Letters From a Patchwork Quilt

by Clare Flynn

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The headmaster nodded his head at Vickers who left the room. While he was gone the headmaster took a piece of paper and thrust it across the desk to Jack. ‘Sign it.’

  ‘I won’t. It’s a lie. I’m innocent and this man knows it.’ Jack pointed at Brother Charles who exchanged a ‘told you so’ look with the principal.

  The door opened and Vickers re-entered the room, this time accompanied by Marian and Clementina. The girl avoided looking at her father, fixing her eyes instead on Father Ignatius.

  ‘Clementina, your sister has explained to you that your father will be leaving the reformatory today?’

  The girl nodded, still avoiding looking at Jack.

  ‘And you understand that you may stay on here living with Mr and Mrs Vickers and their children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack jumped up from his chair. ‘Clem! I don’t want to leave you here. And I’m not going anywhere. It’s all a mistake. I’m going to sort it out.’

  Marian took her father by the arm and shoved him back into his seat. ‘That’s enough, Father. Don’t make this hard on Clemmie. Don’t embarrass us all further. You’ve done enough.’

  Jack slumped in the chair, his eyes welling up.

  Clementina stepped forward and looked at him for the first time. ‘I don’t want to see you any more.’ Then with a little strangled sobbing noise, she ran from the room.

  It was over. He could fight no more.

  38

  Ticket to America

  Jack sat on his bed, in a state of shock and still suffering the ill effects of the alcohol. Malcolm Vickers was folding his few items of clothing into a battered suitcase.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jack. ‘You know it was Brother Charles. We’re supposed to be family. I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘You’re a drunk, Jack. It’s time you faced up to it. Otherwise it’s going to destroy you.’

  ‘Sod the drink. I’m telling the truth and you know it as well as I do.’

  ‘You’re losing touch with reality. I think you actually believe Brother Charles did it. You’re a sick man. You need treatment. I know it’s been a while since Mrs Brennan died, but, Jack, for heaven’s sake, you have no business taking out your frustrations on boys. It’s vile. Rotten. And to malign the name of a man of God – it’s unthinkable.’

  Jack wanted to roll over on the bed and sleep until his head stopped hurting and his stomach stopped heaving; until he woke up and found this was all just a drink-induced nightmare. But it wasn’t. It was happening and he couldn’t stop it.

  ‘I want to say goodbye to Clemmie.’ He pulled himself upright and started to move towards the door.

  Vickers reached out and took his arm and eased him back down onto the bed. ‘She doesn’t want to see you any more, Jack.’

  ‘Clem doesn’t know? Please tell me she doesn’t know. About…’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t. Neither of them know what you did in that linen cupboard. They’ve both been told it was for the beating you gave Hudson.’

  ‘I didn’t beat the lad.’ His voice was faint, the fight gone. Then he jumped up. ‘Why don’t you ask him? The boy. Ask both boys. They’ll tell you the truth.’

  ‘Everyone knows Brother Charles is a strict disciplinarian while you are easily manipulated by the boys. It’s obvious they’ll lay the blame at his door, which is why we won’t be asking them. It would imply there was a doubt in the matter. Neither Father Ignatius nor I want any shadow to be cast over the good name of one of the brothers.’

  ‘And what about my good name?’

  Vickers snapped the suitcase closed and turned to face Jack, shaking his head, his face taking on a look of disappointment, almost sadness.

  ‘What good name? You lost that long ago, Jack.’

  They paid Jack his wages and sent him on his way. It was just starting to get dusk when he walked out of the reformatory grounds for the last time. He went along the path past the chapel and looked over at the little graveyard. He made the sign of the cross and trudged down the driveway to the road, forcing himself to turn right rather than taking the left turn which led past The Raven.

  He promised himself he would never drink again. Maybe he’d been using the drink as a consolation for the way his life had turned out, but he knew it had now become the catalyst for his own self destruction. He walked on, gulping in the cool evening air, hoping it would ease the after effects of the alcohol. Maybe Malcolm was right and he did need help.

  He kicked a clump of grass growing out of the edge of the road, then bent down and picked up a large pebble and hurled it over the wall into the adjacent field, letting out a cry. 'Why?'

  His life was ruined. He’d tried to trust in God. He’d been a good Catholic since he’d been at the Reformatory. He’d done his best. He’d tried to atone for his sins. Hadn’t he? He hadn’t let Father O’Driscoll colour his view of the whole church. But he’d been betrayed by another bad egg in the ecclesiastical basket.

  If he’d been able to stay with Eliza might he have been a better man? It felt as though he only had the capacity for goodness when he had someone to love.

  He would trust in God now. Maybe this was all part of God’s plan for him. All this suffering would at last lead to its reward. He had atoned for his sins and now it was time for something good to happen. He was going to find her. His Eliza. There had never been a right time to do that before. He’d had to be there for the girls. As their father it had been his duty to give them a home.

  He was stung with pain at Clemmie’s rejection, but he was going to look on it as a disguised blessing. It freed him at last to find Eliza. It might take him years but he would manage it somehow. Once he’d tracked her down he would then effect a reconciliation with his daughter. Plenty of time for that.

  As night fell he found a farm outbuilding, far enough away from the farmyard as to be out of sight of the farmhouse and out of earshot of any dogs. He sat on the bare ground, draped his coat over him, then ate the bread and dripping Malcolm had brought him from the kitchen. Warmed by the food, he drifted off into a deep sleep.

  When he awoke the next morning his hands were shaking. He was desperate for a drink. He dusted the straw off his trousers and set off walking again, his legs unsteady. There were few people about on the country roads and those he did encounter just gave him a curt Yorkshire nod and went on their way without words. He was grateful.

  He needed a plan. He’d just ten pounds to his name. He began talking to himself out loud as though he were a separate person, trying to knock some sense into his head. If he were to call into a public house the money would be gone in no time. He had to make it last. He had to hold on to enough for the passage to America. Rather than use any form of public transportation he decided to keep walking.

  Eventually the rhythm of the road helped to clear his head, helped him think with more clarity than he’d done since he’d married Mary Ellen. As he walked, lines of poetry began to form. That hadn’t happened in years. Not since Gertrude and Mary Ellen died. He felt a sudden surge of joy. He was reclaiming his life. Yes, he’d lost all those years, but it didn’t matter any more. What was important was to build a new life. A new beginning. Let all the filth and poison of the past go. Let it drift away like the clouds that raced across the top of the moors, gathering together and then dispersing. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding Eliza. Telling her he had always loved her and always would. Expecting nothing in return. Atoning. Being cleansed. The words of the Confiteor came into his head and he began to say them out loud, instinctively striking his breast as he reached the climax: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa before he begged for the intercession of the blessed Virgin Mary, Michael the archangel, John the Baptist, the apostles Peter and Paul, and all the saints on his behalf. He stopped and looked up at the sky, expecting to see a sign, an acknowledgement of his contrition, but there were just the same old clouds scudding through the pale blue sky, casting
shadows over the distant hills.

  When Jack reached the Liverpool docks he had eight pounds nineteen and sixpence in his pocket. The steerage fare to New York was three pounds ten. He paid the money, his heart thumping as the ticket was handed to him. It was happening. He was going. Into the unknown. To Eliza. At last.

  A sudden chill of fear gripped him, making his stomach lurch. What would he do when he got there? How we would he find work? How would he find Eliza? It was an impossible task. Like searching for a lost farthing on the seashore. America was vast. Where would he go? How would he support himself? He knew nobody there. Then he reminded himself that Eliza had faced all that completely alone twenty odd years ago – a young woman who’d never set foot outside Bristol before – and she’d had to do it without any money.

  A ship was scheduled to depart in two days time. He wanted to conserve his remaining funds so he elected to sleep on a bench. He found one near the spot where he and his beloved had sat hand in hand on the quayside, so full of hope, so full of love, so young. He lay prone, his coat laid over him and his shirt folded over the suitcase which he used as an improvised pillow.

  ‘Budge up, mate.’ Someone was shaking his leg. ‘There’s room for one more on there.’

  Jack resisted the urge to lash out at the man, a dirty-faced fellow with a clay pipe dangling from his mouth.

  ‘Off to America?’ The man grabbed Jack’s legs and swung them off the bench and deposited his skinny frame beside him. There was a familiar smell that it took Jack a moment or two to recognise as alcohol.

  Jack pushed his hair out of his eyes and faced the stranger. ‘Look here. That was my spot. I’d just managed to nod off.’

  ‘Where’s the sign saying it’s your personal, private property then? I must have missed that.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard that possession is nine tenths of the law?’

  The stranger laughed. ‘I hadn’t as it happens, but it looks like I’m in possession of this half of the bench now so it’s all right, isn’t it?'

  The man laughed, revealing a mouth with several missing teeth and the rest badly discoloured and chipped. He was unshaven, the collar of his shirt was filthy and the rest of his clothes were torn. ‘Where are you heading?’ he asked.

  ‘New York.’ Jack looked about him to see if he could spot another empty bench, then decided to pick up his bags and walk away from the Pier Head to find somewhere else in the town where he might sleep undisturbed.

  The man grabbed his arm and pulled him back down on to the seat. ‘What’s the hurry, man? Your ship’s not sailing yet. Why not share a wee dram with an old sailor. I can give you some advice about New York.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘Aye. You need to ken where to go and what to do or they’ll eat ye for breakfast. Place is full of villains. Eye-ties and Paddies that’d sooner slit your throat as say good morning. Lots of them nigro fellows too. Not to be trusted.’ The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He took a slug then passed the bottle to Jack.

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘Get away with you! Everyone drinks.’

  ‘Not me. Not any more.’

  The man looked at him intently. ‘A wee drop won’t do you any harm. We should drink to your future. To America. To good fortune. And I’ll give you some tips to see you right when you get there.’

  Jack looked at the bottle doubtfully. ‘One little drop maybe, just to take the chill off the night.’

  When he woke up someone was driving rivets through his skull. He tried to sit upright but the bench felt as though it was tipping away. A lone seagull was watching him, standing on the ground in front of him as though challenging him to get out of her space. He moved his legs out and off the bench, and as he tried to place them on the ground his foot caught something – an empty bottle which rolled away towards the seagull. The bird looked at it with disdain before flying off to perch on a nearby lamppost. Jack bent down and put his head between his knees to try to stop the dizziness. From that vantage point he saw that there was another empty bottle lying under the wooden seat. He groaned. How had he let that happen? The events of the previous evening were a blur.

  Then it hit him. A sharp pulse of fear through his stomach, like a knife. The bench beside him was empty. His suitcase gone. Everything he owned had been in that.

  The ticket. Where was the ticket? He felt inside his coat pocket. There was nothing there.

  39

  The End of the Road

  Nothing in Jack’s life had prepared him for being destitute. Yes, he’d been born into poverty, he’d struggled to find work and he’d never had the luxury of spare cash at the end of the week, but there had always been food on the table, no matter how frugal. Now he was stuck in Liverpool without a penny to his name, his only assets being the clothes he stood up in.

  The labour exchange had no work to offer him as either a teacher or a publican. He lowered his sights and tried for a job as a clerk in a grocery store, but the post went to a younger man. Sleeping rough and forced to try to keep clean using the public toilets near the Pier Head, his appearance grew more dishevelled every day, further limiting the work opportunities open to him.

  Having nothing to eat was bad at the first. Jack’s stomach screamed for food. Walking past a restaurant, the smell of cooked meat was so hypnotic that he stood outside for half an hour breathing the aromas in and trying to imagine eating a plateful of stew, piled up with potatoes. Thinking about it just made the hunger worse and after a while he felt sick and ran into an alleyway where he tried to throw up, but there was nothing to vomit.

  Eventually his stomach shrank and the hunger wasn’t so terrible any more. He found that if he drank water from a drinking fountain the pain and the hollow feeling diminished. It was as if his stomach was full. Jack saw his reflection in a mirror in the public lavatory. He looked like a stranger, gaunt, hollow-cheeked, hair unkempt and face shadowed with stubble.

  Weak, but desperate to find work, Jack went along at dawn to try his luck at the docks, where gangs of men were hired every day to load and unload cargo. The demand for work greatly outweighed the supply, and the crowds seemed to grow bigger every morning. Even those chosen for work had little cause to be grateful, as it was just for one shift and they needed to return to try their luck again each day. Without being known to the foreman, the chances of getting picked were minimal. The odds were well nigh impossible in his case now that his appearance was so scruffy and his body so emaciated. He knew that even if by some miracle he was selected, he wouldn’t have the strength to lift the sacks of grain.

  To keep warm and pass the time after his fruitless daily trip to the labour exchange, Jack went into the library to read. The librarians watched him with distaste and suspicion, worried that he planned to pocket books. He tried not to mind. The place was a sanctuary and for the few hours he spent there each day, his head buried in a book or perusing the newspapers, he felt as though he was leading a normal life again. He lost himself in poetry, alternating between reading verses to uplift his spirits and those that made his own plight seem universal.

  After ten days of sleeping rough, starving and failing in the quest for work, Jack admitted defeat. He begged for help at the labour exchange and was told to go to the workhouse. At least he would have shelter and some form of nourishment, no matter how basic. When he got to the poorhouse at Brownlow Hill he was told it was full.

  It was the last straw. He’d had enough. His reserves were spent. His strength sapped. No more. He wanted to die. I’ve had it with you, God. Stop toying with me. You’ve punished me enough. Take me now. Get it over. Let it be done.

  He staggered down the steps of the building, blind to his surroundings, then sat slumped at the bottom of the stairs, his head resting on his folded arms.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘There’s another place over in Walton, mate. They may have space there if you’re lucky.’ He gave Jack directions.

&nbs
p; It was a long walk from the centre of the city. Jack’s shoes had virtually no soles left. He did what he had done as a child and found some cardboard in a dustbin at the back of a shop and lined the shoes with it, then trudged off to Walton. As he trailed along, he had to stop every fifty yards or so to rest, leaning against a wall to get his breath back. His chest felt tight and he kept coughing.

  The Walton Hill workhouse was a redbrick building, and like most of the buildings in the city, blackened with smoke. It had a central clock-tower with wings on each side, one for women and the other for men. The children were quartered separately. Jack walked up the pathway, feeling defeated, broken, but he told himself to rise above it. All he needed was a few days to get back on his feet, get some food inside him, have a good sleep, regain a bit of strength and he would be ready to resume the hunt for employment. He pushed the fact that he’d been coughing blood to the back of his mind.

  Jack was in luck. There were one or two places left and they agreed to take him in. All inmates were expected to work inside the institution in exchange for their bed and board. The Master, on admitting Jack, assigned him to work in the carpentry shop. As Jack was leaving the room, the Master called him back.

  ‘I am curious, Mr Brennan – you have an educated manner and your clothes, although they’ve seen a lot of wear, are made of good cloth. What brought you to this state? What was your occupation?’

  ‘I was a schoolmaster, sir,’ said Jack. ‘In a reformatory in Yorkshire.’

  ‘How did you come to be here? Why did you leave?’

  Jack hesitated.

  ‘Spit it out, man. Why did you leave?’

  ‘They accused me of being drunk.’

  ‘Accused you, eh? Are you saying you weren’t?’

  ‘I had the odd drink now and then, but I wasn’t drunk in class.’ Jack swallowed, feeling the humiliation of his dismissal all over again. ‘My face didn’t fit.’