by Clare Flynn
‘Get on with it then, lad.’
The priest’s stomach rumbled loudly and Jack wanted to walk out of the confessional. He wanted to walk out of the town too, out of the marriage, out of everything that had conspired to ruin his life.
He hesitated, then taking comfort from the darkness, he plunged in and told Father Reilly that he was married to a woman he didn’t love. Liberated by the anonymity of the confessional he opened up. ‘I feel nothing for this woman. I despise her for trapping me into marrying her.’
‘Do you have marital relations with her?’
Jack said he had done. Just once. ‘And that’s it, Father. I feel ashamed. I took pleasure from it. I was filled with lust.’ He could feel his skin burning as he spoke, a vein on his temple pulsating, his words barely more than a whisper.
‘The sacrament of Holy Matrimony is a sacred one and there is no shame in having relations with your wife. God has joined you together for the purpose of procreation and it is only natural that you should take pleasure in it.’
‘But I don’t love her. I can never love her.’
‘Love is a gift from God. It is the greatest gift of all. Love God himself and he will help you to find love in your heart for your wife.’
‘But I don’t want to love her, Father. That’s the point.’
‘Do you lust after other women?’
‘I am in love with only one woman, but she is lost to me forever.’
‘And you are not tempted to go with anyone else?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Do you have impure thoughts about your wife?’
‘No, Father. I have never thought about her that way at all – but then when she touched me last night I couldn’t help but give into what she wanted me to do. And I feel ashamed about it.’
‘You have no reason for shame. As long as you take pleasure only with your wife, there is nothing amiss. Your wife is there to provide you with children and keep your home and you in turn must provide for her and care for her. As long as you don’t force yourself upon her?’
Jack was tempted to say that it was the other way around, but he had already said more than he intended.
‘Of course not. It’s just that I feel guilty. I can’t help thinking that I am using her for my own pleasure.’
The priest laughed. ‘Get away with you, son! Be thankful that you’ve a wife who’s happy to share your bed. There are many men who turn to immoral practices because their wives are unwilling. Now, as your penance say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Now let me go and eat my supper.’
20
Employment
The money was running out. Jack was growing more desperate as every day passed and he failed to secure a position. Mary Ellen never left the lodging house, staying in their room all day, emerging only for meals in the communal dining room. Her reproachful looks were supplemented by frequent tears and angry outbursts when she blamed him for their plight and pleaded with him to take her back to Bristol.
He wrote to Tom MacBride, telling him what had happened but received a curt response requesting him not to write again, saying Jack had brought disgrace on himself and Mary Ellen and he was washing his hands of the pair of them.
He contemplated leaving her, walking out of the house and getting as far away as possible. But where could he go? Returning to Derby was out of the question - his pride would never permit it. He longed to find a way to travel to America and seek out Eliza, but he had no funds to pay the passage and were he by some miracle to get there, how would he trace her? And how could he leave Mary Ellen when she was about to give birth? He wondered whether a convent would take her in, but he couldn’t just abandon her, heavy with child, on the doorstep.
Throughout it all he drowned in guilt – his conviction that he had brought all this upon himself, on Eliza and upon Mary Ellen by his failure to face up to what he had witnessed in the alley that night. Had he told her father, or sought the counsel of Sister Callista, it might have been possible to avoid the pregnancy. Then he reminded himself that it would already have been too late – she was already pregnant by the time he saw her in the alleyway.
Every night in their small room in the lodging house, he struggled with his body and his desires. He was disgusted by himself, by Mary Ellen and by what they did together. He slept in the chair for nights then, exhausted, slipped into bed beside her. The sight of her body repelled him, her hard muscular flesh, her long white legs, the growing bulge of her belly, the thick bush of hair between her legs – but in the darkness of their bed he luxuriated in her soft breasts, the warm, secret recesses of her body and was excited by the sounds she made when she reached her climax. Afterwards his own body repelled him more – his inability to control it and its blind, primitive urges that were slaked by this mindless coupling in the dark. One night, as he ejaculated, he cried out ‘Forgive me’ – but knew not whether he was talking to God, to Eliza or to Mary Ellen.
Several weeks after they had arrived in Middlesbrough, Mrs Grainger asked to see Jack in her private parlour. None of the paying guests were ever invited to step beyond the communal dining room. Jack was nervous about what lay ahead.
‘Mr Brennan, you owe me two weeks rent. When do you expect to pay me?’
‘I’m sorry. I hoped I might be able to delay it for a few days, in the expectation of obtaining employment this week.’
‘And where might you be looking for work?’
He looked down, avoiding her eyes, feeling the shame burning his cheeks. ‘I’ve been to every school in the town and many outside. I don’t know what to do or where else to look.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I’m sorry for your plight. And especially with your wife being due so soon, but we can’t go on like this. Even if you were able to pay the rent, I can’t have a baby here. There are no families. I took you in as a favour to Father Reilly as you are a Catholic, but I understood it would only be temporary. It wouldn’t be right for Mrs Brennan to have her baby delivered here. No, no, not right at all. Most of my guests are professional men, commercial travellers and the like. They wouldn’t tolerate being woken by a crying baby. You do understand, don’t you?’
Jack clenched his fists, feeling his fingernails cut into the flesh of his palms.
She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘It seems to me you have to rethink your position. If you cannot be a schoolmaster then you must seek alternative employment. There’s always the iron foundry. You may be lucky and get taken on there. It’s worth a try.’ She looked him up and down, somewhat doubtful herself. ‘But you don’t strike me as the sort of fellow to work in a place like that. Those fine white hands. And you don’t look strong enough. Is there anything else you might do?’
Jack looked at her, his eyes brimming. ‘Teaching’s all I’ve ever done.’
She stood up. ‘I’ve an idea. Wait here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ She left him sitting there in the stuffy parlour, which smelled of pot pourri and Mrs Grainger’s eau de cologne. There was a canary in a cage. It started to sing as soon as the landlady left, as though making fun of Jack and his plight.
When she returned, she was rubbing her hands together and smiling. ‘I’m so glad I thought of that. There’s a public house near the iron foundries, on Colliers Street, The Tudor Crown. The publican died recently and they need to find a new tenant. The boss of the brewery, Mr Bellamy, is a parishioner at St Saviours and lives in the next street from here. His wife’s a friend of mine. He’s agreed to consider you as the replacement landlord. He’d lined someone up but his wife told me yesterday the fellow’s let him down at the eleventh hour. The job comes with accommodation. It’s above the premises but quite spacious. Jobs like that don’t come along very often. He’ll see you at the Crown at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. No promises, mind. If he doesn’t like you he won’t take you. But he’s willing to give you a chance.’
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br /> Jack jumped to his feet and grasped her hands. ‘Thank you, thank you, Mrs Grainger. I won’t let you down. I’ll do my best and I won’t forget your rent.’
The Tudor Crown was a large corner pub. It was relatively recent in construction, but already had a tired look, with the windows caked in grime and the brickwork blackened with soot. The building was in a busy stretch of the road occupied by a wide variety of shops from ironmongers and boot-makers to fancy goods merchants and fishmongers. The road was intersected by a grid of residential streets, all lined by small, uniform terraced dwellings thrown up in a hurry by builders trying to keep up with demand for housing. Looking around him Jack could see no reason why he shouldn’t be able to make a decent fist of running a pub here. There was certainly enough potential clientele living in these ugly, crosshatched streets.
Clutching his hat in front of him, he pushed open the heavy oak door and went into the gloomy pub, where Mr Bellamy was waiting for him. The man had a jovial air and seemed taken with the idea of a former teacher as landlord. He pronounced that it would convey an air of respectability to the premises and he was happy to have a fellow Catholic behind the bar.
‘You’re very young, mind. How old are you, lad?’
Jack swallowed, crossed his fingers behind his back and decided to lie. ‘Twenty-five.’
The man gave a dubious snort, then shrugged. ‘And you’re a bit skinny. Think you’ll be strong enough to keep order if there’s any trouble? I don’t want the place getting a reputation for fights.’
‘I can stand up for myself.’
‘And there’s kegs of ale to shift. That’ll build your muscles.’
‘I’m stronger than I look, sir.’
‘Mrs Grainger tells me you’re married, lad?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘With a baby on the way?’
Jack nodded.
‘Good. I like a family man. Last landlord had no children. Miserable bugger, with an even more miserable wife. Not conducive to drawing the drinkers in. People want a convivial atmosphere and a bit of chat. Does that sound like you?’
‘Yes, sir. Being a teacher I am used to talking.’
‘Aye, but don’t be giving them lectures, will you? They come to the alehouse to let their hair down, have a laugh, tell a few stories and drink a few beers. Are you a drinking man, Mr Brennan?’
Jack felt the blood draining from his face. To tell the truth or to lie again? A teetotal landlord would hardly be well received, but he didn’t want to give the impression he was a beer swiller when he’d never had a drop in his life.
‘I like a drink when the occasion calls for it. But only in moderation. I think that is important for a landlord – if the innkeeper is drinking as much as the customers he can’t very well keep order, can he?’
‘Good answer, laddie. You’ll do. When can you start? Place has been shut since the other fellow died. You don’t make money from a tavern with the doors locked. Wages now – four pound ten a week and if the takings improve we’ll review it in a few months.’
Jack wanted to throw his hat in the air, but instead he nodded and said ‘That sounds very acceptable, sir. I can start right away. I won’t disappoint you.’
‘Hold your horses, lad. We have to get you licensed first. There’s a few formalities, but I know whose strings need pulling so we’ll get you installed as quick as we can.’
Jack expected Mary Ellen to be relieved. Instead she flung herself on her back on the bed, hammering her heels and fists into the mattress.
‘I won’t live in a public house. I’m a lady. My Papa is rich. I won’t do it. It’s not fair. You’re supposed to be a teacher. Why don’t you teach? I won’t live in a place like that. I won’t.’ Tears welled up in her eyes and she began to howl.
Jack sat down on the bed beside her and laid a hand on her arm. ‘Calm down, Mary Ellen. There are no teaching jobs. It’s either this or the iron foundries.’
With that she began to wail louder. ‘I want to go home to Papa. I hate this place. I hate you. I hate everything.’
‘Hush,’ he said, feeling helpless and out of his depth as her body shook. She was becoming hysterical and he didn’t know how to cope. ‘Hush, Mary Ellen, it will be all right. We won’t have to stay here in this small room and in this house with all the other people. We will have our own home with lots of rooms. You’ll have your own drawing room. You won’t have to come into the bar. It will be nice.’
She sat up and stopped wailing. ‘Our very own house. Just for us? Just like Mama and Papa?’
‘Yes. And soon you will have your baby.’
She looked away. She never referred to her pregnancy, other than to complain that she was fat. He suspected she wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening – or possibly she didn’t fully understand what was happening to her body.
‘I want a pianoforte,’ she said.
The Tudor Crown was just a few hundred yards from the iron foundries. Its proximity to the works meant there was a constant hammering and pounding from the rolling mill and a foul smell in the air. The terraced houses and the inn were all coated in a thick layer of black grime and dust.
There was one large public bar and a small snug that was rarely patronised. Mr Bellamy was there to welcome Jack, in order to hand over the keys and introduce him to the tap man and his sullen wife, who did the cleaning and cooking. He showed him the cellars, gave him the keys to the spirits cupboard and demonstrated how to change a barrel, then, with a slap on the back, a small advance on his salary to allow for the costs of the removal and a reminder that he was to give away no beer on tick, he left Jack in the hands of the tap man, a short man with a stoop and a perpetual frown, called Bob Mintoe.
The cleaner, Mrs Winnie Mintoe, a surly woman in grey, rarely spoke, except to tell people to get out of her way. She never smiled – occasionally her mouth stretched sideways into a horizontal line, which Jack at first assumed was a forced imitation of a smile, but there was no corresponding change in the expression of her eyes and he soon realised it was some kind of nervous twitch. Bob was not much more garrulous and it was clear why Bellamy had been unable to promote him into the role of landlord. But he knew the trade well enough.
Jack hired a pony and trap and went to collect Mary Ellen and their luggage. She looked around in dismay as they left the respectable tree-lined avenues of large villas and entered the area of high density housing for foundry workers. Her expression was anxious and nervous, as though expecting armed brigands to leap upon them at every corner. Instead there were just filthy children playing in the streets and women hanging their washing out in the back entries.
‘This is a slum. I won’t live here.’ She kicked her heels against the wooden boards of the cart and crossed her arms tightly across her chest. ‘What do you take me for? I’m a lady. I can’t live in a place like this.’
‘We’ll be living in a big house. It will be fine. Don’t worry.’ He gritted his teeth and tried to push away the thought that he’d like to slap her on the mouth.
As soon as they entered the pub the smell of stale beer hit him. He hadn’t noticed it when Bellamy was showing him around. Maybe he only noticed it now because Mary Ellen was standing with her gloved hand clamped over her nose and her face a rictus mask of horror.
The rooms upstairs were larger than their room at Mrs Grainger’s. There was a drawing room and to Mary Ellen’s initial delight there was already a piano installed. She lifted the lid and thumped out an arpeggio then slammed the lid down. ‘It’s out of tune.’
‘I’ll get it fixed as soon as I get paid. Don’t worry.’
Mary Ellen paced up and down, peering through the dirty windows at the street outside, running her finger along the top of the mantelpiece to reveal the dust. She scuffed her shoe at the threadbare carpet and rubbed her fingers over the grubby lace curtains, then flung herself into one of the armchairs and started to cry.
‘I hate you, Jack Brennan. You should never have brought me to this
horrid, horrid place. It’s ugly and dirty and noisy.’
It was impossible to disagree about the dirt and noise. With the constant hammering and banging from the foundries and the thick dust in the air, Jack couldn’t remember what silence was like and what it was to breathe fresh air.
His first night behind the bar passed without mishap. He quickly learned the names and natures of the ales on tap and after a bit of practice at the pumps managed to pull a pretty decent pint. Trade was slow. Bob reminded him that the place had been closed for weeks, so it would take a few days for folk to realise it was open again. Those that did venture across the threshold seemed keen to check out the new landlord and were happy enough that Jack was prepared to pass the time of day with them. Word spread that the miserable old bugger at the Tudor Crown had been replaced with a young man who came from down south in Bristol and seemed all right. Each night the number of patrons crept up until, after a fortnight, the bar was packed out every Friday night as the iron workers raced to turn their wages into ale.
Mary Ellen never ventured into the bar during opening hours. She would come downstairs in the mornings to annoy Mrs Mintoe by walking across her newly washed floors, or putting her cup of tea down on a freshly polished tabletop. She never deigned to hold a conversation with the cleaner or her husband, who shared a small box room on the premises.
21
A Child is Born
Mary Ellen went into labour two months after they moved into the Tudor Crown. Her confinement began in the afternoon. Jack opened the tavern in the evening as usual, grateful to be occupied. He could hear the screams of his wife until the bar began to fill up. The birth was proving to be a difficult one, made worse by Mary Ellen’s apparent refusal to follow any of the instructions given by the midwife.
