Letters from a Patchwork Quilt

2: Virginia Lodge

2: Virginia LodgeEverything happened so fast. Jack struggled to believe he wasn’t dreaming. First there was the railway journey – from Derby to Birmingham and then on to Bristol. He’d never been on a locomotive before and he loved it – even the smoke and steam from the engine and the cold draughts of icy air through the windows. There was the thrill of getting on board in one place and getting off in another, of imagining the lives of the other passengers, where they were going and why, what they were escaping from, their jobs, their secrets, their hopes and dreams. He’d never left Derby before. Never been outside those crowded streets. His heart thumped with fear and excitement about what lay ahead.

Mr Quinn’s letter of reference must have been glowing – or Sister Callista, the headmistress of St Patrick’s must have been desperate – most likely both. The nun almost jumped for joy when Jack presented himself at the little school on the outskirts of the city. She had been teaching the older boys and girls together in one overcrowded classroom and was relieved to be able to hand the boys over to Jack. She had a broad smile and gentle eyes and Jack immediately liked her. Before taking the veil she had clearly been an attractive woman.

She arranged for him to lodge with a parishioner and his family, brushing aside his suggestion that he could stay in a working men’s hostel.

‘Good heavens no, Mr Brennan. We don’t want you having to mix with non-Catholics. Much better that you’re in a good Catholic home. I’m going to send you to Mr MacBride who is a benefactor of the school and does much for the parish. He has given board and lodging to members of the teaching staff before.’

She showed little curiosity about Jack’s circumstances and why he had left the industrial Midlands to come to Bristol. He wondered if she was afraid to enquire for fear of discovering something that would prevent her employing him.

He made his way to the address she gave him, carrying the small knapsack Mr Quinn had packed with a set of clean underwear and a shirt. The house, Virginia Lodge, about a mile from the school, was set behind a high wall, and surrounded by a lawn and a dense shrubbery. Fancy. Out of his world. Jack was nervous. His skin felt clammy and he looked at his dirty, down-at-heel shoes. He’d never set foot in a place like this before. The past twenty-four hours had tipped his world on its axis. Travelling on the railway had been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him and now here he was about to take up residence in a very grand house. He checked the piece of paper the nun had given him, in case he’d made a mistake in following her directions, then mounted the steps and rang the doorbell. He could hear it echoing through the large house and was tempted to run away.

The door opened. A young woman, dressed in black, stood on the threshold, an inquisitive look on her face.

‘Mrs MacBride?’ His voice sounded high and warbly to him, so he took a breath and tried to lower his register. ‘Sister Callista at St Patrick’s told me you might be willing to take me in as a lodger. I’m the new schoolteacher. It’s all written down in here.’ He thrust an envelope into the woman’s hand.

‘I’m the maid.’ She rolled her eyes then added, ‘You’d best come in and wait in the parlour. There is no Mrs MacBride. I’ll find out if Mr MacBride will see you.’

Blushing at his error, he followed the woman across the stone-flagged hallway and into a room so crammed with furniture that he could barely find a passageway through. The maid didn’t suggest he sit, so he positioned himself in front of the ornate, marble fireplace and looked around while he waited. The fire was not lit and the room was chilly and gloomy. Heavy, green velvet curtains sucked up the pale, watery, winter light. The outside of the window was half covered with ivy. The velvet curtains were overhung by a second set of silk hangings that were draped in festoons and more elaborate than anything Jack had seen before. Exotic plants in huge pots were positioned throughout the room, some delicate and fern-like and others with droopy red flowers that hung down like icicles of blood. The furniture was over-stuffed and studded with buttons. Even the mantelpiece was decked out like the windows, covered with a patterned green velvet cloth with little silk balls dangling from a fringe all around. The dark green walls were covered in paintings and gilt framed mirrors. Jack’s family didn’t own a single mirror in the house back in Derby, let alone paintings. They certainly didn’t have carpet or stuffed furniture or even curtains. What kind of money must it take to furnish a place like this? Jack wondered how anyone could possibly be that rich. He felt shabby, threadbare and conscious of the cardboard which was lining the inside of his shoes.

The door burst open and a portly man with enormous sideburns entered. He looked Jack up and down, then moved towards him, hands behind his back. ‘You’re the new teacher then?’ He waved a piece of paper in the air and said, ‘Sister Callista says you are highly recommended by your previous employer.’

Jack nodded, struck dumb by the man’s presence.

Mr MacBride evidently didn’t expect an answer, as he carried on. 'St Bridget’s is a new school and there is a small but growing number of pupils. The school board and parish committee are keen that the boys have a good Catholic male teacher to counteract some of the bad influences they get at home. St Bridget’s was built with my money and I’m determined I’ll not see it go to waste. Understand, young man?’

Jack nodded again. As he shook MacBride’s outstretched hand, he felt the sweat transfer onto his host’s palm and was mortified as the man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand.

‘I hope I’ll give satisfaction, sir,’ Jack managed to stutter.

‘We’ll have you out as quick as you like if you don’t measure up. Now you want bed and board here?’ asked MacBride.

Jack was reduced to nodding again.

‘Do you go to Mass every Sunday, young man? Confession?’

Again, all Jack could do was nod. Nerves had made him mute.

‘We keep early hours and I expect you to do the same. No gallivanting about or keeping low company. And no overindulging in alcohol.’

‘I don’t drink, sir.’

‘Good. Good. We live modestly. Plain simple food. There’s just my daughter and me and the staff. A cook, a coachman and a housemaid. My wife passed away three years ago. Did Sister Callista explain that you will be expected to pay three shillings a week for your keep?’

‘Yes sir.’ His voice was barely a whisper.

‘Not that I keep it. I don’t need your money - it all goes back to the parish. Important that you pay your way. That’s settled then. Wait here and the maid will show you to your room. We dine at six o’clock sharp. I won’t tolerate lateness.’

The girl who had let him in returned and led him upstairs. After she left, he gazed around him, taking in his new home. The bedroom was as stark as the drawing room had been elaborate. There was a narrow iron bed, a small rug on the otherwise bare, wooden floor and a chest of drawers with a jug and washstand. The window was curtained in thin, black serge that may well have been leftover mourning fabric. Other than a pair of coat hooks on the back of the door and a wooden crucifix over the bed, that was it. But to Jack it was a palace. For his whole life, he’d topped and tailed on a straw mattress with his siblings: girls one end, boys the other. His parents slept in the kitchen, which was the only other room in the house. This room would be paradise: he would be left alone to think, to write, to read, to dream, with no risk of one of the little ones wetting the bed and no danger of someone’s legs kicking out when they had a bad dream or because they hadn’t enough space. He would enjoy this proper bed with legs, instead of the sack of dirty straw on the floor.

Jack lay on the bed trying to imagine what lay in store for him in his new life, nervous about the prospect of his first day as a proper teacher. His mind raced as he mentally planned his lessons. A gong sounded and he hurried downstairs and stood in the hall looking about him, wondering where to go. He was about to try the door next to the parlour, when he realised someone was watching him. A young woman was standing in the shadows, partly hidden by the coat stand, her voluminous skirts giving her presence away. Jack stepped forward, then hesitated. Was it polite to offer to shake a young lady’s hand? Not that she was that young. At least ten years older than him, he guessed. ‘You must be Miss MacBride?’

‘You can call me Mary Ellen.’

He was surprised that she was prepared to dispense with the formalities so early in their acquaintance, but said, as was clearly expected, ‘My name’s Jack, Miss, Jack Brennan.’

She stepped forward into the light of the gas lamp. Her dark hair was lustrous but with a small streak of premature grey at the temples. Her features were strong and pale as if sculpted from marble. He might have thought her beautiful, but for the dullness of her eyes and the absence of expression on her face.

She put her head on one side as if weighing him up, then turned and walked away, calling over her shoulder. ‘Hurry up, Jack Brennan. Papa hates lateness to table.’

He followed her along the hallway and into the dining room. Another gloomy room, although this time with a feeble fire burning in the grate. The dark green walls were hung with more paintings: mostly featuring schooners making their way through stormy seas.

Mr MacBride was sitting at the head of the table. Without looking up he said, ‘Do you like paintings, Mr Brennan?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m something of a collector.’

‘I can see that, sir.’

‘Know much about art do you, lad?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Neither do I.’ He didn’t elaborate on the reason for the collection. ‘Have you met my daughter, Miss Mary Ellen MacBride?’

‘I’ve just had that pleasure, sir.’

‘Pleasure? Don’t be getting ideas, young man.’

Jack swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean – I was just…’

‘Spit it out, man. Say what you mean. Mean what you say.’

Jack swallowed, trying to summon the confidence that he didn’t feel. ‘What I meant to say was it is an honour to make the acquaintance of both yourself and your daughter. I do not wish to cause offence.’

Mary Ellen, standing beside him, started to giggle.

MacBride barked at his daughter. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Mary Ellen. Stop that or you can go to your room.'

MacBride’s tone was sharp and Jack was taken aback. The woman must be approaching thirty and yet her father spoke to her as if she were a naughty child.

She sat down, her brow furrowed by repressed anger. Mr MacBride said grace and then the supper was consumed in complete silence, punctuated only by the sound of MacBride masticating his food. The meal was simple: a mutton stew with boiled potatoes and cabbage, but the portions were generous and Jack had not eaten so well in his life. He wondered whether to initiate some conversation, but decided to take his cue from his host, who ate with remarkable speed.

Jack took the opportunity to study his companions. Mr MacBride was short and stout and clearly enjoyed his food, eating with relish, while his tall, slender daughter barely touched hers, playing with it rather than eating it. There appeared to be little familial affection between them. Dinners at Virginia Lodge were unlikely to be the source of intellectual stimulation or conviviality, but, while the company may have been taciturn, Jack had no regrets about running away from home.