Letters From a Patchwork Quilt

by Clare Flynn

  ‘Would you really talk to them, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have a go, Jack. I’ll give it my best.’

  Jack smiled his gratitude, but while he dared to hope, his head told him it was a lost cause.

  A few days later the row erupted. Bill Brennan, as was his custom on a Saturday night, had stopped for a few pints at the Catholic Men’s Club with his eldest son. Bill was slightly the worse for drink when he came home, alone. The girls and their mother were sewing and Jack and Tommy were at the kitchen table, working their way through a pile of the family’s shoes, trying to coax a shine out of them. There was no polish left, so they were reliant on elbow grease and spit and were making little impression.

  The front door slammed and they all looked up, nervously.

  Bill Brennan didn’t bother with a greeting, but lurched over to the table, grabbed Jack and dragged him to his feet. Before Jack knew what was happening, his father had landed a heavy blow to his head that sent him reeling across the room. Annie Brennan jumped up and tried to remonstrate with her husband, but Bill had already lunged at Jack again, dragging him across the room by his shirt collar.

  ‘Don’t you go telling this family’s business to other people, you little snurge.’ He shook his son, still holding onto his collar with his left hand and raising his right to strike again.

  Annie stepped between them and pushed Jack behind her, squaring up to her husband. ‘Leave the lad alone, Bill. There’s no call to hit him.’

  ‘Mind your business, woman.’ He shoved his wife out of the way, sending her crashing against the wall. ‘Get me the belt’ he shouted at Cecily.

  ‘What’s he done?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Tittle-tattled to the teacher about not wanting to be a priest. Bringing shame on the family. He’s a holy show.’

  In a surge of defiance Jack blurted, ‘I’ll say what I like. I’m eighteen in a few weeks. I can make my own mind up. It’s my life!’

  ‘Not while you’re under my roof it isn’t. Not while you’re eating the food your brother and I work to put on this table, you lazy little sod. I’ve told you already. You’re going to be a priest and that’s the end of it. And you can start off by examining your conscience and apologising to your mother. Then you can get yourself to confession before Mass tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not going to Mass.’

  Bill’s face distorted with rage. He grabbed the belt from Cecily’s hands and turned to his other children. ‘You lot get upstairs. Bed!’

  Tommy looked as though he was about to protest, but Cecily pushed him ahead of her out of the room, clamping her hand over his mouth.

  Annie Brennan caught hold of Cecily’s arm as the children were leaving the room and hissed at her to run round to the Club and fetch Kenneth home.

  Bill Brennan flexed the leather belt between his hands. ‘Come here. Take your punishment like a man.’ He swung the belt and brought it down hard across his son’s back.

  Jack cried out as the edge of the buckle hit him with force. It was like being branded with fire. Before the next blow, he tried to dodge sideways but his father caught his arm. Years of heavy work as a plasterer had given Bill Brennan a muscle mass like granite and he pinned Jack against the wall and lashed another blow down on his back. Jack bit his tongue as the pain seared through him. Don’t cry out. Don’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Eyes blind with tears, vision distorted. There would be more to come. Blood in the mouth tasting of metal. Sting of leather on buttocks. Buckle smashed against bone. Whole body on fire. Burning, burning, cutting. Make him stop! God, make him stop.

  In a sudden rush of adrenalin, he screamed at his father. ‘You’re nowt but a big bully, a miserable coward and I hate you. You want my life to be as empty as yours but it’s not going to be. There’d be plenty of money to pay for the books if you didn’t drink it all down the Club.'

  The words filled him with new found courage and he turned to parry the next blow.

  His father, unused to defiance, had a face as red as a beetroot and launched himself at Jack, but a fit of coughing overwhelmed him. He sank to his knees, desperately trying to take in air but was so overcome by coughing that he turned away and was sick on the floor. Annie grabbed her son, pushing him in front of her through the doorway.

  ‘Get over to our Maisie’s. Sleep there the night. He’ll have forgotten by morning.’

  Jack didn’t go to his aunt’s house. Instead he staggered along the familiar route to the school and hammered on his teacher’s door. Mrs Quinn, the teacher’s plump and unsmiling wife, answered and looked at Jack with ill-concealed hostility.

  ‘It’s Saturday night. He deserves a break from school matters. You’ll have to wait till Monday.’

  Jack was about to answer, then, seeing the glow from the lights inside the small house and feeling the warmth from within, he slumped to his knees and passed out in front of the astonished woman.

  Richard Quinn emerged and he and his wife helped Jack to his feet and brought him inside. A cup of tea was produced, a blanket draped over his shoulders and he was led to a chair by the fire.

  ‘What happened, Jack? You look done in.’

  ‘My father was angry that I told you about not wanting to enter the priesthood. He beat me. Only stopped when a coughing fit came on.'

  It was such a relief to be here in this quiet house, close to the warmth of the fire. Jack felt safe at last, but overwhelmed with tiredness.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’d no idea he’d react that way. He listened when I spoke to him and I thought he was going along with your wishes. That’s how it was when I left him. He was on his way to the club. Maybe he thought better of it later.’

  ‘Maybe the drink did.’

  The teacher said nothing, but exchanged a look with his wife. The woman left the room then returned with a bowl of hot water and a towel. She told Jack to take off his shirt and quietly treated Jack’s bleeding back, while her husband talked to the boy.

  ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’ Mr Quinn asked.

  ‘I’ll not go back. That’s it. He’s gone too far this time. If the coughing hadn’t started I reckon he’d have killed me. And I can’t take back what I said to him either.’

  ‘It’s never too late to take back words said in haste. It’s never too late to ask Our Blessed Lord for forgiveness.’

  ‘It is if you meant every word you said and don’t believe in God.'

  ‘You’re not serious about that? About not believing?’

  Jack looked away, suddenly ashamed. ‘No. But I’m sick of being browbeaten about the church.’ He winced in pain as Mrs Quinn continued to swab his wounded back. ‘I’m a Catholic but not a good enough one to want to be shut up in a presbytery with a couple of other priests and a crusty, old housekeeper, like our Dominic. Church is for Sundays and Holy Days, not for seven days a week and every day of the year for the rest of my life. Please help me, Mr Quinn. I’ve decided to run away.’ He looked up at the teacher, unable to disguise the desperation in his voice.

  The older man sighed and shook his head. ‘Run away?’

  ‘As far from here as possible.’ As he said it, the idea grew more appealing.

  ‘It’s no good knowing what you’re running from. You need to know what you’re running to’ said Mr Quinn.

  ‘I don’t know where.’ Jack started to doubt himself. Where indeed would he go? He’d never set foot outside Derby before.

  ‘I didn’t say where. I said what you’re running to. It’s not the same thing, Jack.’

  Jack looked up, his face suddenly animated and his voice excited. ‘You know what I want, sir. I want to be a teacher like you. I want to keep on learning. I want more to my life than working, sleeping and going to Mass.’ He hesitated then added, ‘It’s not only the teaching. It’s writing. I want to be a poet.’

  ‘A poet, eh? Well, Jack, you’ve not picked an easy road to walk. I hope you don’t expect to make a living from it?’

  ‘Not at first…’ Jack looked down, em
barrassed and fearful that his teacher would deride him as his family had done.

  ‘You do have a talent, lad. I’ll give you that. And it’s good to have a goal in life. Something to work towards.’

  Mr Quinn jumped up and moved across the room to the table and shuffled through some papers. ‘As it happens, I received a letter recently from an old friend who was hoping I’d be interested in moving down south again.’

  ‘Bart. Don’t get involved.’ Mrs Quinn’s voice was anxious.

  ‘I am involved, Viola. If I hadn’t spoken to the lad’s father none of this would have happened. I feel responsible.

  ‘There’s a vacant teaching post in a new school on the outskirts of Bristol. The head mistress is a nun. She’s my cousin. We grew up together in Ireland. She’s a good woman. They’re looking for a male teacher for the boys. They’d prefer a qualified teacher, but I got the impression they’re short of candidates - and they must have a Catholic, so you’ll need to keep that lip buttoned and make sure you don’t miss Mass.’

  Jack’s face broke into a grin. ‘Really, Mr Quinn? You think they’d have me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack, but it’s worth a try. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation. You’ll have to convince the head, Sister Callista, you’re up to the job – and I can’t promise it won’t have already gone.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. I’ll take my chances.’ Jack was overjoyed.

  Quinn reached into a drawer of the sideboard and handed Jack a bag of coins. ‘That should cover your train ticket and pay for some digs until you get settled.’

  ‘Bart!’ Mrs Quinn put her hand over her mouth. ‘What are you doing?’ She threw Jack a resentful look.

  ‘I can’t take that, sir. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Consider it a little bonus for covering for me last month when I had the influenza. It’s only right you should have it rather than me when you did the work.’

  ‘Bart, that’s our rainy day money. What are you thinking of?’ The woman looked close to tears and Jack felt uncomfortable.

  ‘The lad deserves a chance, Viola. It’s a rainy day for him right now.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back, sir. I promise. Every penny.’

  ‘Aye, lad, I know you will. Only when you can afford it though. Get on your feet first. Now try and get some sleep. I’m sorry we haven’t a bed to offer you but that chair’s comfortable enough.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Mr Quinn.’

  ‘Mind you tell your folks before you leave.’

  ‘That’s the only thing, sir. I daren’t. Da will stop me. And I don’t want to tell Ma as she’d get in trouble if he found out she knew and hadn’t told him. Please don’t say anything. Leave it between us, sir Once I’m settled I’ll send news to Ma. Give it a few days then let her know I’m all right.’

  Mr Quinn nodded, wished Jack goodnight and shepherded his wife from the room.

  Jack sat with his feet tucked up under him in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket, the wounds on his back forgotten. He stared into the glowing coals and felt a mixture of trepidation and excitement at what lay ahead. He was going to be a teacher. He was going to be free of the looming threat of the priesthood. In a few hours he would be far away, experiencing his first locomotive trip, his first journey outside Derby. It would be sad to leave his mother and brother and sisters, but he would not miss his father. He never wanted to see him again as long as he lived.

  He felt as though he was not just beginning a new chapter in his life, but opening a whole new book.

  2

  Virginia Lodge

  Everything happened so fast. Jack struggled to believe he wasn’t dreaming. First there was the railway journey – from Derby to Birmingham and then on to Bristol. He’d never been on a locomotive before and he loved it – even the smoke and steam from the engine and the cold draughts of icy air through the windows. There was the thrill of getting on board in one place and getting off in another, of imagining the lives of the other passengers, where they were going and why, what they were escaping from, their jobs, their secrets, their hopes and dreams. He’d never left Derby before. Never been outside those crowded streets. His heart thumped with fear and excitement about what lay ahead.

  Mr Quinn’s letter of reference must have been glowing – or Sister Callista, the headmistress of St Patrick’s must have been desperate – most likely both. The nun almost jumped for joy when Jack presented himself at the little school on the outskirts of the city. She had been teaching the older boys and girls together in one overcrowded classroom and was relieved to be able to hand the boys over to Jack. She had a broad smile and gentle eyes and Jack immediately liked her. Before taking the veil she had clearly been an attractive woman.

  She arranged for him to lodge with a parishioner and his family, brushing aside his suggestion that he could stay in a working men’s hostel.

  ‘Good heavens no, Mr Brennan. We don’t want you having to mix with non-Catholics. Much better that you’re in a good Catholic home. I’m going to send you to Mr MacBride who is a benefactor of the school and does much for the parish. He has given board and lodging to members of the teaching staff before.’

  She showed little curiosity about Jack’s circumstances and why he had left the industrial Midlands to come to Bristol. He wondered if she was afraid to enquire for fear of discovering something that would prevent her employing him.

  He made his way to the address she gave him, carrying the small knapsack Mr Quinn had packed with a set of clean underwear and a shirt. The house, Virginia Lodge, about a mile from the school, was set behind a high wall, and surrounded by a lawn and a dense shrubbery. Fancy. Out of his world. Jack was nervous. His skin felt clammy and he looked at his dirty, down-at-heel shoes. He’d never set foot in a place like this before. The past twenty-four hours had tipped his world on its axis. Travelling on the railway had been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him and now here he was about to take up residence in a very grand house. He checked the piece of paper the nun had given him, in case he’d made a mistake in following her directions, then mounted the steps and rang the doorbell. He could hear it echoing through the large house and was tempted to run away.

  The door opened. A young woman, dressed in black, stood on the threshold, an inquisitive look on her face.

  ‘Mrs MacBride?’ His voice sounded high and warbly to him, so he took a breath and tried to lower his register. ‘Sister Callista at St Patrick’s told me you might be willing to take me in as a lodger. I’m the new schoolteacher. It’s all written down in here.’ He thrust an envelope into the woman’s hand.

  ‘I’m the maid.’ She rolled her eyes then added, ‘You’d best come in and wait in the parlour. There is no Mrs MacBride. I’ll find out if Mr MacBride will see you.’

  Blushing at his error, he followed the woman across the stone-flagged hallway and into a room so crammed with furniture that he could barely find a passageway through. The maid didn’t suggest he sit, so he positioned himself in front of the ornate, marble fireplace and looked around while he waited. The fire was not lit and the room was chilly and gloomy. Heavy, green velvet curtains sucked up the pale, watery, winter light. The outside of the window was half covered with ivy. The velvet curtains were overhung by a second set of silk hangings that were draped in festoons and more elaborate than anything Jack had seen before. Exotic plants in huge pots were positioned throughout the room, some delicate and fern-like and others with droopy red flowers that hung down like icicles of blood. The furniture was over-stuffed and studded with buttons. Even the mantelpiece was decked out like the windows, covered with a patterned green velvet cloth with little silk balls dangling from a fringe all around. The dark green walls were covered in paintings and gilt framed mirrors. Jack’s family didn’t own a single mirror in the house back in Derby, let alone paintings. They certainly didn’t have carpet or stuffed furniture or even curtains. What kind of money must it take to furnish a place like this? Jack wondered how an
yone could possibly be that rich. He felt shabby, threadbare and conscious of the cardboard which was lining the inside of his shoes.

  The door burst open and a portly man with enormous sideburns entered. He looked Jack up and down, then moved towards him, hands behind his back. ‘You’re the new teacher then?’ He waved a piece of paper in the air and said, ‘Sister Callista says you are highly recommended by your previous employer.’

  Jack nodded, struck dumb by the man’s presence.

  Mr MacBride evidently didn’t expect an answer, as he carried on. ’St Bridget’s is a new school and there is a small but growing number of pupils. The school board and parish committee are keen that the boys have a good Catholic male teacher to counteract some of the bad influences they get at home. St Bridget’s was built with my money and I’m determined I’ll not see it go to waste. Understand, young man?’

  Jack nodded again. As he shook MacBride’s outstretched hand, he felt the sweat transfer onto his host’s palm and was mortified as the man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand.

  ‘I hope I’ll give satisfaction, sir,’ Jack managed to stutter.

  ‘We’ll have you out as quick as you like if you don’t measure up. Now you want bed and board here?’ asked MacBride.

  Jack was reduced to nodding again.

  ‘Do you go to Mass every Sunday, young man? Confession?’

  Again, all Jack could do was nod. Nerves had made him mute.

  ‘We keep early hours and I expect you to do the same. No gallivanting about or keeping low company. And no overindulging in alcohol.’

  ‘I don’t drink, sir.’

  ‘Good. Good. We live modestly. Plain simple food. There’s just my daughter and me and the staff. A cook, a coachman and a housemaid. My wife passed away three years ago. Did Sister Callista explain that you will be expected to pay three shillings a week for your keep?’