by Clare Flynn
‘There’s a secret compartment. In the back of the lid. Here let me show you.’
She took the box from him and slid a small panel in the lid. Inside in a tiny space, large enough only to hide a small folded letter or piece of ribbon, she had placed a lock of her hair. Jack closed the panel and looked at her. Her face was open and her eyes shone.
‘I have another surprise for you, Jack. What’s the time?’
‘Three o’clock. You don’t have to go?’ There was a note of panic in his voice.
‘No. We both do. We’ve been invited to tea. To the home of my friends, the Wenlocks. Cora was the teacher you replaced after she was married. Miss Oxley. They live with the parents of her husband Cyril in a big house up in Clifton. They have just had a baby and they’ve asked us for tea and have promised we shall all play parlour games afterwards. And best of all, Jack, we will be nice and warm!’
The extended Wenlock family welcomed Jack and Eliza into their home as though they were part of the family. As well as Eliza’s friend Cora, her husband and baby, there was a full complement of in-laws – Cyril’s parents, his sister and her husband and three children, his younger unmarried brother and a older widowed sister with five children. When Jack and Eliza entered the house, it was apparent the party had already begun. There was the sound of a pianoforte coming from one room, a toy trumpet from another and one small child was spinning a top in the hallway while another ran around perched on a hobbyhorse. The hall and bannisters were garlanded with holly and ivy and mistletoe hung from a chandelier. They were ushered into a room with a blazing fire and gratefully moved closer to it.
As promised, there were assorted games after the high tea had been served and consumed, then someone suggested they do some play reading.
Ernest, the unmarried son, turned to Jack and Eliza, ‘Has to be Shakespeare. Family tradition. We do it every Christmas. I vote for a tragedy.’
Cora looked up from the sleeping baby on her lap, ‘But it’s Christmas, Ernest! We don’t want to make ourselves sad.’
‘No, no, no, that’s the whole point!’ the young man said. ‘We all make ourselves feel terribly sad then we have fun and play some more games.’
Jack looked at Eliza, doubtfully.
Ernest spoke again. ‘I vote Romeo and Juliet. Act 5. Plenty of dead bodies. I’ll be Romeo.’
‘You’re always Romeo.’ His mother smiled at him indulgently. ‘And not Romeo and Juliet – please, not again. Not today.’
Ernest groaned. ‘I was looking forward to dying. I’ve been practising.’
‘For goodness sake, Ernie, it’s a reading, not a full performance. I won’t have you throwing yourself around the floor and pretending to foam at the mouth like you did on my birthday.’ She was trying to sound cross but her smile betrayed her.
Cora said, ‘Let’s do The Tempest. We haven’t had that for a while and there’s lots of parts. You can put on a deep voice, Ernie, and be Prospero.’
‘Perhaps Mr Brennan would like to take the part?’ her mother said.
Jack shook his head vigorously. He didn’t want to be in the spotlight and was already wishing it were time to leave.
‘He can be one of the courtiers.’ Ernest’s voice was dismissive. ‘Cyril you can be Caliban. And perhaps Miss Hewlett would do us the honour of playing Miranda?’
To Jack’s surprise, Eliza clapped her hands together and said, ‘Can I really? How thrilling. I love play-acting.’
As Jack had expected, Ernest Wenlock read the part of Prospero with a loud, blustering declamation that betrayed his lack of understanding of the sense of the words and appreciation of the beauty of the verse. The other participants all gave a reasonable rendition of the scene, albeit punctuated by laughter. There were just two copies of the play, necessitating much elbowing, fumbling, losing of the place and missing of lines.
The hilarity ceased completely though when Miranda was speaking. Jack was astonished at the fluidity and beauty of Eliza’s voice as she interpreted the part. Listening to her words, he felt transported beyond the crowded room with its blazing fire and carried away to the distant island with its airy spirits. Her voice was clear and sonorous and she spoke the role in a gentle and understated way that was in marked contrast to the braggadocio of Ernest’s Prospero and the garbled, giggled speeches of the others. As he looked at her, Jack’s eyes brimmed and he told himself that he had never been happier.
Sister Callista stopped Jack as he was about to enter his classroom.
‘Mr Brennan, a letter has arrived for you and it carries a postmark from Derby.’
Jack had waited over six months for some acknowledgement of his Christmas greeting card so he could wait a bit longer. He’d save the letter until the dinner break.
His hope of a rapprochement with his family faded as he read. The letter was from his brother informing him of his father’s death and telling him that the funeral had already taken place. Jack was stung. He had no time for his father but he was crushed that no one in the family had thought to get word to him that he was dying and invite him to pay his respects. Not even his mother. All this time and not a word from her. Over a year now. He’d spent money he could ill afford on the Christmas greeting card and had swallowed his pride in sending it. He’d even included his father in the good wishes he’d written inside. They’d not even acknowledged it. That was it then. He felt tears coming but brushed them away. Sod the lot of them.
He still had the letter in his hands when Eliza arrived in the park to meet him. He stuffed it into his pocket.
‘What is it, Jack? Not bad news?’ asked Eliza.
‘My father’s dead. Lungs pegged out. Emphysema. All those years of mixing plaster and breathing in the dust.’
‘I’m so sorry, my darling.’
‘He was a rotten devil.’
‘Oh, Jack! Don’t speak ill of the dead. He’s your father. It’s not right.’
‘But it’s true. He was a drunk and a bully and the world will be a better place without him.’
‘You’ll go home for the funeral of course? Sister Callista and I can manage your class while you’re gone.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘But, Jack, even if not for him, go for your mother. She’ll be needing you. And funerals have a way of bringing families together.’
His voice was uncharacteristically curt as he said, ‘Funeral’s already happened so that’s that.’ He turned his head away from Eliza and went into the schoolroom.
8
The Parish Picnic
The annual picnic was the highlight of the Catholic diocesan year. Everyone in the surrounding parishes: parents and children, nuns, priests and teachers, old and young, rich and – more usually – poor, went on foot or took the new horse trams from the city centre, carrying baskets of food and wearing their Sunday best. Their destination was the downland above the city at Clifton.
Jack, as a member of the teaching community, was expected to assist with the supervision of the children as they participated in sprints, sack races and ran with the egg and spoon. Eliza was relegated to serving the refreshments as well as keeping an eye on the smaller children. The whole community was in high spirits and the sun had emerged from behind the clouds that had blanketed the city for days. The afternoon was becoming balmy and everyone seemed set on having a good day, enjoying a welcome respite from the drudgery of work and the deprivations of poverty.
The Down was a popular venue for the townsfolk of Bristol and the surrounding areas, commanding views across the Severn Gorge and the Clifton Suspension Bridge. The plateau was perfect for large groups and for organised games, being flat, grassy and these days grazed by no more than a handful of sheep. Once the races had been run and prizes duly dispensed, the families regrouped, seating themselves on the green sward to consume the victuals they had brought, supplemented by the additional provisions laid on by the parishes and their benefactors, including Thomas MacBride.
The occasion was intended to be
a sober one, but as the afternoon wore on, Jack noticed that many of the men were swigging beer, having hidden flasks of ale about their persons. There was also an organised effort by a couple of Irishmen, who were collecting cash and orders, then deploying young lads at a penny each to run to one of the local hostelries to purchase beer. If the members of the clergy present were aware of this they chose not to acknowledge it. The combination of high spirits, freedom from work, warm sunshine and strong ale was already having an effect on many of the crowd and their behaviour was becoming more boisterous. Jack decided it was time to seek out Eliza and find out if she would be prepared to slip away from the hullabaloo for a walk to Brunel’s great bridge. After several months in Bristol it had become a special place for them. Most of all he wanted to be alone with Eliza.
He wandered around the large, open upland, weaving his way between the families stretched out on the grass, some of the fathers now lying on their backs enjoying a smoke or a sleep in the sunshine, while the mothers ignored their offspring and chatted amongst themselves. There was no sign of Eliza and he began to feel anxious. Had she already left? Was she avoiding him?.
‘Jack Brennan, where do you think you’re going?’ Mary Ellen was sitting on a wooden bench, her face slightly damp with sweat from the heat of the afternoon, despite the fact that she was holding a sunshade in one hand while frantically fanning herself with the other. ‘You were about to walk right past me, you rude boy. Were you pretending not to see me?’ She motioned to the seat beside her. ‘Sit down,’ she said imperiously.
He hesitated, looking around him, still hoping to spot Eliza and anxious that Mr MacBride should not see him with his daughter and misconstrue the circumstances. But Mary Ellen’s expression made it clear she would brook no argument, so he sat down on the bench beside her.
‘Are you having a pleasant afternoon, Miss MacBride?’
‘I keep telling you to call me Mary Ellen,’ she said, her tone testy. ‘And no, I am not. It’s far too hot and I don’t like all these dreadful people everywhere. I feel quite unwell. I want you to take me home at once.’
He looked around again, hoping to find deliverance. ‘Where’s your father? Have you told him you want to go home?’
‘Yes, and he said you were to take me. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘I can’t. I have to be here for the children. We teachers are expected to be present until the end to make sure everyone gets home safely.’
‘Well, it’s not the end and I want to get home safely. So you can take me home now and come back again later if you must.’
‘But your father?’
‘He told me to use the carriage. It’s waiting over there.’ She batted a fly away with her fan. ‘This is so tiresome. I want to go home. I don’t like all these horrid people everywhere.’
Jack stood and gazed around, hoping to spot his landlord so he could seek his corroboration, but there was no sign of him. Sighing, he offered an arm to Mary Ellen and walked with her in the direction of the carriage. He climbed in after helping her inside and positioned himself opposite.
She was smiling, as though in triumph, and started to giggle. Pointing to the plush velvet seat beside her, she said in a breathless whisper, ‘Don’t you want to sit beside me, Jack? I might let you kiss me.’
He blushed, sat down opposite her and stared out of the window, pretending not to hear.
She banged on the carriage wall to instruct the driver and the vehicle moved off. Jack felt her foot brush against the leg of his trousers, then, when it failed to provoke a response, she slipped off her shoe and started to rub her foot up and down his shin. He twisted to one side.
She was laughing again. ‘Come on, Jack. No one can see us.’ She lifted the edge of her skirt and petticoats to reveal her leg as far as the knee.
‘Miss MacBride. Stop that. If your father could see you…’
‘I don’t care. And what’s wrong? It’s just a bit of fun. Would you like to touch my leg? You put your hand up my skirt when you tangled me up in that rose bush. This time no one can see us so I’ll let you touch my knees. Don’t you want to?’
‘No, I don’t. Please stop. This is unseemly.’
She laughed and widened her eyes. With a jolt, Jack saw that she appeared almost maniacal.
‘Unseemly! Listen to you! Anyone would think you knew what you were talking about. But Papa says you were born in the slums of Derby. You’re just the same as all those people on the Down – just with a few more fancy words and book knowledge. I suppose you think you’re better than me, because you’ve been helping me with my reading, but you’re not. You still belong to the lower orders.’
‘Please, Mary Ellen, stop this talk. It makes me uncomfortable.’
She opened her legs and placed one foot one either side of his legs and started to work her feet up and down the side of his calves, while pulling her skirts higher up above her knees.
‘For heaven’s sake, stop it or I’ll get down from the carriage.’ He reached his hand to the door handle.
‘Don’t be a silly boy. You’ll fall out and hurt yourself.’
‘Stop it then.’ He looked about him in rising panic, feeling trapped inside the moving carriage. The horse was moving downhill at a pace and the carriage was lurching and he was jolted forwards almost landing in his persecutor’s lap.
She held her arms out to steady him and tried to pull him into the seat beside her. Jack was suddenly angry and jerked his arms away, moving his body sideways so her feet dropped back to the floor.
She pushed her feet back into her shoes, then shuffled sideways along the seat away from him and looked out of the opposite window. The rest of the short trip was made in silence and as soon as they pulled up outside the house and he had handed her down from the carriage she ran inside.
The driver leaned down and jerked his head at Jack. ‘Mr MacBride wants me to bring the carriage back to collect him but he said naught about there being a passenger.’
With a crack of his whip he pulled away. Evidently Jack’s position in the household as lodger was unworthy of any deference from the coachman.
It was a full hour later by the time Jack got back up to the Down. He had to walk to the tram depot and then wait among the crowds queuing to take the trip to Clifton for a late afternoon stroll.
There was no sign of the parish picnic breaking up. People were snoozing in the sunshine, some singing, some playing ball games, others just sitting and talking. He meandered between the groups, looking for Eliza.
Eventually he spotted her, standing at the edge of the Down, near the roadway which led back to the horse tram terminus. She was surrounded by a group of about half a dozen young men.
Jack started to run towards them, his chest pounding, breathless. He couldn’t bear to think of these strange men talking to her, flirting with her, charming her. Or worse, the idea of them teasing her or being abusive. He called out her name. She looked up, her face breaking into a smile that set his heart racing.
She spoke, her voice artificially loud, staged, clearly for the benefit of the men around her. ‘Here he is. This is my young man. I knew he’d be here in a moment. Very nice to meet you, gentlemen, but now I’ll bid you a good afternoon.’ Her eyes bore into Jack’s as though silently telegraphing him to keep quiet.
He looked at the men. They were youths, a few of them looked younger than he was; the others perhaps a few years older.
A tall man with a scar running across his brow, stepped forward. ‘What you staring at, Paddy?’
Eliza intervened. ‘Come on, Jack. We need to get back to the picnic.’ She grabbed his elbow and tried to steer him away.
Jack stood his ground. ‘A cat can look at a king. And this cat’s not called Paddy.’
‘All you lot are Paddies. Just a bunch of spud eaters and bogtrotters.’
‘I was born in Derby. I’ve never been to Ireland in my life. And my parents were born and bred over here.’ As he spoke Jack regretted his words, felt he was be
traying the children he taught at school, many of whom, both here and in Derby, were from large Irish families. Indeed, his own family was originally from Ireland – even if it were a generation or more back.
Eliza tugged at his sleeve. ‘Jack, please.’
The same man spoke again. ‘Looks like your sweetheart’s getting impatient, Jackie-boy. Better do as she says.’ His face distorted with a lewd expression.
Jack was overwhelmed with anger. It was one thing to insult him but quite another to cast aspersions on Eliza’s character. He wanted to smash the lascivious grin off the man’s ugly face. He lunged at him, but before he could hit his target a hand gripped his shoulder, holding him back. He twisted round to see Father O’Driscoll.
‘Do I know you lads? Don’t think I’ve seen you at Mass before? Why are you lurking on the edge of things here? Come on and join in. Perhaps you’d like to help the little ones play with a football? ’
A tall red-headed man spoke with a sneer. ‘We’re not Catholics.’
‘No? Then you’d better take yourselves off and find something to do with yourselves, hadn’t you, boys? Unless you’d like to become converts? I’d be happy to hear your confessions and set you up for some ecclesiastical instruction. Everyone’s welcome.’
‘Sod that!’ said one.
‘Come on, lads. Let’s bugger off. I’ve had enough of this lot.’ The speaker was the scar-faced man. He slung an arm around the shoulders of two of the others and turned them away towards the road. The other three scowled at Jack and the priest and then followed after their cronies.
Father O’Driscoll turned his attention to Jack and Eliza. ‘As for you two, you should know better than to get mixed up with a bunch of heathens like that. Get back to your charges.’
He walked off, leaving them staring after him until they saw him enter a public house a couple of hundred yards down the road.
Jack reached for Eliza’s hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk to the Suspension Bridge.’
They set off, hand in hand, skirting the large area clustered with recumbent parishioners, sleeping off the effects of the beer in the sunshine. They walked in silence until they reached the Promenade and made their way along in the shade of the avenue of beech and elm trees.
