Letters From a Patchwork Quilt

by Clare Flynn

  Jack was the first to speak. ‘Were they bothering you, those lads? Were they frightening you?’

  Eliza smiled up at him. ‘Not really. They were just teasing. A bit of high spirits.’

  ‘What did they say?’ He felt his jaw tighten as he thought of the men and how they had surrounded Eliza.

  ‘Oh, nothing much really. They were only there a minute or two before you rescued me.’

  Jack snorted. ‘Rescued you? I didn’t even get the chance. I’d have liked to flatten that fellow. I’d have given him another scar to make his fizzog look a bit more symmetrical. I wish Father O’D hadn’t come along.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad he did. There were six of them and I’d like to keep you in one piece.’

  ‘Would you?’ He grinned at her. ‘Wouldn’t you like me if I got bashed up and looked all scarred like that fellow did?’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t like you to get hurt and I certainly wouldn’t like you to look like that fellow - not because of the scars but because if you looked like him you wouldn’t look like you and I like you looking like you.’

  She was blushing. Jack leaned in, about to kiss her, looking into her eyes and recognising that she wanted him to do that too, when the moment was fractured by a long, shrill, wolf whistle, followed by a slow handclap.

  Jack stepped away from Eliza as though stung. The beauty of the moment was shattered. He had felt as though they were the only people in the world and now it was horribly apparent they were not. The six men were standing in a line, blocking the path.

  Eliza moved back towards him, placing her body closely in front of his so he could feel the hardness of her spine against his chest as she leant back against him, making contact despite the fullness of her skirt. He reached out and put his hands on her upper arms, moved her aside and stepped in front of her.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked the gang of men.

  Eliza tugged at Jack’s arms, trying to jerk him around to head in the opposite direction, back towards the open plateau and the crowds.

  Seeing her intent, three of the men broke away and moved round them, spacing themselves apart to block the avenue in the other direction.

  The man with the scar spoke first. ‘You Catholics are at it all the time, aren’t you? Like a load of bloody rabbits. Is that what you were going to do then, Jackie boy - take your Irish lassie behind a tree and give her a good banging? Aren’t you scared of what that old papist will say to you in the confession box when you tell him what you’ve done?’

  Jack could feel Eliza’s small hands squeezing his arms tightly and heard her whisper. ‘Don’t rise to it, Jack. Just keep quiet. They’ll get bored and go away.’

  ‘I bet that’s how the old priest gets off, isn’t it? Whacking-off listening to all the sins you lot share with him? What a fucked-up religion.’

  Jack breathed in deeply, willing himself to stay calm, trying to work out his next move. He didn’t care what they said about the church, but he couldn’t bear to hear them speak like this about Eliza.

  The scarred ringleader spoke again. ‘I’ve heard you Catholic girls go like a steam turbine.’ He mimed the action, pumping his hips back and forth rapidly while his cohort sniggered and imitated him. ‘Isn’t that right, girl? He doesn’t look like he’d be up to that. Just a scrap of a lad. Maybe his little balls haven’t even dropped yet. I bet you’d like to do it with a real man wouldn’t you, lass?’

  It was too much for Jack. He jerked his arms free of Eliza and lunged at his antagonist, running at him, head down, butting into his stomach. Taking the man by surprise Jack launched him backwards so they both landed in a heap on the ground. The man tried to get up, clutching his stomach in pain and gasping for breath. Jack followed up his assault by raining punches onto his head. Thumping him. Pounding his fists into the man’s skull. Pummeling him. He wanted to beat his brains out. All the repressed anger and fury at his own father came out for all the beatings he’d had. Blood on his knuckles. Sweat pouring from his face into his eyes. Blind to his own pain. Deaf to the screams of his victim.

  Then he was grabbed on all sides by the other gang members, wrenched backwards and thrown onto the ground where they all set about kicking him. He was hazily aware of Eliza crying and calling his name and he curled himself into a tight foetal ball as the kicks descended on him from all directions. He tucked in his head and tried to protect his stomach and his balls but their boots pounded into him, thundering blows onto him, until it all faded into a merciful nothingness when he passed out.

  He awoke to find himself lying with his head in Eliza’s lap as she stroked his blood-matted hair. He was distantly aware of someone else and realised a doctor was listening to his chest with a stethoscope. He looked up into Eliza’s eyes then it all faded away again.

  He spent two days in bed, swathed in bandages and drifting in and out of sleep. He was nursed by a reluctant Nellie, who had a sulky expression on her face whenever she entered the room and offered him nothing in the way of conversation. Late on the second day, hearing the sound of someone knocking at the front door his heart lifted in the hope that it was Eliza come to visit him, but the footsteps on the stairs were heavy ones.

  Father O’Driscoll entered the room without knocking and after looking around in vain for a chair, plonked himself down on the end of the bed. Jack moved his feet out of the way.

  ‘How are you doing, lad? No broken bones I hear. The doctor says you’re a lucky man. That was quite a kicking you took.’

  Jack nodded and tried to pull himself up the bed, but gasped as a sharp pain pierced his lower back. His kidneys had taken a hammering.

  The priest tutted. ‘The incident has been raised with the police. Clearly a shocking example of anti-Catholic brutality. The bishop has asked me to give him a full report of what happened. If you tell me I can have a statement drawn up for you to sign.’

  ‘I don’t remember much.’

  ‘How did they insult the church? What did they say?’

  ‘They were trying to goad me generally. Called me a Paddy. And then they were offensive about Miss Hewlett.’

  ‘Never mind that. She had no business walking alone with you. What did she expect? She’ll get no sympathy from me. No, I want to know what they said about the church. Things have been quiet lately on that front and the bishop has been hinting about holding talks with his Protestant counterparts regarding educational issues across the city. We don’t want that now, do we, Mr Brennan? We don’t want interference in how we educate our children, from a bunch of Proddies. Obviously, if there is a resurgence of anti-catholic feeling, such talks will be out of the question. Do you follow what I am saying, young man? Do I make myself clear? Now, tell me what they said about the Catholic church.’

  Jack hesitated. The priest was oblivious to the physical harm inflicted by the gang and hostile to Eliza. All he cared about was turning the situation to his political advantage. Jack was mindful of Father O’Driscoll’s patronage and fearful of upsetting him.

  Jack chose his words carefully. ‘They were generally being insulting, but to be honest, Father, it was more about Miss Hewlett. They were trying to imply that as a Catholic girl she was of low morals.’

  ‘Well, they have a point about her morality. But you say they attributed that to her Catholicism?’

  Jack winced as he pulled himself further up the bed until he could lean against the headboard and look the priest in the eye. The man was nothing but a bully and one had to stand up to bullies. ‘Miss Hewlett has done nothing wrong. Nothing. Do you understand me? I took on those lads because they were saying bad things about her and it strikes me, Father, you’re now doing the same and I’ll not have it.’

  He slumped back against the pillow, adrenaline pumping through him, but a sense of satisfaction infusing his whole body.

  The priest went red in the face and little globs of spit sprayed from his lips as he responded to Jack. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that. If the girl is prepared to go walki
ng with a man, unchaperoned, she’s got no one but herself to blame if she gets a reputation. She’s supposed to be a teacher not a kitchen skivvy. Dr Morrison says you’ve had concussion so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming that your insolence is down to its after-effects.

  ‘I have prepared this statement for you to sign, summarising what took place on Clifton Down.’ He handed a sheet of paper to Jack.

  Jack read it and looked up at the priest. ‘I can’t sign this, Father. Not without some changes.’

  ‘Sign it!’ The priest was angry.

  Jack took up his pen and struck through the offending sentences, then signed his name underneath and handed it back.

  The priest scanned the paper then screwed it into a ball and tossed it across the room. ‘You will regret this, Brennan.’

  9

  The Choir

  Eliza was avoiding him. He had hardly seen her since the fight on Clifton Down. Their dinnertime trips to the park had ceased and when he went in search of her each day, she had always already left the school to eat her dinner elsewhere. In school hours they were occupied in their separate classrooms. During the quiet study periods, as his class scratched away at their slates in silence, he was reduced to moving close to the partition wall where he strained to hear the faint sound of her voice addressing the infants on the other side. When the bell rang at the end of classes she left at once, while Jack had to stay on to teach the monitors. Walking home every night he was keenly aware of her absence and tortured himself trying to think of a pretext to meet her. He walked past her lodgings, wanting to knock on her door but lacking the courage. What held him back was fear. Fear that his foolhardiness might cost her her job. Whatever Father O’Driscoll had said to her had had its effect. But underlying this was also the fear that she didn’t want to see him any more: that she no longer loved him. He had been beaten by those men. He had failed to protect her and he felt weak, emasculated, ashamed and afraid that she saw him in the same way.

  Even as these negative thoughts were weighing him down, the memory of her looking at him would come into his head and he was overcome with a desperate need to see her. Every time he closed his eyes he would see hers. He had to find a way to meet her outside school hours. Months of meeting only at dinnertime, on the all-too-brief walk home after school, and exchanging furtive glances across the aisle during Mass, had already pushed his self control to its limit. This current enforced separation was intolerable.

  He was consumed with rage and injustice when he thought of the insults O’Driscoll had heaped on Eliza, while, on the other hand, the priest was evidently unaware of the behaviour of Mary Ellen MacBride, which merited such insults. Mary Ellen was a plaster saint, apparently regarded by the priest and her father as a virtuous woman. Jack wanted to scream and punch things when he recalled her inappropriate behaviour in the carriage. Meanwhile, he could reveal nothing of it while being forced to listen to calumnies heaped upon the head of Eliza.

  When Sister Callista summoned them both to her room, a couple of weeks after the picnic, Jack was trembling with fear that further sanctions against them had been recommended by the priest. His anxiety was compounded with nervousness about being in the same room as Eliza. He was overjoyed at the prospect of being near to her at last, but terrified that she might give him the cold shoulder. When he entered the room Eliza was already there. As soon as he saw her face he knew it was all right. She still cared for him. Her eyes were smiling and she gave him a look of tenderness and concern, but said nothing, waiting for the nun to speak.

  The two of them stood side by side in front of the desk, waiting while Sister Callista shuffled papers on her desk. At last she looked up.

  ‘Do you sing?’ she asked.

  Jack looked at Eliza, seeking a cue from her as to how to answer.

  ‘I can hold a tune,’ the girl said.

  Jack shuffled on the spot. ‘We used to sing at home sometimes. Irish ballads mostly. And at High Mass – I can sing the Tantum Ergo well enough.’

  ‘There’s a choir starting up in the parish. We need some young voices. Every Thursday, seven o’clock until nine. You’ll have to eat your suppers quickly. Rehearsals will be here in the school. We plan to be ready to perform in time for the opening of the new parish hall. Can I count on you both?’

  Jack felt a surge of joy replacing his anxiety.He looked at Eliza and grinned. He wanted to hug her – and Sister Callista too. Then he remembered the priest.

  ‘Does Father O’Driscoll know?’ he asked.

  ‘Know what?’ The nun’s tone was brisk.

  ‘That we will both be in the choir?’

  ‘Why on earth should he? I expect my teachers to set a good example to the rest of the parish and I hope that many other young parishioners will follow your example and join the choir. As no doubt does Father himself. Now, Miss Hewlett, you may go. I’d like to have a word alone with Mr Brennan.’

  Jack watched as his sweetheart left the room, fighting the temptation to run after her.

  ‘I feel it’s only right to warn you that you have somehow managed to get yourself into Father O’Driscoll’s bad books. Do you have any idea why?’

  ‘I don’t think he approves of me.’

  ‘That’s perfectly clear. But why?’

  ‘He wanted me to make up things about the men who attacked me.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He wanted it to look like the reason for the attack was anti-Catholicism and wanted me to sign a statement, but what he’d written in it wasn’t true so I refused. I couldn’t sign up to something false. Was I wrong, Sister?’

  ‘No. You were right not to put your name to a lie. I expect it’s a case of a misunderstanding on Father’s part. He seems to be unduly perturbed by the Bishop’s desire to build bridges across the communities. Personally, I think what is being done by the Ragged School for the education of the poor is only to be applauded. After all, there are more children than we can handle across the few schools we have and anything that helps them to acquire some learning is to be commended, whether it be inside or outside the church.’

  Jack stared at her in surprise. She was making an unveiled criticism of the priest.

  She carried on. ‘Last week Father O’Driscoll found out that three Catholic children, who by rights should be part of this parish, had attended the Ragged School. It was closer to their home and the children have no shoes to walk all the way here. But Father O’Driscoll gave the children a flogging and threatened to excommunicate the parents. Then as though to sugar the pill, he gave the children each a pair of shoes. You know as well as I do, Mr Brennan, the parents will as likely pawn the shoes, so what good will that do? The father in question is too ill to work and the family are destitute. Now they’ll get no education at all. Sometimes I wonder…’

  She turned away from him and stared out of the window as though in a dream. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve said more than I intended but I know I can trust your discretion, Mr Brennan.’

  Realising their interview had come to an end, Jack left the room.

  Any hope Jack entertained of surreptitiously holding Eliza’s hand in the back row of the choir was quickly disabused. The women were grouped apart from the men and all he could see of his beloved was the top of her head. But two whole hours in the same room as her filled him with joy. And he exulted in the possibility of having a legitimate reason to walk her home. As it was after dark, there was no question of her making her way home alone. At the end of the first practice he edged his way to the small group of women with whom Eliza was standing.

  ‘Miss Hewlett? May I walk you back to your lodgings?’

  She looked around her nervously, as though expecting Father O’Driscoll to materialise. ‘I couldn’t possibly put you to that trouble, Mr Brennan.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘I have to walk the same way myself.’ As he spoke he noticed a couple of the younger women giggling.

  The rather large matronly
woman who had accompanied them on the pianoforte spoke up. ‘Go on, Liza. Otherwise I’ll be asking the nice young man to walk me home instead.’

  Much hilarity ensued and Jack was about to retreat in embarrassment when Eliza stepped forward and nodded her agreement.

  Outside, they hurried along the dark street, keeping a wide distance between them until well past the environs of the church and schoolhouse. As they reached a patch of open ground, overlooked by a terrace of rather grand houses, they stopped and looked at each other.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ Eliza said. ‘It’s been awful. Not seeing you. Not being able to talk to you. I’ve been worried sick about you. When you missed school and were so badly hurt I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to come to see you but Sister Callista told me not to. But I couldn’t stand it and I went past the MacBrides and stood outside in the dark looking up at the house and wondering which room was yours and whether you might be able to see me.’

  He took hold of her hands but she held them out rigidly in front of her to keep him at arm’s length.

  ‘What did he say to you? Father O’Driscoll. What did he say?’

  ‘Not much. Just told me I was lucky to keep my employment. Told me to meditate on the Blessed Virgin and say the Five Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary every night.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘He accused me of being fast. Said I’d brought what happened upon you myself. You don’t think I’m fast, do you, Jack?’

  Jack’s breath caught in his throat and he moved towards her, gathering her into his arms, but she pulled away again.

  ‘He’s not a good man, Eliza. Never mind the vestments he wears. He asked me to tell lies about what happened. Just to meet his own political ends. I wouldn’t do it and I won’t give you up either. What’s it to him? We’ve done nothing wrong. Why shouldn’t I be courting you?’