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“Colleen, what are you doing?” A nasal voice broke the silence in the Winchester family kitchen one day early summer afternoon. It was an unseasonably warm Boston day and a bored ten year old Charles Emerson Winchester (the third, mind you) had found his way to the kitchen of his Beacon Hill home in search of reprieve from his idle mind and the heat of the upstairs rooms. His mother was holding court in the dining room with her bridge club friends. Charles had learned long ago children were to neither be seen nor heard so he had slipped away from his younger sister Honoria’s imaginary tea party down the back staircase.
Most of the housekeepers under the Winchester’s employ in the past shoo’d young Charles away from the kitchen, but Colleen was different. Perhaps it was her youth and inexperience. Perhaps it she simply possessed a more patient temperament. Perhaps, being not much older than Charles herself at only 17, she found herself fond of the lad. Whatever the reason, this maid seemed more conversational than the housekeepers Charles was used to. Colleen held up a knitting needle to show several rows of sturdy blue wool stitches. “T’will be a hat once finished.”
Charles sniffed. “Why on earth would one craft a hat when one could easily go to Filene's and purchase a hat instead?” His Boston Brahmin accent was thick and heavy against Colleen’s slight Irish lilt.
“Why, Master Charles!” Colleen chided lightly. “The manner o’ giving is worth more than the gift.” She picked up her needles again. Charles had been off to boarding school when Colleen first came into the Winchester household. The two were still learning their way around each other.
“And who, pray tell, are you making this hat for?” Charles did not bother to keep the disdain from his voice.
“I don’ have any family, so I make warm winter things for people who might need them. It’s an act o’ love.” Charles snorted in derision, but sat in a chair nearby and watched as the needles clicked and Colleen’s rough hands manipulated the yarn. At the start of the next row, she plucked red yarn out of the bag at her feet and stitched it in. After a few stitches she picked up the blue again. A pattern began to form of blue, then red, then blue.
Charles watched her with detached interest for several minutes before speaking again. “My family has a Christmas Eve tradition of purchasing chocolates for those in need. We visit Wallingford and Chadwick Confectioners downtown to purchase pounds upon pounds of chocolates. I delight in watching Mr. Wallingford hand wrap each morsel before packing it into golden colored boxes. Then Honoria and I watch from the car while Father delivers chocolates to the doorsteps of orphanages and select homes of immigrants.”
Colleen thought of sparse Christmas dinners at St. Joseph’s Home for Wayward Children. The only thing special from every day was the small piece of chocolate carefully hand wrapped in gold foil at the end of the meal. She remembered how she’d savor that piece of rich chocolate, but too soon after her stomach would again demand real food that didn’t exist for her or her friends.
She made a small noncommittal noise.
A bell rang in the dining room. Colleen set her knitting aside and tucked an errant lock of red hair back under her cap. “Your mother an’ her friends have finished luncheon. If you’ll excuse me, it’s time to serve dessert. I saved back a piece of pie for you and Honoria. They are in the ice box if you’d like yours before I return. Peach today.”
The following day found Charles observing Colleen’s knitting yet again. “I do not believe the terms of your employment include arts and crafts for wayward children.”
Colleen eyed him. “The terms of my employment are between your father an’ me, but they do allow for meal breaks.” She motioned to a watercress sandwich and some leftover molded potato salad from the previous day’s luncheon, near her elbow. “I spend that time knitting gifts while I eat. Come, sit. I’ll show you how.”
“Ha! What use would I ever have for such drudgery.” He responded, but Colleen noticed he lingered in the doorway. Today in addition to the blue and red yarns, Colleen also created patterned rows of blue and white.
The hat was complete in a matter of days and Colleen sat stitching the oddly shaped piece closed so that it formed a striking blue patterned hat while her audience of one sat nearby eating a sandwich and pretending not to watch. “Master Charles, why don’ you see what Honoria is up to?” Colleen suggested, not overly anxious to send him away.
“Thank you. No. She was playing dollies when I came down in search of something to quell my hunger.” He wrinkled his nose and returned to his sandwich, brimming with roast turkey and watercress. Leftover Waldorf salad had been rejected.
Colleen shrugged and plucked a strip of cardboard from her battered bag holding all manner of yarns and sewing instruments. She wrapped extra blue yarn around and around the cardboard. “Now what are you doing?” Charles demanded.
“Every hat needs a bobble, dear.” She smiled.
Every few days Charles found Colleen working on a new project. He learned scarves and small sweaters took longer to make than hats. Charles watched with varying degrees of interest. All the pieces were created using complex arrays of patterns Colleen explained was called “fair isle.” A rainbow of colors appeared from Colleen’s bag - red, white, yellow, green, pink and shades of blue. Each piece was knitted with almost a reverence. Colleen offered occasionally to teach Charles how to knit or to make the bobbles that adorned the top of the hat. He declined with varying degrees of politeness each time.
“Pity.” She murmured one day. “There’s such joy in the giving of something from the heart.”
“Do you play chess?” Charles asked one day, holding a ebony and ivory board in one hand and matching ebony box in the other.
Not looking up from her pattern work, Colleen said evenly, “Only a little. You could teach me if you like.” She watched Charles stifle a small smile and begin setting up the game.
“This is the queen. She likes to match her colors. So the white queen goes on white. The black queen on black. The king, of course, sits to her right.” he began.
Once the board was set, complete with instructions on proper placement and how pieces moved, Colleen set aside her knitting to play.
“Your accent is not obviously pronounced as some of our previous housekeepers.” Charles observed as he moved out his knight.
“I suppose you’re right on that, Master Charles.” Colleen murmured, moving a pawn. “Me family were lost when I was very young. The folks who raised me weren’t all Irish.”
“And who did raise you?”
“All manner of people.” She smiled sadly.
For the remainder of the summer, the time spent during the lunch hour was passed alternating between Charles teaching Colleen chess and Colleen teaching Charles how to make bobbles. He refused to learn to knit, although Colleen suspected if pressed he might be able to just from daily observation. An unlikely - dare Charles admit - friendship grew up between the pair. Charles found himself confiding in Colleen things he would likely not tell his friends or especially his parents. “I want to be a doctor,” he found himself saying one day, “but Father believes I should go into politics. Winchesters have always been proud supporters of our elected officials.”
“A doctor is a noble profession. Think of all the people you’ll be helping.” Colleen smiled.
Charles pondered her statement for a few minutes before asking “Don’t you want to do something other than clean house and wait on Mother’s bridge club?”
“We share similar dreams, Master Charles. I’m looking for a sponsor to help me fund nursing school.”
He hissed his displeasure at Colleen the day she patched up a stinging cut on his palm from a pocket knife. He had been visiting with his friends that morning. They had decided to carve their names in the tree behind his friend Kenneth’s house and his knife had slipped. “Be careful! Aren’t nurses supposed to show compassion and provide comfort?!”
“Master Charles, tis a deep cut. I’m being gentle as I can.” She chided with her patent patience. “And when have you ever known me not to show compassion?”
He grew quiet as she wrapped gauze around his hand. “Please don’t tell Father.” He whispered.
“I think he’ll notice the bandage, dear, but I won’t say a word. ‘Tis your story to tell. Not mine.”
“Ha. My father doesn’t notice anything.” Colleen pursed her lips, but turned to retrieve a cookie for him and sent him out to the yard until lunch.
Shortly before Charles returned to school, Colleen made a request at lunch. “I want to make a special hat an’ thought you could pick out the colors.” She laid out the contents of her now ubiquitous knitting bag on the kitchen table.
“Why me?”
“T’is is for a young lad ‘bout your age. Thought you could help figure what colors he might like.”
He sighed as though the burden of the world fell upon his shoulders. “Oh, very well. There; that deep red for the main color and the dark blue for most of the pattern work. White would be an acceptable accent.”
Colleen grinned and agreed. “Nice choices.”
*****
Dear Master Charles, the note began. It was my hope to stay on in your family’s employ until after the new year. However a sponsor to help me attend nursing school was located much sooner than anticipated. In order to get settled in a boarding house and find employment in Dartmouth I had to leave before you got home. I pray you find joy in the hat we made together. Do you remember choosing the colors and making the bobble? I’ll think of you often. Nollaig Shona duit. Colleen O’Mara
The lights shone brightly on the Christmas tree, reflecting off German glass balls and blown glass ornaments meant to resemble icicles. Honoria squealed delightedly at a new porcelain doll with fur collar and tiny leather boots. The Christmas morning ritual of opening festively wrapped packages had just begun. Charles found himself drawn first to the lumpy package wrapped in simple newsprint and tied with a scrap of blue wool. He now sat in his traditional spot leaning against the horsehair sofa, pondering the note in his hand while a red and blue toboggan cap lay in his lap.
Mrs. Winchester sniffed, pulling Charles out of his moment of reverie. “Why Charles, is that one of those woolen things Colleen was always crafting?” She did not wait for an answer. “If we had known you desired a new winter hat, we could have taken you to Filene's to choose one. In fact we’ll do that very thing day after tomorrow! A royal blue cashmere hat and scarf would look lovely with your new coat and school uniform.”
Charles smiled stiffly. “Yes, Mother.” He set the toboggan cap and note aside. “Father, did Colleen leave a forwarding address?”
“Why on earth for, Charles? We don’t correspond with the help once they have left our employ.” Mr. Winchester’s voice boomed across the sitting room.
He reached for the nearest package with this name on it. “No reason, I suppose.”
*****
After 10 hours in surgery, a strong cup of coffee and a sandwich were in order. Dr. Winchester draped his stethoscope over his neck as he walked through the doors of Massachusetts General’s cafeteria. This time of night only doctors and nurses frequented the cafeteria. A nurse he didn’t recognize as hospital staff caught his eye almost immediately. She had her back to the door, but the lock of fading red hair escaping her nurse’s cap caused him to pause. The nurse sat alone - knitting. Surely not. Charles watched from a distance as she dipped her body to retrieve another color yarn from the bag at her feet.
It surprised him to discover anger and bitterness simmer to the surface. When he began his residency he asked nearly every nurse he came across if they knew of a Colleen O”Mara or even of a Colleen with red hair. It was laughable, of course. Colleen would never have the clout to be accepted as a nurse at Massachusetts General. “Try Boston City Hospital,” several of them suggested.
But there she sat so unassuming, so innocent of the hurt she had caused him by leaving without warning and not looking back. He felt 10 years old again watching Colleen silently knitting one of those blasted hats. Charles subconsciously rubbed the thumb of his left hand across the palm of his right and a 20 year old scar. “Nurse,” he caught the arm of the young woman who brushed past him in the doorway. “Who is that?” A nod toward Colleen.
“I believe she said her name is Colleen, Dr. Winchester. She’s on staff at St. Joseph’s Home for Wayward Children.” The nurse frowned.
“What is she doing here? Surely the Home’s residents can’t afford care at Massachusetts General?”
“She said she was hoping to meet with a benefactor for the Home. I didn’t catch a name, but understood he is on staff here.” She turned to Colleen. “Shall I make introductions?”
“Thank you. No.” The nurse walked out, leaving Charles, a cafeteria girl and Colleen the only three left in the room. He straightened himself, took two steps into the cafeteria, stopped short, turned on his heel, and left. He hadn’t been the one to go away, the ten year old in Charles’ head said. Colleen hadn’t contacted him once in 20 years; there was no point bringing back the past now.
*****
A too small red fair isle toboggan cap set atop Charles’ head. At this point in his life, it did little to keep his head warm, but had done much to thaw his heart. The fountain pen he’d won in a debate many years ago lay beside a Clairefontaine note pad. He sighed and picked up the pen.
December 25, 1952
My dearest Colleen,
Twenty-five years have passed since we last spoke, yet the kindness you showed to me in my youth often crosses my mind. On one of the first days we met you told me “The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.” I am deeply embarrassed to admit it has, indeed, taken me nearly all of the last quarter decade to fully understand and appreciate your sentiment. Recently I found myself in a position of giving dessert to children who had had no meal. That act is sadly inappropriate, and one that I aim to make amends for immediately. What is even more inappropriate is I found myself giving the gift thinking mostly of my own pleasure and not of theirs.
Charles paused to take a small bite of Peg Hunnicutt’s mother’s fudge from the plate Klinger brought him earlier in the evening, expecting a pedestrian confection at best. The chocolate melted slowly in his mouth and he found himself pleasantly surprised to discover the flavor nearly rivaled that of the gold wrapped chocolates of his youth.
Last night I suspect a large package of Wallingford and Chadwick Confections anonymously appeared on the doorstep of St. Joseph’s Home for Wayward Children. It is my deepest hope the children enjoy their chocolates, but chocolates alone cannot sustain them. My sister Honoria has been instructed to deliver to St. Joseph’s a significant check to be used for food, medicines, and any other items you may need for the children in your care. Should you require more funds to see the children through the year, please be in contact with Honoria. Expect, also, a delivery of yarn and knitting needles from Filene's. Perhaps you might find students more willing than I.
Most humbly yours,
Nollaig Shona duit,
Charles Emerson Winchester III