mary turned to him, curiosity piqued. "And why is that, Tom? What's so special about being someone's last love?"
Tom's voice took on a sonorous quality as he began to speak, his lilting Irish accent adding a touch of poetry to his words. "Well, you see, Mary, when you're someone's last love, it means you've walked through life's journey together. You've shared moments of joy and moments of sorrow, and you've held each other up when the world seemed to crumble around you."
He paused, his gaze locked with Mary's. "Being someone's last love means you've found a soulmate, a partner who knows you in ways no one else does. It's about knowing that no matter what comes your way, you'll face it together, hand in hand."
Mary felt a flutter in her chest as she absorbed his words. She had to admit, there was a profound truth to what Tom was saying. It was a sentiment that resonated deeply within her, stirring feelings she hadn't fully recognized before.
Tom's eyes held a mixture of warmth and intensity as he continued, his voice growing softer. "There's a poem that captures this sentiment beautifully. It's called 'The Dutchman,' and it speaks of a love that lasts a lifetime, through all the ups and downs." He leaned in closer, his gaze unwavering. "Would you like to hear it?"
Mary nodded, her heart racing slightly. Tom's words had cast a spell over her, and she was eager to hear more.
Tom cleared his throat and recited the lines with a quiet reverence:
" The Dutchman's not the kind of man
Who keeps his thumb jammed in the dam
That holds his dreams in,
But that's a secret that only Margaret knows.
When Amsterdam is golden in the summer,
Margaret brings him breakfast,
She believes him.
He thinks the tulips bloom beneath the snow.
He's mad as he can be,
but Margaret only sees that sometimes,
Sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes.
The Dutchman still wears wooden shoes,
His cap and coat are patched with the love
That Margaret sewed there.
Sometimes he thinks he's still in Rotterdam.
And he watches the tug-boats down canals
An' calls out to them when he thinks he knows the Captain.
Till Margaret comes
To take him home again
Through unforgiving streets that trip him,
though she holds his arm,
Sometimes he thinks he's alone and he calls her name.
The winters whirl the windmills 'round
She winds his muffler tighter
And they sit in the kitchen.
Some tea with whiskey keeps away the dew.
And he sees her for a moment, calls her name,
She makes the bed up singing some old love song,
A song Margaret learned when it was very new.
He hums a line or two, they sing together in the dark.
The Dutchman falls asleep and Margaret blows the candle out.
Let us go to the banks of the ocean
Where the walls rise above the Zuiderzee.
Long ago, I used to be a young man
And dear Margaret remembers that for me."
Mary listened, entranced by the rhythm of his voice and the emotion he infused into the verses. As he continued, she felt a sense of connection, as if Tom's words were speaking directly to her.
Tom's recitation trailed off, and they sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his words lingering in the air between them. Mary looked at Tom, her heart full, and found herself embracing the idea of a love that endured – a love that transcended time and circumstance.
"Tom," she whispered, her voice soft, "that's a love worth having."
Tom's eyes held a mixture of tenderness and longing as he met her gaze. "Yes, Mary, it is."
In that moment, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the beach was bathed in twilight, Mary felt a profound connection with Tom. The discussion on love had brought them closer, in a shared understanding of what it meant to truly love and be loved – whether it was a first love that ignited like a spark or a last love that burned with a steady, enduring flame.
Letter from Wakefield
3rd of June 1912
The sun had set, casting a warm orange hue across the room as Tom unfolded the letter from Mr Wakefield. Mary watched him anxiously, her fingers slightly trembling with anticipation.
Tom's brow furrowed as he read the contents of the letter, his expression growing more sombre. He sighed and looked up at Mary. "I'm afraid Mr Wakefield wasn't able to locate the jeweller. There are too many of them to track down without more specific information."
Mary's heart sank. She had hoped that the necklace might hold the key to unlocking her identity, but it seemed like yet another dead end. She let out a frustrated sigh and slumped back in her chair. "It looks like we will have to go to England Mary, if you want to find your family". Mary nodded resignedly. "But how will I travel to England when I don't have any identity papers?" Mary asked.
Mrs Branson, ever the practical one, spoke up. "Well, Mary dear, there might be another option. Have you considered getting baptized? It's a form of identification that's accepted in many places. And if you were from England, as we suspect, it's likely that you would have been baptized in the Church of England."
Mary's eyebrows furrowed as she considered the suggestion. "Baptism? But I don't even remember my religion, let alone if I was baptized."
Breid chimed in, her voice thoughtful. "Well, it's not just about religion, Mary. Baptism is often seen as a rite of passage, a way of officially entering a community or society. It might be a practical solution for your situation."
Mary leaned her chin on her hand, deep in thought. "I suppose that makes sense. But is it right to get baptized if I don't remember anything about my beliefs? What if it feels insincere?"
Tom interjected, his voice gentle. "Mary, sometimes we have to make practical choices in difficult circumstances. Baptism could provide you with a form of identification that you desperately need right now. And who knows, it might even help trigger more memories for you."
Mary looked around at the earnest faces of the Bransons, their concern for her well-being evident in their eyes. She sighed and nodded slowly. "You're right. It's worth considering, especially if it helps me get to England and find out more about who I am."
Mrs Branson smiled warmly. "We'll support you, Mary, no matter what you decide. And who knows, maybe this will be the key that unlocks the mystery of your identity."
Mary took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The decision weighed heavily on her mind, but she felt a glimmer of hope. "Alright, I'll do it. Let's explore the option of getting baptized. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find some answers along the way."
Note: The Dutchman is actually a ballad credited to Michael Peter Smith. Personally I think Liam Clancy version is the best check it out here: The Dutchman-Makem & Clancy 7/10 - YouTube
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