“It could be the scarlet fever,” Aunt Helen said. “It affects the brain.”
I turned and looked back to see Mary bundle Horace into his coat and hurry him out the door. I don’t think anyone else noticed—no one except Duncan. Face desolate, he watched them go.
“I heard the O’Reillys lost their two youngest to the scarlet fever just last week,” Granny said. “Or was it the whooping cough.”
As I reached the top of the stairs, Mr. Neeson drew his bow across his fiddle, then Da’s voice filled the room as he sang:
My wild Irish Rose,
the sweetest flower that grows.
You may search everywhere
but none can compare
with my wild Irish Rose.
Chapter 6
I felt the bed shift beneath me and pried open heavy eyes to see Aunt Ida perched on the edge, a troubled expression on her face.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” she said. “I shouldn’t have made you stand in front of everyone. I was just so mad at Patrick for making fun of you. I didn’t think.”
I struggled to sit up, and Aunt Ida quickly put a pillow behind my back. I pulled the Irish Chain quilt up to my chin, then pleated it with my fingers, glad Mam hadn’t put it away yet. I needed its comfort.
“I enjoy hearing about your great-grandmother. I have no family left of my own so I’ve sort of adopted yours. In fact, I wouldn’t mind hearing a story about them right now.” She smiled, looking so sweet that I could see why Uncle James was smitten with her. I was, too.
I pointed to a rough woollen blue patch in the quilt. “I was going to tell them about this one,” I said. “It’s from my great-grandpa Albert’s work pants.”
Aunt Ida settled herself to listen, lips parted in anticipation.
“Rose and Albert lived in Northern Ireland,” I said. I was surprised the words came so easily. Telling a story to Aunt Ida was like telling one to Winnie.
“They were very happy on the small farm with their six children. It might have been rented land, but Albert treated it with loving care. Like all the other farmers, he planted potatoes every year.
“‘Why do we plant nothing but potatoes?’ Rose asked one spring.
“‘It’s what grows best here,’ Albert told her.
“‘Would it not be wise to plant other crops, too, in case the potatoes don’t take?’ Rose said. She felt a cold hand wrap around her heart as she said the words and a shiver go up her spine.
“‘Why?’ Albert pointed to the healthy green plants. ‘Potatoes grow well in this soil. I’ve never had them not take.’
“‘Yes. You’re right. I’m just being foolish.’ Rose was leaving the garden when suddenly she pointed to a yellowed, withered leaf.
“‘What’s that?’ she asked.
“Albert bent down and pinched off the leaf, then tossed it away. ‘Been a bit dry,’ he said, and continued to weed.
“But Rose stared at that lone leaf for a long time, wondering why it filled her with such fear.
“She soon found out, as day by day, more leaves began to yellow and wither. The potatoes turned black in the fields. The stench of their rotting filled the air and there was no harvest that year . . .” I paused, took a deep breath and let the horror Great-grandmother Rose must have felt fill my voice. “Or the next, or the next. Rose and Albert and their six children grew thin from hunger. All of Ireland was starving and the English landlords would not share their grain, but shipped it back to England.” I spat out the words now, as bitter as the Irish people must have been.
“Albert tried to work on the public roads for a bit of money to buy food, but he was too weak. He could barely stand, let alone lift a shovel of dirt. Then one night, returning home after a full day’s work on the road, he fell and could not get up.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “He died in the road.
“As dark came on, Rose searched for him and found her husband dead on the very road he had helped build. She buried him in the churchyard where so many of their friends and family now rested. She buried him next to their first baby boy. In the days that followed, two of the children also died and were put in the ground next to their father. Winter came on and Rose tore up Albert’s pants to make warmer clothes for the children, but she kept one patch for herself as a remembrance of her husband. My grandma got that patch and sewed it into her quilt.”
I pointed again to the blue scrap.
Aunt Ida dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You near broke my heart. How do you know all these stories?”
“Mam’s mother—my grandma—used to tell us the stories in the Irish Quilt all the time. Mary, Ernest and Fred got sick of hearing the same old stories again and again, but I never did. I guess I heard them so much they’re inside me forever now.”
“Well, you tell them better than any story that’s been written down,” Aunt Ida said.
Written down. It hit me so hard, I felt dizzy. I couldn’t recall ever seeing Mam’s mother write or read anything. She always told us everything.
Aunt Ida grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. “Rose,” she said vehemently. “Never let anyone tell you you’re not smart, and if they do, don’t believe them. You are special.”
I had to smile at tiny Aunt Ida looking so fierce.
Mam appeared in the doorway. “James is looking for you, Ida. He says it’s time to head home.”
“This girl is special,” Aunt Ida repeated to Mam. She stood up, then leaned down and kissed my cheek. “Remember what I said,” she whispered. Then she was gone.
“Are you feeling better?” Mam laid a hand on my forehead.
“Yes. Mam, did Grandma know how to read?”
Mam straightened the bed covers. “I never thought about it before, but no, I don’t think she could. She always had me read any letters that came. She’d tell me what to fetch from the store and such. Anything that needed writing, I did it for her. Maybe no one taught her how. I imagine Great-grandmother Rose was too busy trying to feed them to have time to teach them their letters.”
Or maybe she had, but Grandma couldn’t learn to read—like me.
“Everyone’s leaving the party now, so you get some sleep and you’ll be right as rain come morning. Don’t forget your prayers.”
She turned to leave.
“Mam . . .”
She turned back.
“Could you sing that bedtime blessing you used to when I was little?”
Mam rolled her eyes but leaned over the bed and sang softly. “Four corners to her bed. Four angels at her head. Mark, Matthew, Luke and John. God bless the bed that she lies on.”
After Mam left, I stared for a long time at the cross on the wall above the dresser. Am I special, God? I wanted so badly to believe I was, but Patrick’s jeering face shoved its way into my mind. I hoped he stuffed himself so full of sweets he got sick tonight. I fell asleep during my prayers, knowing full well I’d have to confess yet another mean thought.
“Father McManus came and graced our house last night,” Mam said to Da. “You could at least grace his in return.”
Every Sunday morning Mam would take Da to task about going to Mass. As usual, we were rushing around getting ready for church. Services started the same time every Sunday, but it was Mam’s endless frustration that she couldn’t get Ernest to straighten his tie, or Bertie’s hair to lie flat—so we were always late. We’d pile out the door, throwing coats over our arms, and run through the streets to St. Joseph’s Church. Mam brought up the rear, threatening to give us all a good hiding. Every Sunday it was the same.
Da rubbed a hand through his thinning hair, exasperated with Mam.
“Why don’t you like church, Da?” Winnie asked.
“It’s not the church I don’t like,” Da told her. “It’s the collar.”
“Is it too tight on your neck?” I asked. Mam starched Da’s and the boys’ collars every week.
“Not my collar. The collar at the front of the church.”
“Michael!” Mam was
outraged that Da would speak about the priest in such a fashion.
“Oh, very well, I’ll come this morning.” Da gave in. He knew Mam would be in a vexed mood all day if he didn’t. Pots would be banged on the stove. The dinner blessing would be overly long and pious. And we’d have to take messages from Mam to Da all day, as she would refuse to talk directly to him.
“You can’t just go to church when you please,” Mam said. She wrestled Bertie into his coat. “God doesn’t like you coming to church just when you please.”
Da’s eyebrows lowered into a straight line. Now he was getting into a rage. “Did you get that from God directly, Alice?”
Surprised, I looked at Mam. Did she actually speak directly to God? More important, did He talk back to her? Maybe you had to be a grown-up to have God answer your prayers.
Mam sucked in her breath in horror. “Why you aren’t struck down by lightning where you stand . . .”
I know what God looks like. I have since my first communion when I swear I saw Him high in the church arches smiling down at me. I pictured Him now, perched on a cloud, lightning bolt in His hand, looking down from Heaven in search of a sinner. His face is as lined as Grandpa’s, though I imagine He has all His own teeth. He has a flowing white beard and kind blue eyes. When He smiles, the day is sunny, but when He is mad, thunder shakes our house. But while I did know what God looked like, I did not know what He sounded like as He’d never spoken directly to me. Would His voice boom like a thunderclap, or be soft like rain misting my face? Perhaps Mam knew.
“Do you want me to come or not?” Da threatened.
“Suit yourself.”
What would suit Da would be to meander down the street to visit with Grandpa and have a smoke, but Granny would be yelling Grandpa into his Sunday clothes so there would be no peace there, either. Mam and Da didn’t often go at each other, but when they did, it was almost always about religion. I don’t think God would be pleased that He was the main cause of cross words in my house.
With a dark look at Mam, Da went into the bedroom.
“There’s a fresh collar in your drawer,” Mam called after him.
We arrived at church a few minutes late, hastily dipped our fingers in Holy water, bent our knee and crossed ourselves, then slipped into a back pew.
“Last in, first out,” Fred whispered to Da.
Mam glared at him but placed herself firmly next to Mary. Mary looked about desperate-like, but being in the middle of the pew there was no escape from Mam. The whispering started soon afterward. Mam automatically stood, kneeled, sat, crossed herself and spoke the responses, all the while scolding Mary for having an Anglican beau.
The Anglicans lived on the south side of Halifax, or so it seemed to us Roman Catholics. Their houses were larger and the wives had maids to do their housework. Many of the men, like Horse, had motor cars to drive. Catholics lived in the north end of the city. Our houses were small, some strung together like beads in a necklace, with no yards in between. Our streets were cinders and dirt, and rang with horse hooves and rattled with wagons. The women kept their own houses and the men left at dawn to work at the docks and rail yards and factories. They worked for the men of south Halifax. Still, as Da often told us, it was the people who dirtied their hands that actually made the city work.
I pushed those thoughts aside and sat quietly, letting Father McManus’s words float over me. I drew the scent of incense into my lungs and momentarily felt at peace. Then the well-worn anxiety set in. I still had not written my composition, nor had I done my reading, and I had to face Sister Frances tomorrow.
I bent forward and stole a glance at Mary, but her sour face told me I wouldn’t get any help from her. Aunt Ida and Uncle James sat in the pew in front of us, and I toyed with the idea of asking her for help, but she thought I was special and I didn’t want her to find out how dumb I really was. Mam would be busy with Sunday dinner, and Winnie and Ernest weren’t patient enough. Martha sat to the side of us. She’d help me, but her mother wouldn’t let her out on Sundays.
Why couldn’t I just write the story myself? I knew what I wanted to say. I wanted to write about the terrible hunger in Ireland that had forced my great-grandmother Rose to come to Canada. I wanted to write about the dreadful ocean voyage she endured. The words made sense in my mind, but I couldn’t get them to make sense on paper.
Chapter 7
I closely followed the back of the girl in front of me through the heavy front doors into the school. We’d been at St. Joseph’s Church for a special service. I had tried to take the opportunity to ask God for help with my story, but the older girls had giggled in the back pews. Next thing I knew, I found myself asking that He let them be friends with me and I forgot about my story.
As I passed the white marble statue of the Virgin Mary sitting at the foot of the stairs beside the piano, I glanced at her serene stone face. She’d probably never felt the fear and embarrassment of standing in front of the class, stumbling through a reader. I sent up a fervent prayer to the Virgin to get me through this day in one piece. I didn’t think God would mind if I asked for her help, too, as I imagined He was pretty busy, what with the war and all. The thought crossed my mind that I certainly asked for a lot for myself. I debated for a moment if this was something I should confess, then decided not. Surely God wouldn’t want to be bothered with every little might-be-a-sin I committed.
“Step lively, girls.” Sister Frances prodded my back.
I noticed she didn’t single anyone else out, but I wanted to stay on her good side today, so I hurried up the stairs, only to catch my foot in the hem of my dress. I went down flat on my face, arms outstretched, legs flailing.
“Can you not even walk properly?” Sister Frances stood over me, hands on her hips.
“Sorry, Sister,” I murmured. I staggered to my feet, hauling my skirt out from under me, but I yanked too hard and sent it and my pinafore flying over my head.
“Pull your skirt down! You’re indecent!”
“Sorry, Sister.” I wrestled the skirt back down, my face red as Mam’s pickled beets. My heart sank. I knew what this meant. I had displeased God with my selfishness. This did not bode well for the rest of the day.
Giggles filled the hall. I glanced back in time to see Martha speak behind her hand to the girl beside her. They both laughed, and a pang of hurt shot through me. I vowed right then and there that if Martha couldn’t be friends with me in school, we wouldn’t be friends outside of school, either.
I made it into the classroom and into my seat without any further catastrophes.
“Feet on the floor. Hands in front.”
Dread squeezed my heart. I had spent Sunday struggling with the words in my reading assignment, an ordeal that had taken the entire afternoon, but they were committed to memory. Then I had tried to write my composition. I told myself I could do it if I really tried and wasn’t lazy like Sister Frances thought me. I wrote one word, erased it, wrote another and erased it, too. By the end of Sunday evening I had one-and-a-half sentences and a big hole in the paper from erasing so much.
Sister Frances walked up and down the aisles, checking the insides of our ears. As she exclaimed over one girl’s dirty ears, “You could grow potatoes in them,” I sent up one final prayer. Please, God, make it so Sister Frances doesn’t ask to hear my composition. I’ll never ask for anything more for myself again. I promise.
He must have heard me, because Sister Frances didn’t once call on me. Her pointer slapped down on other girls’ desks, but not mine. Then, magically, it was morning break. I floated out of the school, knowing I was especially blessed today. It didn’t matter what I did, God would take care of me. I eyed the girls from my supposed-to-be-in class. Martha smiled back at me. Another sign. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to them. Martha’s smile faded and her eyes widened in dismay. She shook her head at me, but I ignored her. She couldn’t know I was especially blessed today. That was between God and me.
“Hello,” I said
. The girls exchanged glances and sly smiles. My brain froze. I couldn’t think of another thing to say. I suddenly realized that I had made a terrible mistake. I had overestimated my blessedness.
After a long moment of silence, Catherine spoke. “I see you’re wearing your skirt down for recess.”
A burst of laughter. Martha studied her feet. I smiled, pretending to join in the joke. “That was just a silly accident,” I said. Please, God, let my feet leave before this gets worse. A second realization swept over me, more dire than the first. I’d just broken my promise to not ask for anything else for myself. God made my feet take root as punishment.
After a moment, Catherine said, “We’re talking about some grown-up things. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I—I’m as old as you are,” I protested.
“Well, yes and no. You might be in years, but you are two grades below us in brains,” Catherine explained sweetly. She turned her back on me. “I had a letter from my father,” she told the girls. “He can’t come home because he’s very important to the war. He’s a general, you know. He’s in France and is sending me some fine silk material for Christmas to make a dress for me.”
I looked to Martha for help, but her shoes continued to hold her mesmerized. I didn’t know what to do.
“No one from your family is overseas, are they, Rose?” Catherine suddenly asked.
I shook my head.
“I thought not. Some fight, others don’t. I expect my father will arrive home with a chest full of medals,” she said.
I wanted to tell her about Da and Fred and my uncles working hard on the docks, all for the war effort, but couldn’t find the words. Finally, God took pity on me and let my feet loose. As I walked away, I put my hand to my cheek and it came away wet. The sky was clear, so the wet wasn’t rain. How could You let me cry in front of the girls, God?
“You can play with us, Rose.” Winnie had seen the girls—and the tears.
I held my head high. I wouldn’t cry in front of Winnie’s baby friends. “Never mind, Winnie. I’m still not feeling good from my cold. The wind is making my eyes water.”
Irish Chain Page 6
