by Clare Flynn
That night when he lay in his narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling, he thought of her, hoping he might carry her image with him into his dreams. She behaved as though she believed in him more than he believed in himself. He wished he had her spirit, her fearlessness, her conviction. Maybe with her he might do the things he would never have dared to do himself. Maybe he would send those poems off one day.
He knew he was in love with her, that he could love no other, that he had found his one true love.
6
Reading Lessons
One Saturday morning, after breakfast, seeing the garden bathed in summer sunshine, Jack took his notebook and went to sit on a bench under a chestnut tree. These days his poems as well as his thoughts were full of Eliza. Her image appeared as soon as he closed his eyes and every word that flowed from his pen was in some way inspired by her. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. There was something about her that made perfect sense to him. He felt he had always known her, or had felt her lack before he had known her. Their being together seemed inevitable and incontrovertible. There had never been any awkwardness between them. He supposed some might think Eliza had been forward – making it clear so early in their acquaintance that she liked him, offering her friendship without condition, suggesting they use each other’s christian names. But it was so natural, so unaffected, so without guile, that to him there could be no doubt. They were meant to be together.
He sat under the tree, gazing up at the pale blue sky through the branches, which were starting to thicken out with the buds of new leaves. He whispered her name: Eliza, Eliza. He would marry her. Soon. Why not? She had no family to object to the match. Then he remembered he would have to wait until he had saved enough money. Once married, Eliza would have to give up her teaching post and they would both have to get by on just his salary. He had already repaid the few shillings Mr Quinn had lent him and had sent some money via him to his mother, but it had been returned with a note from his old teacher to say that Annie Brennan had refused to take his money. He’d felt sad to think of her turning the money away, too proud, too hurt, still angry that her favourite son had defied his father and walked away from the family. She would have seen it as an act of betrayal. But this sadness was tempered by a sense of relief. He could save every penny now towards the day he would ask Eliza to marry him. It would be hard. It might take years before he had enough, but once he’d set some money aside as a sign of intent, he’d feel able to ask her to commit to him.
He still hadn’t kissed her. When they sat together in the park during the school dinner break, it took an enormous effort of will to keep from pulling her towards him and pressing his mouth to hers. He imagined himself drowning in the sweetness of her. But he knew that to steal a kiss was to risk her reputation and both their jobs.
He sighed a deep sigh and opened his eyes. Mary Ellen MacBride was standing in front of him, so close that her skirts were crushed against his trouser legs. Involuntarily, he leaned back.
‘I need you to help me,’ she said.
‘Help you? How?’
‘With reading. Papa says I am slow-witted and will never be any good at it, but I think you can help me get better. You’re a teacher. You can show me how.’
He looked up at her, blinking into the sunlight, unsure what to say.
She moved to sit beside him on the bench. ‘Move up a bit.’
He edged along to make room and she sat down, perching at an angle on the edge of the seat so that her gown could be accommodated. She handed him a book. It was a reader, a simple alphabet reader, not unlike those Eliza used with the infants’ class.
‘Is this what you want to read?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it a bit childish?’
She looked mortified and dropped her head. ‘Now you’re going to make fun of me. You’ll tell people I’m stupid.’
‘Of course I won’t, Mary Ellen. I just thought there might be something more fitting for you to read. Something more interesting.’
‘I can’t. It’s too hard. The letters all jumble up on the page and I can’t make any sense of them.’
‘Didn’t anyone teach you to read when you were a child?’
‘Mama. A little. But she didn’t really like doing it. She got cross with me. Papa says it’s not important because ladies don’t need to be able to read, but I feel so silly. I wish I could have gone to school and learned properly. Please will you help me?’ She looked up at him, eyes welling with tears.
‘Does Mr MacBride know? Did you tell him you were going to ask me to help you?’
She shook her head. Then she clasped his hands, placing hers around his. ‘It’s a surprise. I want to surprise him. Please, please, Jack. Help me.’
Jack knew he had no choice.
They started that morning. He quickly discovered that she had not exaggerated when she told him the letters were just jumbled shapes to her. Teaching her was going to try his patience and would eat into much of his free time. Yet he felt sorry for her. Her anguish and humiliation were real. She was ashamed and, it seemed to him, afraid. It was hard to comprehend. Reading and writing had come so easily to him. He tried to imagine what life must be like without being able to do it and was determined to help her succeed.
So it began. Every Saturday morning and for half an hour after supper each evening, except Sundays. They worked in the garden when it was fine and in the parlour when it was not. If Thomas MacBride was aware of the reading lessons, he never mentioned it. Jack did nothing to keep it secret but he did not advertise it either. Slowly, Mary Ellen improved. She would never be a fluent reader, would be unlikely to progress beyond the level of attainment of the ten-year-olds who were to graduate from his class in the summer to enter the workplace. But that in itself was a big step forward from where she started.
Despite their regular meetings he always felt awkward in her company. He was embarrassed at her slowness of wit. And he couldn’t forget her strange outburst after Mass those months ago, even though she never gave any sign of repeating the sentiments.
Jack’s favourite time of the week was Sunday afternoon. He and Eliza were still keeping their friendship secret so there was no walking home together after Mass. Instead they would meet up in the afternoons and take long walks together in other parts of the city where there was little risk of being spotted by anyone from the parish. Not that they were doing anything wrong or improper – but he feared that neither Mr MacBride nor the parish priest would approve of a blossoming romance between two teachers.
They were standing on the Clifton Suspension Bridge, surreptitiously holding hands, peering over the parapet to look down on the river and the gorge below. It was one of their favourite places. They liked to watch the ships passing underneath on their way to the Floating Harbour, or back out to join the Severn estuary and the open sea. The hey day of Bristol had past with the end of the slave trade, then left behind in the rapid race for growth of other more ambitious ports.
‘I used to come down to the docks with my father, before he married my stepmother. He loved ships. He used to say, “Where do you think that one’s going?” or, “What do think they’ve got on board?” and he’d make me think about how big the world out there is. Timber from Sweden. Tea from India. Tobacco and cotton from America. Silk from China. I used to wish I could sail away to places like Zanzibar and Calcutta and sail home again on a big ship weighed down with spices. Of course there was no bridge here then. We used to stand on the top of the cliffs and look down.’
‘Had your father been to sea himself?’
‘No. He used to say if my mother hadn’t come along he’d have run away to sea, but he never got to leave Bristol.’
‘I come from a family of landlubbers. You can’t get much further from the sea than Derby.’
‘Don’t you ever wish you could sail away though, Jack? You know, just drift off into the sunset not knowing where the sea might take you?’ she asked.
Jack pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘Can’t say I do.�
��
‘I’d like to,’ she said. ‘Not to Zanzibar or Calcutta but one day I’d like to go to America.’
‘America? Why?’
‘I don’t rightly know. I think of it as a magical place across the ocean with great cities for me to discover. There was a man in our street left England poor as a church mouse, promising to make enough money to send for his wife and children. Two years later he was rolling in money. They went out to join him in a first class cabin.’
‘How did he make his money?’
‘Something to do with the Civil War. I think he was transporting goods from one side of the country to the other. Probably smuggling!’ She laughed. ‘Everyone in America starts out with nothing and it’s up to them how well they do. I like that. The trouble with England is you have to have money and position to start with or you get nowhere.’
Jack turned sideways so he could look at her, while still leaning on the bridge. ‘Does that matter to you, Eliza? Money?’
She smiled. ‘Not really. I don’t care at all about money itself. I just like the idea of not being held back. Of being somewhere where there’s limitless opportunities. And I like the idea of new beginnings. Of having the chance to make something of oneself. Not being held back because you come from the wrong background.’
Jack turned back and looked down at the river below. ‘Doesn’t it scare you though? The thought of being somewhere so different? Cut off from everything you know?’
She looked surprised. ‘No. I think it’s exciting. Does it scare you?’
‘It does a bit.’
‘But you upped sticks and left Derby and came here.’
‘I know. But it’s one thing to get on a train and travel a few hours and quite another to sail to the other side of the world.’
‘So what do you dream of, Jack, if it’s not foreign lands then?’
‘I like to think of making something of myself, but not in a financial sense. I’d like to do something I can feel proud of. Do a good job as a teacher. Keep writing my poems and then maybe one day find someone who likes them enough to publish them.’
‘You won’t get rich on poetry,’ she said. ‘And you can’t wait for someone to come along and publish them. You have to send them off to be considered.’
‘I don’t care about getting rich. Just as long as I have enough to keep a wife and a family and put bread on the table.’ He looked away as he spoke, knowing as he said the words that she was thinking the same thing he was. Then to break the tension that had suddenly sprung up between them he said, ‘But it sounds like you want to be rich one day?’
She pushed his arm playfully. ‘Now I didn’t say that at all, Jack Brennan. I just want to live a happy life.’
He looked down at her face looking up at his and decided to take her in his arms and kiss her. He leaned towards her, breathing in the smell of her, her violet-scented soap, but she stepped back and, shivering, said, ‘It’s getting cold. We should be getting back, Jack. I’m expected back for Sunday tea at six.’
The spell was broken and he felt a moment of self-doubt. Maybe she didn’t like him in that way at all? He stared down at his shoes, as usual scuffed and battered and today bearing a patina of dust from the track they had followed across Clifton Down to the bridge. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. Why would a girl like Eliza be interested in him? She was pretty enough to have her pick of the parish. He felt dispirited. Was she toying with him? Stringing him along until someone better, someone richer came along?
She slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Why are you looking so glum, Jack Brennan?’ She turned a smile upon him and it was as if the whole day was transformed. The sun, as though it had been waiting for the moment, broke through the cloud and lit up the sward in front of them. His spirits immediately lifted. As they walked back, Eliza pointed out the names of flowers and trees to him. He tried to remember them, thinking he might use them in a poem, a poem like all his poems now, about her.
7
Christmas in Bristol
As Christmas neared, Jack realised he was missing his family. Since he’d been in Bristol he’d tried not to think too much about them, especially since the snub he had received from his mother. His growing preoccupation with Eliza had made it easier. But Christmas had always been special. Since Dom became a priest and Bernie entered the seminary, the two oldest brothers had usually been missing for the Christmas festivities, it being one of the busiest times of the year for the priesthood. Despite their absence, it was always a convivial family time. As money was so tight Annie Brennan, determined to make the most of the festival, put aside a few pennies each week and paid them into a Christmas Club - safe from the reach of Bill on those days when he was short and pressed her for a refund of some of the housekeeping for beer money. The Christmas Club parcel usually contained enough treats to make the day memorable and special for the family.
Being allowed to stay up late for Midnight Mass was special for the younger children and Jack had loved setting out with the whole family in the dark to the church and singing carols on the way home. As he thought about past Christmases with nostalgia, Jack decided to use some of his savings to buy a greetings card to send home to them. He chose one with a small child feeding a robin in the snow. He picked it because the child reminded him of his seven year old sister, Emma. He wrote the greeting inside, carefully blotting the ink and wondering if he would be missed in Derby.
Christmas in the MacBride’s household was a more solemn affair. It had been at Christmas that the late Mrs MacBride had died, the victim of a lingering illness. The only effort at seasonal cheer was a small Christmas tree in the hall, decorated by Mary Ellen.
Jack overheard Nellie grumbling to the cook about it.
‘Darned nuisance that fir tree. It’s me that has to clear up all the needles afterwards. They get everywhere – stick in the rugs and down between the floorboards. I were made up when he said we wouldn’t be having one any more after Missus passed away and then her ladyship started her whining and caterwauling until he gave in.’
Jack was glad that Mary Ellen had made her stand. Although small and bereft of candles, the tree offered a small note of cheer, bedecked with red ribbons and hung with sweets, brightening up the normally drab hallway.
To his relief, there was no exchange of gifts between the members of the household, other than small tokens handed over with great formality by Mary Ellen to the servants, who were required to line up to receive them when the family returned from Mass.
Jack slipped away as soon as the luncheon was finished, leaving his landlord snoring in front of a fire in his study and Mary Ellen noisily practising her scales on the pianoforte. He left by the back door and made his way to the little park where he had arranged to meet Eliza. He hated the furtiveness of their meetings, the way that they had to wrap up against the cold and walk around to keep warm as there was nowhere indoors they could spend time together.
She was already waiting in the park, pacing up and down, stamping her feet beside the small duckpond, frozen over and missing its ducks. As soon as she saw him, she ran towards him, stopping just short of him, uncertain, shy, until he pulled her into his arms and hugged her. The air around them was misty from their breath.
‘Let’s walk,’ he said. ‘We’ll be warmer that way.’
They linked arms and walked along.
Eliza stopped. ‘I have a present for you, Jack.’
‘And I for you, my dear friend.’
‘You first!’
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small brown paper parcel.
‘Let me guess!’ She was laughing as she spoke. ‘A parasol? A nosegay? A puppy dog?’
‘You’re daft, girl. Go on. Open it.’ He thrust the small parcel into her hands.
She gave him her gloves and wincing at the cold, unpicked the tight knot he had tied in the string. It was a glass inkstand.
‘I’ve got you some blotting paper as well but I’ll g
ive you that later. I didn’t want it to get crushed in my pocket.’
‘Oh, Jack. That’s the loveliest present. I’ve never had an inkwell of my own. But what shall I use it for? I’ll have to start writing poetry like you.’ She smiled up at him. ‘No one’s given me a gift since my Daddy died. Thank you, Jack. I shall treasure this as long as I live.’
‘It’s not much. Not as much as I’d like to give you. If I were rich I’d buy you beautiful gowns and dainty shoes and hats with feathers and a tortoiseshell hairbrush.’
‘I think this is far finer than any of those things! I couldn’t give a fig for a hat with a feather. You’ve made me so happy. Now it’s my turn.’
She handed him a rectangular-shaped package. ‘I saved my best ribbon to tie it.’
‘Then you must have your best ribbon back. I want to see it in your hair.’ He opened the parcel to reveal an inlaid wooden box. The marquetry lid showed the Clifton Suspension Bridge, straddling the Severn Gorge.
He gasped. ‘That must have cost you a fortune. It’s beautiful. Such fine work. Oh, Eliza, you shouldn’t have spent so much on me. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say nothing. And I didn’t spend a farthing. My Daddy gave it to me. He carved it himself. He always wanted to be a craftsman but it never happened. He used to make little boxes in his spare time. This was his favourite. He loved the suspension bridge. I told you that, didn’t I? He used to take me there. He made this the year it opened, when I was just seven. He gave it to me for my eighth birthday.’
‘I can’t take it, Eliza. I couldn’t possibly. Is it all you have of him?’
She nodded. ‘But that’s why I want you to have it. To prove how much I like you, Jack. So you can think of me whenever you see it. Now open it. There’s something inside.’
He opened the lid but could see nothing but an empty space.