Bertie suddenly ran in and jumped on the bed beside me.
“Stop that, you little monkey.” I pulled him down into my arms. “You’ll break the bed. It’s not that strong.”
I tickled him until he squealed, then hugged him.
I still couldn’t get over the miracle of Bertie. He was our family’s Christmas gift. Blown out of the house by the force of the explosion, he’d been picked up by a soldier, who had taken him to hospital. He was uninjured, but the shock of it all had locked his tongue. He’d been sent to Truro and taken in by a kindly woman, Mrs. Elliott. He hadn’t said a single word until the day he saw me at the Truro hospital with Winnie. I don’t know who was more shocked—me or Mrs. Elliott. She’d taken Bertie to the hospital to distribute Christmas toys to the children, and they’d stopped to listen to my story. She had a large heart, Mrs. Elliott did, but as she appeared so attached to Bertie, I often wondered if she regretted going to the hospital that particular day. Aunt Ida had promised her we would always keep in touch.
Bertie struggled to be free of my arms. “I’m going sledding with Ernest and Patrick,” he announced.
“Go, then.” I pushed him off the bed. Already he thought himself too old for hugs.
As our household settled down, I had more time to think, mostly about the explosion. I still have trouble believing it really happened. A stubborn part of my mind still clings to the thought that it was all a nightmare, but the shattered trees, destroyed buildings and, mostly, the graves in the cemetery rudely remind me every day that it was not.
I still don’t know why bad things happen. I go over it time and time again. I know we all have good and bad in our lives, though some folks seem to have more than their fair share of one over the other. Granny Dunlea would say hard times make us stronger, Aunt Helen would say they’re meant to test our mettle and Mam would say it’s God’s will. I don’t know what I say. I wonder if I ever will.
Mary appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. “Rose, Uncle James said they are going to start to clear the rubble away from the house. I want to go back before they do and see if there’s anything left. Anything at all . . .” She paused. “Do you want to come with me?”
Suddenly, I wanted to go back, badly. I had not been to Albert Street since the day of the explosion. I grabbed my coat and followed her outdoors.
In the cold light of a late January morning, we stood looking down at Richmond. A desolate landscape of grey, brown and white stretched before us, not a trace of colour anywhere to relieve our eyes. Snow rippled across the ground, pushed by the wind into life, but its promise was false; nothing lived here anymore. For a moment I saw it whole again: houses and stores standing, schools with children in the yards, streets full of delivery wagons, women shaking rugs on front porches and gossiping to each other.
“It breaks my heart,” Mary said brokenly.
With her words, my fantasy burst and the flattened city spread out before me once more.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” Mary said. “Duncan said he’ll meet us with the wagon in case we find anything usable. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
We passed Schultz’s bakery, and Martha came to the door and waved us over. Warm, yeast-scented air enveloped us as we went in.
“Have a bun.” Mr. Schultz handed a soft roll to each of us. As Mary thanked him, I stepped away with Martha.
“You have a new house,” Martha said.
I nodded. “Aunt Ida and Uncle James are our guardians now.” I’d finally asked Aunt Ida if we would be going to an orphanage, and she’d swept me up in a huge hug and said, “Never.”
“I see the police let your father go.”
“He was only away a week. But it’s just now that people are beginning to come for our baking again,” Martha said. “It takes time for them to forget, if ever.”
I broke open the bun and released a fragrant aroma that made my mouth water. Martha moved behind the counter and stacked loaves of bread.
“I won’t be going back to school,” she said. “I’m working here now. Mama and Papa need me.”
“I’m to work at the new kindergarten,” I told her shyly. “And Sister Therese said she’d help me with my reading.”
“Rose,” Mary called, “we must go.”
“Come by and visit me,” Martha said, as we left.
“I will.”
We picked our way around piles of debris to Albert Street and our house. We were stopped twice by soldiers, but Mary showed them the pass she had, and they waved us on our way.
Then we were there. At our house. I began to tremble. Why had I thought I could do this? See our life in bits and pieces. My teeth chattered so hard I feared I’d break them.
“I expect most everything was lost in the fire, but I need to be sure,” Mary said. She didn’t notice me frozen to the spot. She threw a board aside and bent down to sift through the rubble.
“Oh, look, Rose,” Mary exclaimed happily. She held up a cup and saucer. “It’s one of Mam’s best. And it’s not even chipped! Imagine that.”
She set it carefully down. That teacup broke the spell that rooted my feet. We dug for an hour, finding small treasures—like Da’s cap. A hole was burned through the peak, but we set it with the teacup and saucer.
As I tossed boards aside, I saw a scrap of material sticking out from a pile of plaster. A dress, I thought as I tugged hard. It suddenly came free, throwing ash and dust into my face. I coughed, then turned the material over in my hand. Burned, it crumbled beneath my fingers, but not before I recognized what it was. I sadly brushed soot from the only small piece I could salvage: Great-grandmother Rose’s wedding dress patch. All that was left of the Irish Chain quilt. Sadly, I thrust it into my pocket.
“Help me with this, Rose,” Mary called.
I ran over to find her struggling with the chest from our bedroom.
“The top’s burned,” she gasped as she yanked it from beneath a pile of boards. “But I bet Uncle James could make a new one for it.”
We dragged it to the front lawn. I brushed off soot, then pried open the lid. Mary pulled out a couple of sweaters.
“They stink to high Heaven of damp and smoke,” she said.
She added them to the growing pile of items we would keep.
I plunged my hand to the bottom of the chest and searched. My fingers touched a bag. The patches I’d collected for my own quilt. I grabbed a handful and spread them across my skirt. They, too, reeked of smoke, but as they were mostly cotton, I knew a good wash would take care of that.
I stroked the remnants of Mam’s housedress, Granny’s apron, Aunt Helen’s blouse—I would give that to Patrick if he wanted it—Bertie’s nightgown, and for the first time in six weeks felt a small glow of happiness. My family had been given back to me.
I stuffed the material back into the bag. I would make them into my own Irish Chain quilt, and one day—not right now, and probably not for a while—I would point to a patch and tell the story of Mam threatening to give us a good hiding, Fred’s forgetfulness, Grandpa’s false teeth, Granny and Aunt Helen and The Illnesses, or Da singing “My Wild Irish Rose.”
My wild Irish Rose,
the sweetest flower that grows.
You may search everywhere
but none can compare
with my wild Irish Rose.
Author’s Note
In 1917, a child with dyslexia was considered “slow” or “simple.” Today we know that dyslexia is a learning disability. People with dyslexia are as intelligent as other people. It is not a disease, but a difference in the brain; dyslexics have minds that learn differently. A person with dyslexia has problems making sense of what is seen or heard. While children today can receive help from teachers and parents, special schools and tutors, some of the stigma of having dyslexia remains. Dyslexics struggle with poor self-image, social difficulties, fear of failure, frustration and anger—the same problems my character Rose faces in Irish Chain.
On December 6, 1
917, Halifax experienced Canada’s greatest human tragedy. Two ships, one loaded with explosives, collided in the Narrows, resulting in the largest man-made explosion outside of Hiroshima. Estimates put the dead between two and three thousand. The working-class north end of Halifax, Richmond, was completely devastated. But, as all people who survive tragedy and loss throughout the ages have done, the people of Halifax, with the generous support of Canadians and Americans, rebuilt their lives, demonstrating once again the enduring spirit of humankind.
All the characters in Irish Chain are products of my imagination, with the exception of two. Sister Maria Cecilia was the principal of St. Joseph’s School and Father McManus was one of the priests at St. Joseph’s Church at the time of the explosion. I have used their names, but otherwise, their characters in the book are fictionalized.
The lyrics and music to “My Wild Irish Rose” were written by Chauncey Olcott for his production of A Romance of Athlone. The music was published in 1899.
Visit my Web site for a teacher/student resource page on the Halifax Explosion.
http://www.barbhaworthattard.com/
Wreckage at Richmond. From the collection of the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
YMCA Emergency hospital. From the Kitz collection, Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
Ruins of St. Joseph’s School and St. Joseph’s Church. From the collection of the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Marge Eaton, Heather Haworth, Mary McGinn, Roberta Guildford and Judy Ann Sadler for their help with various aspects of this book.
Thank you to the Ontario Arts Council for a grant provided to the author.
Nine Patch Quilt Pattern
A single Irish Chain quilt uses a block pattern called “Nine Patch.” Nine Patch blocks were the first blocks children leaned to make when they were old enough to sew. The instructions below call for blue and white fabric, but you can choose any two colours, as long as one is dark and one is light.
You’ll need
•a pencil
•a ruler
•cereal-box cardboard
•scissors
•.25 m (¼ yd.) blue cotton fabric (plain or print)
•.25 m (¼ yd.) white cotton fabric (plain or print)
•straight pins
•a sewing needle and thread
•an iron (ask an adult to help)
Instructions
1Draw a 13-cm (5-in.) square on the cereal-box cardboard and cut it out. This will be your pattern, or template, as it is called in quilting.
2Place the template on the blue fabric and trace around it with the pencil. Cut out the fabric square exactly on the lines. Use this same method to cut out four more blue squares.
3Use the above method to cut out four white squares. You should now have five blue squares and four white ones.
4Use your pencil and ruler to draw a line .5 cm (¼ in.) in from each side on the wrong side of one of the fabric squares. These will be your sewing lines. Repeat this step for each square.
5On a table, line up a blue square, a white square and another blue square. This will be your first row.
6For the second row, line up a white square, a blue square and another white square.
7Your third row will be the same as the first row. Your squares should be alternating blue and white. (See the illustration on the facing page.)
8With the right sides together, pin the first blue square to the white square beside it.
9With the needle and thread, use a running stitch (as shown on the facing page) to stitch the squares together along the sewing lines. Remove the pins as you sew.
10Now sew the other blue square to the centre white square.
11Use this same method to stitch together the squares in the other two rows.
12Ask an adult to help you press the seams toward the blue fabric in each row.
13With the right sides together, sew the top row to the middle row, and the bottom row to the other two rows. Press the seams smooth.
14You now have a nine-patch block. See the author’s Web site http://www.barbhaworthattard.com/ for how to make your block part of an Irish chain quilt, or you can make a pillow out of your block.
To make a pillow
Place your block face down on the right side of another piece of cotton. Trace the block and cut out the large fabric square. (Or you can make a second block to use for the back of the pillow.) With the right sides together, pin and stitch the front and back together on three sides. Remove the pins as you sew. Turn the pillow right side out and stuff it with a pillow form. Tuck in the raw edges and stitch the pillow closed.
Books by Barbara Haworth-Attard
A Is for Angst
Haunted
Home Child
Love Lies Bleeding
Theories of Relativity
Flying Geese
Forget Me Not
Copyright
Irish Chain
Copyright © 2002 by Barbara Haworth-Attard.
All rights reserved under all applicable International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by HarperTrophyCanada™, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
HarperTrophyCanada™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.
First published in trade paperback by HarperTrophyCanada™, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 2002. A mass market paperback edition, 2004.
EPub Edition: March 2017 EPub ISBN: 9781443452977
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National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Haworth-Attard, Barbara, 1953–
Irish chain / Barbara Haworth-Attard. – Mass market pbk. ed.
ISBN 978-0-00639-216-3
I. Title.
PS8565.A865175 2004 jC813'.54 C2003-905648-1
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OPM 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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