From the moment the door latch fell, their lives would never be the same. Archie Mullins wasn't built for 'trimming' or much else in truth. A suitcase in one hand and hope in the other, he clutched the ticket as if his life depended on it. Pulling on his britches he stepped over the swill thrown from the windows of Wickham Court and followed the filthy water to the corner of Valentine Avenue, its doorways a witness to everything but love harboured nothing but the stench of poverty. The French Quarter, an open wound festering in the shadow of St Michael's Church would wave him goodbye, there was no going back, not now, an advance on his wages he'd left all but a shilling and thruppence; the White Star Line and boiler room five waiting on the dockside. He could hear her sobbing as she closed the door, his mother's dread full of Irish guilt as deep as the North Atlantic and as unforgiving. He was just seventeen years old, the burden of responsibility settled in the corner of his smile, the morning sunshine ruthless in its quest for honesty told his story without a single word, this was his chance, his only chance, it was April 10th Nineteen Hundred and Twelve...