Letters From a Patchwork Quilt

by Clare Flynn

  ‘Get to work at once or you’ll all go without food tonight.’ Vickers’ voice was strident and the boys began to move towards the door to do his bidding.

  One of the older ones, incensed at the sudden capitulation, ran at Vickers and head-butted him in the stomach, knocking him to the floor. Before the boy could seize the advantage, Brother Charles grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him off to the dark cell. When a winded Vickers got to his feet he threw a look of absolute contempt at Jack, then left the hall without another word to his father-in-law.

  When work details and lessons were completed that day, Father Ignatius summoned Jack to his office and told him that he needed to exercise greater discipline over the boys or risk the termination of his contract.

  ‘You are too soft, Mr Brennan, too lax. It is important that the boys make progress on the path to virtue and the only way to do that is by exercising strong discipline and close attention. You treat the older boys as though they were your friends. That’s a poor state of affairs. These are common criminals and need to be shown the way towards the goodness of Our Blessed Lord. You seem to take little interest – it appears you even allowed your own daughter to consort with the dead boy. It won’t do, Mr Brennan. It won’t do. Mr Vickers told me it was pandemonium in the hall this morning. Complete insubordination. You were on duty and were responsible. He told me you did nothing to restore order. I would commend you to follow the example set by your own son-in-law and by Brother Charles. Both of them stress the importance of Catholic virtues and both of them are unstinting when it comes to rooting out bad behaviour. The only way these reprobates will learn is through strict discipline. This is a final warning. Do you understand me?'

  Jack was listless. He barely took in the words being said to him. The tone of voice was enough to tell him he was being reprimanded. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do any more. He was consumed with guilt about what happened on the cricket pitch. This morning he had faced the silent condemnation of his own daughter. It was more than he could bear.

  ‘Mr Brennan?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Tommy Kelly’s was the only inmate’s grave in the small burial ground that showed evidence of being tended. Clementina was as assiduous in visiting and placing small tokens on his grave as she was in tending to those of her sisters. She placed wild flowers on it, little piles of acorns, a toffee she’d been saving in her pocket for him. Sometimes she would sit down in the grass beside his earthen mound and wooden cross and read aloud. He’d always loved her stories. She liked to imagine him up in heaven listening to her, maybe smiling, laughing even. Of course Marian had told her he’d probably be burning in hell now because of all his bad deeds – at the very best he would be confined to purgatory for at least a hundred years. Clem refused to believe her. Tommy was a good person. He had shown her more kindness than anyone else in this world. His only crimes had been in trying to do the right thing for his family and then attempting to run away so he could go and find them again. God wouldn’t let him suffer any more. Surely. He must let him into heaven to sit with the Blessed Virgin and the saints. She pictured him, wearing clean white robes with washed hair and a clean face, the callouses on his hands healed and his missing teeth replaced with straight and shiny ones. Then she remembered that God had let him die. Right before he was due to be released. She wanted to hate God, but was afraid to. Instead she decided to hate her father.

  Jack had been trying hard to avoid trouble. Keeping this job was essential. He had to provide a home for Clemmie. He had to be responsible. He was trying to cut back on the drinking too, but so far without success.

  The first year of being at the reformatory, haunted by the death of Mary Ellen so soon after Gertrude’s and knowing of his own part in that, Jack had managed to eschew the alcohol. Being away from the pub helped. While he paid only lip service to his Catholicism, the confined nature of the isolated reformatory removed easy access to temptation.

  The tragic deaths of Ursula, Alice and Jane, not long after the family had relocated to Saint Dominic’s, pushed Jack to the edge and after burying Alice he had walked away from the graveside and taken the short road down to the public house in the village. At first he went only occasionally, but the death of Tommy and his part in it and his beloved Clementina’s continued rejection of him, sent him in the direction of the Raven every night.

  He’d sit tight through supper in the communal dining room then, unless he was on dormitory duty, once he knew Clementina was in bed, he would slip out of their quarters and walk the half mile in the pitch dark to the Raven for a drink. He sought oblivion, to wipe out all the things that made his life unbearable, that made him long for it to be over. The only good thing that had happened to him since he was dragged off the boat in Liverpool was Clementina. And now she too had turned against him.

  He sat at the bar, chasing each pint of ale with a shot of whisky. Fred Butler, the landlord, eyed him, keeping watch to make sure he didn’t fall off his stool, but otherwise showing the tolerance and kindred spirit that exists between those who have stood for years behind the bar.

  Jack stared into his pint as if he expected to see some kind of revelation in the depths of the dark liquid. But sacred revelations only happened to pious, peasant girls on hillsides or in caves, not to washed-out drunks in public houses. He wasn’t a bad person. Not fundamentally. Just unlucky. Why did life keep throwing misfortune at him? Why was he being punished? He thought about Gertrude. She’d been a good woman. A true friend. If it hadn’t been that he’d already given his heart to Eliza he might even have grown to love her. He tossed the rest of the pint back and signalled to Fred to fill it up again.

  The walk back to the reformatory was more of a stagger, but the sharp wind coming off the moors helped to sober him up. As he walked along in the darkness he swore it would be the last time. He’d give up the drinking. Turn over a new leaf. Start writing poetry again. Save up the money he was frittering away on booze so that one day, when Clemmie was married and off his hands, he could sail to America and search for Eliza. Even if it took him forever, he’d damn well do it. And if she were married? And why wouldn’t she be? – a girl as beautiful as she would have been snapped up in no time. How could she have been expected to wait for him for ever? Yes, even though she’d be married he’d hunt her down if it took him the rest of his life. Just to say sorry. Just to explain. To let her know he’d had no choice. But deep inside a little voice told him he’d always had a choice.

  He crossed the lawn towards the side door leading to the staff quarters and noticed the light from a flickering candle in one of the dormitories. The rules were clear – the dormitories were to be in complete darkness after lights out.

  Conscious of the headmaster’s warning, he decided this was his opportunity to redeem himself, to show some backbone, to exercise some discipline, to identify the guilty party and make sure they were appropriately punished. He’d never wielded the stick before, not even on his own children, but if he were to make a new start it might as well be now.

  The doors to the dormitories were always kept open. He stood on the threshold. The light was no longer evident. One of the beds was empty. He walked slowly towards it, anxious not to waken the other boys. As he neared the empty bed he heard muffled sobbing from the bed next to it. When he moved towards it the boy inside curled himself into a tight ball, pulling the covers up around him.

  ‘No. Please no. Not again. Don’t hurt me.’

  He leaned down and pulled back the thin blanket. A lad of about fifteen with a shock of red hair stared at him in terror.

  ‘What’s the matter, Billy? Why are you crying? And where’s the boy from the next bed?'

  The only answer was more muffled sobbing.

  ‘Who is it and where has he gone?’

  The boy’s eyes were bloodshot and when he turned away, Jack noticed there was a large
, fresh weal across his skinny back. He touched the spot gingerly and the boy jack-knifed away. His whole back was crisscrossed with welts.

  ‘Who did this?’

  ‘No, sir. Please, sir. I can’t say. Just leave me alone. Don’t tell. Please don’t tell.’

  ‘Where’s the boy from the next bed?’

  This time the child’s eyes moved reflexively towards a door at the far end of the room where a faint glow showed under the doorframe. It was a store cupboard where bedding and chamber pots were kept. With a sudden sense that something was very amiss, Jack crept across the room and wrenched the door open.

  37

  The Condemned Man

  The boy was kneeling on the stone floor. He was wearing only his drawers and his small body was shivering. Brother Charles had his back to the door and must have assumed the interruption was from one of the boys as he continued to hold the boy’s head to his crotch as he spoke, his fingers tangled in the boy’s matted, unwashed hair.

  ‘Get back to bed before I leather you,’ he said, without turning round, his words breathy and punctuated by grunts.

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. ‘Brother Charles, what in God’s name are you doing? Let that boy go. Stop! Now!’

  The monk took his hands away from the boy’s head and the lad grabbed the opportunity to scramble to his feet and run out past Jack.

  Brother Charles tucked his penis back inside his robes. ‘Go to bed, Brennan’ he said. ‘This is no concern of yours.’ He pushed Jack aside and walked out of the dormitory.

  Jack went after him. Outside in the corridor he gripped the sleeve of the monk’s cassock and jerked him to a stop.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking of, Brother Charles? You’re supposed to be a man of God. And that other lad, the red-headed one? Did you do that to him too or did he refuse to cooperate, so you beat the living daylights out of him instead? I saw his back. It’s red-raw and bleeding.’

  The Brother narrowed his eyes and sneered at him. ‘These boys are filth. They’re all sinners. They get what they deserve.’

  ‘And what do you call what you were doing to that boy? Is that not sin? And sin of the worst kind? It’s a perversion. It’s scandalous. Shame on you.’

  The brother spun round and grabbed Jack by his lapels. ‘You’re drunk again, Brennan.’ Then he pushed him away, knocking Jack off balance. ‘You can’t even stand up straight.’

  Overcome with tiredness, Jack went to his quarters. He must tell Father Ignatius. But it could wait until morning.

  He overslept and woke with a throbbing head. There was no sign of Clementina – she must have already left for school. Jack groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He would definitely be giving up the drink. This time for sure. This time would be different. He staggered across the room and pissed in the pot. It seemed to go on forever. His head was pounding and a wave of nausea flowed over him. He wanted to crawl back into bed. What time was it? He cursed, realising he was already late for class. His coat was hanging on the back of the door and he remembered he’d got Fred in the Raven to fill his hip flask for the walk home. There might still be some left. What harm could it do? One small swig. Enough to get the day started. Enough to make the throbbing in his head stop and loosen the tightening metal vice that was compressing his skull. He unscrewed the top and slugged the whisky back, feeling the tension soaking away as it burned a path down his throat. He’d need a bit of dutch courage to tell Father Ignatius what had happened last night.

  He dressed hurriedly and left the room, bumping into his son-in-law in the corridor. ‘Malcolm. I need to tell you something. Something terrible has happened. I need your advice.’

  ‘Where’ve you been, Jack? You were due in class ten minutes ago. I’ve come to find you. The boys are making merry hell in there. You don’t need to give Father Ignatius any more cause for complaint.’

  Jack grabbed at his sleeve. ‘Wait, listen. I saw Brother Charles last night. He’d been beating the living soul out of a boy and then I caught him with another one, doing…doing… an immoral act.’

  ‘What?’ Vickers’ expression was full of disgust, as though somehow in the telling Jack was as culpable as the perpetrator. ‘How can you say such a shameful thing?’

  ‘I’m only telling you what I saw. What should I do?’

  ‘Do? Do nothing. You can’t go around making allegations like that.’

  ‘It’s not an allegation. I saw it. I found him in the laundry closet. He had the boy in front of him on his knees and was making him–’

  ‘Stop! I don’t want to hear such filth.’

  ‘Nor did I want to see it. I have to tell Father Ignatius.’

  Vickers looked at him for a moment as though weighing up the veracity of his words. ‘Don’t do anything yet. Let me think. We’ll speak again after lessons.'

  He placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder, then pulled back from him as though stung. ‘Good lord, Jack. You’ve been drinking. It’s not yet eight-thirty. Have you no shame, man?'

  The bell rang to mark the end of classes. The three hours of lessons had seemed interminable. At one point Jack had excused himself and run along the corridor to the latrines where he threw up. When the boys filed out of the classroom to wash before the midday meal, he reached into his jacket pocket and found the flask. He tilted his head back to drink but there was only a dreg left. How was he going to get through until this evening when he could slip away to The Raven?.

  ‘Mr Brennan?’ The unmistakeable voice of Father Ignatius. ‘My office. Immediately.’

  Jack followed the principal along the draughty corridor, past the heavy wooden crucifix and the statue of Saint Vincent de Paul. As he walked he rehearsed what he was going to say, wishing he’d had a chance to confer properly with Malcolm beforehand.

  When they entered the headmaster’s study Jack pulled up short, surprised to see both Vickers and Brother Charles already waiting there. He looked from one to the other and then to the headmaster.

  ‘I am not going to dismiss you, Mr Brennan,’ the head said. ‘That would involve a lot of paperwork and a discussion with the bishop. Instead I would like to receive your immediate resignation.’

  Jack’s throat dried up and another wave of nausea hit him. ‘I don’t understand.’ He turned to his son-in-law as he tried to fight the rising panic. ‘Malcolm?’ But Vickers lowered his eyes and avoided his gaze.

  The head spoke again. ‘Brother Charles has told me how he came upon you last night in a state of drunkenness, in which you were performing a loathsome and unnatural act upon one of the boys. Further it appears you beat another boy most cruelly with a walking cane, presumably because he had refused to comply with your wicked purpose.’

  Jack tried to swallow, but his throat was parched. He needed a drink desperately. What was happening? The room was spinning and a pain shot through his ears like a bolt of lightening. He slumped into a chair. Oh God help me. Please sweet Jesus. Let me wake up from this nightmare.

  ‘That’s not true,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘It wasn’t like that at all. It was him!’ He pointed at the brother, who responded with a shake of the head and a look of disgust.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ said the monk to the headmaster. ‘So drunk he was practically insensible.’

  ‘I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t.’ But as he said the words they sounded hollow.

  There was a collective intake of breath, then Father Ignatius spoke again. ‘Mr Brennan, I can smell the drink on you now.’

  ‘I have a mouth ulcer. I gargled with some surgical spirit this morning to numb the pain.’

  ‘Don’t make it any worse. Sign this letter of resignation and that will be the end of it. You’re a fortunate man. I could have taken this up with the Home Office inspectors and the bishop and destroyed your reputation. Instead I am giving you the opportunity to walk out of here with a little dignity – which is more than you deserve under the circumstances.’

  ‘Malco
lm? Tell him! Tell him what I told you this morning. You know he’s lying.’

  ‘Mr Vickers cannot help you. We are all too aware that you made this disgraceful allegation about Brother Charles this morning. You are disgusting. Not only evil enough to perpetrate such acts but trying to transfer the blame to a man of God. Shame on you, Brennan. While you sloped off drunk to your bed last night, Brother Charles came straight to see me and told me what he had witnessed. He did not name you but instead asked to pray with me this morning in the chapel to seek divine guidance. Only then did he tell me the terrible truth. Since then Mr Vickers has checked with the landlord of the local public house who confirms you were there all of last evening until he showed you the door after last orders. He said you were the worse for drink. Now my patience is running out. Sign the letter, man, and let’s be done with it. I want you out of this place.’

  ‘You can’t do this! It’s all wrong. It’s all lies.’ He tasted bile in his month. ‘If I’m out of a job how will I get another? What’s to become of Clementina?’

  ‘It is only because of Clementina and Mr Vickers intercession on your behalf that I agreed not to dismiss you. He urged me to do everything to avoid her name being tarnished by yours. He has kindly offered to take responsibility for the child and care for her himself with Mrs Vickers, where she will be safeguarded from your depravity. You should be grateful to your son-in-law. It’s more than you deserve and I hope will not be too late to prevent that young lady from being corrupted by your lack of a moral and spiritual compass.’

  ‘She’s my daughter. She’s all I’ve got left. You can’t take her away from me. She’ll never agree.’

  ‘She already has. Mrs Vickers spoke to her this morning, explained you would be leaving the reformatory and asked her if she wished to stay or to go with you. She has elected to stay with her sister and Mr Vickers.’