by Clare Flynn
‘Yes sir.’ His voice was barely a whisper.
‘Not that I keep it. I don’t need your money - it all goes back to the parish. Important that you pay your way. That’s settled then. Wait here and the maid will show you to your room. We dine at six o’clock sharp. I won’t tolerate lateness.’
The girl who had let him in returned and led him upstairs. After she left, he gazed around him, taking in his new home. The bedroom was as stark as the drawing room had been elaborate. There was a narrow iron bed, a small rug on the otherwise bare, wooden floor and a chest of drawers with a jug and washstand. The window was curtained in thin, black serge that may well have been leftover mourning fabric. Other than a pair of coat hooks on the back of the door and a wooden crucifix over the bed, that was it. But to Jack it was a palace. For his whole life, he’d topped and tailed on a straw mattress with his siblings: girls one end, boys the other. His parents slept in the kitchen, which was the only other room in the house. This room would be paradise: he would be left alone to think, to write, to read, to dream, with no risk of one of the little ones wetting the bed and no danger of someone’s legs kicking out when they had a bad dream or because they hadn’t enough space. He would enjoy this proper bed with legs, instead of the sack of dirty straw on the floor.
Jack lay on the bed trying to imagine what lay in store for him in his new life, nervous about the prospect of his first day as a proper teacher. His mind raced as he mentally planned his lessons. A gong sounded and he hurried downstairs and stood in the hall looking about him, wondering where to go. He was about to try the door next to the parlour, when he realised someone was watching him. A young woman was standing in the shadows, partly hidden by the coat stand, her voluminous skirts giving her presence away. Jack stepped forward, then hesitated. Was it polite to offer to shake a young lady’s hand? Not that she was that young. At least ten years older than him, he guessed. ‘You must be Miss MacBride?’
‘You can call me Mary Ellen.’
He was surprised that she was prepared to dispense with the formalities so early in their acquaintance, but said, as was clearly expected, ‘My name’s Jack, Miss, Jack Brennan.’
She stepped forward into the light of the gas lamp. Her dark hair was lustrous but with a small streak of premature grey at the temples. Her features were strong and pale as if sculpted from marble. He might have thought her beautiful, but for the dullness of her eyes and the absence of expression on her face.
She put her head on one side as if weighing him up, then turned and walked away, calling over her shoulder. ‘Hurry up, Jack Brennan. Papa hates lateness to table.’
He followed her along the hallway and into the dining room. Another gloomy room, although this time with a feeble fire burning in the grate. The dark green walls were hung with more paintings: mostly featuring schooners making their way through stormy seas.
Mr MacBride was sitting at the head of the table. Without looking up he said, ‘Do you like paintings, Mr Brennan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m something of a collector.’
‘I can see that, sir.’
‘Know much about art do you, lad?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Neither do I.’ He didn’t elaborate on the reason for the collection. ‘Have you met my daughter, Miss Mary Ellen MacBride?’
‘I’ve just had that pleasure, sir.’
‘Pleasure? Don’t be getting ideas, young man.’
Jack swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean – I was just…’
‘Spit it out, man. Say what you mean. Mean what you say.’
Jack swallowed, trying to summon the confidence that he didn’t feel. ‘What I meant to say was it is an honour to make the acquaintance of both yourself and your daughter. I do not wish to cause offence.’
Mary Ellen, standing beside him, started to giggle.
MacBride barked at his daughter. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Mary Ellen. Stop that or you can go to your room.'
MacBride’s tone was sharp and Jack was taken aback. The woman must be approaching thirty and yet her father spoke to her as if she were a naughty child.
She sat down, her brow furrowed by repressed anger. Mr MacBride said grace and then the supper was consumed in complete silence, punctuated only by the sound of MacBride masticating his food. The meal was simple: a mutton stew with boiled potatoes and cabbage, but the portions were generous and Jack had not eaten so well in his life. He wondered whether to initiate some conversation, but decided to take his cue from his host, who ate with remarkable speed.
Jack took the opportunity to study his companions. Mr MacBride was short and stout and clearly enjoyed his food, eating with relish, while his tall, slender daughter barely touched hers, playing with it rather than eating it. There appeared to be little familial affection between them. Dinners at Virginia Lodge were unlikely to be the source of intellectual stimulation or conviviality, but, while the company may have been taciturn, Jack had no regrets about running away from home.
3
Entangled
Jack stood at the front of the schoolroom and swallowed hard. He told himself he was being foolish to feel intimidated by a couple of dozen boys under the age of eleven. Their faces were upturned towards his, with expectant expressions. He realised they were probably as nervous as he was. The register. Start with the register. As he called the names out, he looked up and tried to memorise the faces as each boy rose from his seat and called out, “Yes, Sir”, in turn. He wondered if attendance here would be better than it had been back in Derby, where children were often absent when their families needed them to help at home or if the chance of casual work came along and presented an opportunity to add a few pennies to the family income.
The boys were ranked in rows behind their desks, the smaller ones at the front and the older boys at the back. He began the day with morning prayers, followed by recitation of the catechism, then some arithmetic drill. Maybe the pupils were on their best behaviour for the new teacher, but they were responsive and well-behaved and Jack hoped he would never have occasion to use the cane that hung on the wall at the front of the classroom.
There were two pupil monitors in the class, older boys of around twelve or thirteen. Jack gave each of them a small group of boys to supervise as they worked at their copybooks, while he passed between them, examining each boy’s work in turn. The morning passed quickly and, before he knew it, the bell was ringing to mark the two hour break for the children to go home for their dinners. Jack sat alone in the schoolroom, eating the bread and dripping, wrapped in a linen napkin, that the cook had left out for him at breakfast that morning. He swallowed it down quickly, hunger replacing the nervous energy that had fuelled him all morning. It had already been a long day, and tomorrow would be even longer, as he was expected to spend time with the monitors after class ended, teaching them the lessons they would need to pass on to the rest of the class. At least today, his first day, that would not be required.
The afternoon also went well. The children were lively but keen to learn. They recited the names of the Plantagenet kings and queens without errors and settled to draw pictures of the feeding of the five thousand with the loaves and fishes in their copy books. Jack’s predecessor must have done an excellent job in discipline and teaching the basics. Before he knew it, the final bell was ringing.
Sister Callista was waiting outside the classroom door and came inside after the children had surged out. ‘How did it go, Mr Brennan?’
‘Well, I think, Sister.’ He grinned. ‘I really enjoyed it anyway.’
‘That’s good to hear. Children learn better if their teacher is enthusiastic. They are a bright bunch and made good progress with Miss Oxley, so I hope you will keep them on a similar track.’
‘I’ll do my best, Sister.’
‘And so you will. You can do no more. I expect great things of you, after the confidence Mr Quinn had in you. I would have preferred a qualified teacher, but as long as you do a
good job and work hard, all will be well. I will sit in on one of your lessons, maybe in a day or so, once you’ve had a chance to get to know the children and get over your inevitable nerves.’ She smiled and added, ‘Welcome to St Bridget’s. I’m delighted to have you here. Now I want you to meet the probationary teacher who is looking after the little ones.’ She moved to the doorway and called out, ‘Miss Hewlett, come and meet Mr Brennan, our new member of staff.’
A young woman, about his own age, entered the room. She was small, slightly built, with light brown hair and enormous brown eyes. As she stood in the doorway with the afternoon sunshine behind her, Jack was reminded of a vision of the Virgin Mary, bathed in light.
He tried to swallow and prayed his face wasn’t giving away what he felt. Was that a blush suffusing her face as she looked at him? She was the loveliest creature he had ever seen. It was as though she were bathed in a radiant light. The room swirled around him, everything blurring into background. He wanted celestial trumpets to play – why didn’t they? Showers of roses should be falling from the ceiling – why weren’t they? Where were the choirs of jubilant angels? They were singing in his head. Jack felt an urge to rush forward and wrap the girl in his arms and crush her small body against his. Instead he coughed nervously and forced the words, ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss,’ out of his parched throat.
With a nod in acknowledgement of him, and a slight bob towards the headmistress, Miss Hewlett left the classroom. Jack wanted to run after her, but stood rooted to the spot, uncertain what to do or say. He’d forgotten Sister Callista was there and jumped at her voice.
‘I’ve a school governors’ meeting,’ she said. ‘Can’t be late for that. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Brennan.’ The nun patted his arm and left the room.
Jack gathered up his books, grabbed his cap from the hook on the back of the door and rushed outside, hoping to catch up with Miss Hewlett in the street, but there was no sign of her. To burn off his energy he ran all the way back to his lodgings, heart hammering in his chest from the exertion and his excitement. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks to his father for giving him such a good pasting and being the catalyst for the dramatic change in his fortunes. Life was good.
As he burst through the gate into the walled garden, he cannoned into Mary Ellen MacBride. She jumped aside, half stepping into a flower bed and catching her billowing skirts on a rose bush.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss, I’d no idea there was anybody there.’
The woman tugged at her gown, trying in vain to disentangle herself. ‘It’s torn now. Completely ruined. I shall have to go and change. Will you set me free?’
Jack knelt down on the pathway at her feet. How was he to extricate her clothing from the thorns without causing her ankles to be revealed? The only way to free her was to put one hand under her skirt while the other worked the rose free from the other side, but he didn’t want to do that. It would not be seemly. Swallowing nervously and looking around to make sure they were not observed, he took the fabric into his hands and shook it gently.
‘That’s not going to do it,’ she said. ‘Hurry up and get on with it. I can’t stand here all day'
More conscious of the need to protect her modesty than she appeared to be, he inserted his hand between the outer layer of her gown and the multiple layers of petticoats underneath, so that there was no risk of touching her leg. It was an awkward operation and he silently cursed his fingers which had turned into a series of uncoordinated thumbs. As he struggled to disengage the fabric he was conscious of her leg pressing against his forearm. Shocked, he looked up, thinking maybe she had lost her balance. Her eyes met his but gave nothing away, yet at the same time she unmistakably increased the pressure of her leg against him.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Stop looking at me and get on with it. I’ve important things to do and Papa will be going out soon. I don’t want him to see me leaving. Do hurry.’
He worked the fabric free, just as the stentorian voice of Mr MacBride crashed into his ears.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doing, Brennan? Mary Ellen, go to your room.’
‘But, Papa, I was going out for a walk.’
‘You’re not going anywhere. Go indoors. Look at the state of you.’ A long strip of torn silk trailed from the hem of her gown.
Mr MacBride turned to Jack. ‘I’ll see you in my study. Before supper. At precisely twenty minutes before six o’clock.’ And with that he swept past them down the pathway and out of the gate.
To Jack’s horror, Mary Ellen’s face was streaked with tears.
‘Look what you’ve done, you horrible boy. He’ll take all my privileges away. I’ll be stuck inside this miserable house for the rest of the week and I’ll go completely mad. I will. I promise you. Quite mad.’ She stamped her foot on the path, sending up a small spray of gravel stones. ‘It’s not fair. It’s all your fault.’
Her words turned into a wail as she gathered up her skirts and ran into the house. Jack remained rooted to the spot, paralysed with fear. Was his host going to tell him to leave? Would he tell Sister Callista what had happened? Would Jack lose his job? Just as he’d landed on his feet it looked as though the ground was to be knocked away from under him. He thought of Miss Hewlett and nearly cried out with frustration. Surely he hadn’t messed everything up just as he had begun to imagine the possibilities for his future?
4
Act of Contrition
Jack waited in the hallway outside his host’s study. The maid, Nellie, sullen as always, had indicated the room to him. Checking the time by the long case clock in the hall, he raised his hand to knock on the door, but MacBride’s baritone preempted him by booming out, ‘Enter.’
The study was warm, warmer than any other room in the house, a generous fire crackling away in the grate. It was also bright, despite the wood panelled walls and the inevitable oil paintings, as the gaslights were blazing. MacBride was sitting behind a large mahogany desk and there was another man sitting in the only armchair in the room. MacBride waved Jack towards a Persian rug in front of the desk, where he stood, feeling like a naughty pupil. It would not have surprised him had a dunce’s cap been placed upon his head. Neither of the older men got up.
‘Father O’Driscoll, this is Jack Brennan. I’d high hopes of him. He came recommended by a school in Derby, but I caught him this afternoon taking liberties with my daughter.’
The priest crossed himself and then folded his arms. He had a ruddy complexion with an even redder bulbous nose. His head was bald on top and very shiny as though he polished it every day.
‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ It was the priest who spoke.
‘It was an accident. I meant no harm nor disrespect. I opened the gate too quickly and ran straight into Miss MacBride and caused her to catch her gown on a rosebush. I was releasing her from its clutches when Mr MacBride came upon us and I can quite understand how the situation could be misconstrued.’
‘Misconstrued, eh?’ the priest said. ‘You are a very fortunate young man to be the beneficiary of Mr MacBride’s hospitality. He has never had any trouble with previous lodgers and I trust this is not an early warning of problems with you. As the widowed father of an only daughter, Mr MacBride has placed his trust in your honour as a Catholic young man and does not want to see that trust abused…’
‘No, Father.’ Jack looked down, studying the intricate pattern of the Persian rug and noticing how scuffed his shoes were.
The priest went on. ‘Mr MacBride has long been a pillar of the parish, but it is difficult for a man alone to be responsible for the upbringing of his daughter. Without her sainted mother – God rest her soul – to provide a guiding hand and a good example, Miss MacBride faces some difficulties and Mr MacBride and I expect you to respect her and her position. If there is ever any indication of you trying to become familiar with her, you will be asked to leave immediately and you will be dismissed from the school without references. Do you understand
my meaning?’
‘Yes, Father, but…’
‘No buts. You are a lodger here. You are not a suitor.’
Jack thought he was going to choke. The idea of his being a potential suitor to the woman was risible.
‘I expect to hear your full confession at church tomorrow after you have finished your teaching duties. In the meantime, say ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys and make an Act of Contrition.’
It was a moment before Jack realised the priest intended him to do it there and then. The two men were looking at him, waiting for him to start. Burning with humiliation and a sense of injustice, he dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of the desk, closed his eyes, joined his hands and began to mumble the prayers under his breath.
‘Speak up, lad. God wants to hear you.’
Jack didn’t see Mary Ellen again for the rest of the week. He noticed Nellie carrying a tray of food up the stairs and wondered if the young woman was to be shut away in her bedroom indefinitely, but on Sunday morning she appeared in the hall ready to accompany her father and Jack to Mass. As the three of them walked to the newly-built church next door to the school, Mr MacBride kept up a monologue detailing how he had donated substantial sums of money to fund its construction. Jack gathered that this wealth had been amassed through shipping tobacco but was wary of asking questions. As for Mary Ellen, she didn’t speak to him and he didn’t attempt to speak to her. Avoiding conversation seemed the wisest course if he wanted to avoid more humiliation on his knees in front of the Irish priest. Besides he had no wish to get to know her better; she seemed a troubled woman.
In the crowded church that morning there was, however, one person whom he was anxious to know better. Miss Hewlett was seated a couple of rows behind them across the aisle. Whenever the congregation rose or knelt, Jack took advantage of the mass movement to twist his head to catch a glimpse of her. She appeared oblivious to his presence. Walking back to his seat after Holy Communion, he tried to catch her eye but her head was bowed over her missal. His efforts did not go unnoticed. When Mr MacBride left the pew to pass around the collection plate, Mary Ellen leaned her head towards Jack’s and whispered, ‘You’re sweet on that teacher, aren’t you?’
