For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  ‘Miss! Miss!’

  Here we go again, thought Erin grimly, but obeyed the summons and thankfully the pot of coffee she carried came in handy after all. She manipulated her shoulderblades beneath the sweat-dampened uniform. The material pulled away from the skin, then immediately clung again as she attended another table. She held her pad at the ready. Yes, what would madam require? A pot of arsenic? Sennapod wine? That should keep you on your toes.

  ‘I would like a pot of tea for two – or would you like coffee, Annabel? No, tea would be more refreshing – and a selection of pastries.’ Erin was scribbling this down when the woman added sarcastically, ‘If it is not too much trouble of course.’ Returning the scathing expression Erin scribbled on her pad: six gallons of prune juice.

  ‘Oh now, wait a moment, perhaps I would rather have coffee. Annabel, please help me, I do so hate making decisions.’

  Annabel said that she would prefer tea. Erin looked back at the other woman who nodded and said, ‘Yes … yes, tea … I think. Well, don’t just stand there, girl, off you go!’ Erin rushed off to the kitchen where an officious Mrs Bradall watched her every move. It had been absolute hell this morning with both of the other waitresses off sick – or supposedly sick. She could picture them sitting on the river bank dangling their toes in the water. But who could blame them? Mrs Bradall certainly extracted more than her fair share of their energies.

  Having filled the teapot she returned to table six, puffing furiously at a wisp of hair that was stuck to her glistening nose and making her more irritable than ever. This heat magnified everything.

  ‘I ordered coffee, I believe,’ ejaculated the woman the moment Erin rested the tray on the table.

  The girl frowned and consulted her notepad. ‘No, I believe your last request was for tea.’

  ‘I distinctly recall asking for coffee,’ insisted the woman loudly. ‘Annabel, did I or did I not ask for coffee?’ Annabel was quite sure that her partner did not, but Andrina Rowbotham was an extremely influential person; upset her and one would be wiped off the list of social engagements before one could blink. Annabel was not going to risk that for a grubby little waitress. ‘You did, Andrina. I heard you quite plainly.’

  ‘But tea is what I’ve got written here!’ objected Erin. ‘First ye wanted coffee then ye wanted tea, then ye wanted coffee then ye wanted tea – so that’s what ye’ve got.’

  The woman was livid at this backchat. ‘Inform the management that I wish to make a complaint!’

  ‘Can I be of assistance, madam?’ Mrs Bradall had sidled up and now fawned about the customer. Erin had visions of her bending to lick the woman’s shoes.

  ‘I sincerely hope there is someone in this establishment who can!’ snorted the exasperated Andrina. ‘This girl does not seem able to understand the most basic request. I ordered coffee and she has served tea.’

  Erin refused to be browbeaten. ‘She ordered tea! I have it written down here – look!’

  ‘Miss Feeney, take it back to the kitchen and bring some coffee at once!’ Mrs Bradall chivvied Erin away from the table, apologising profusely as she retreated backwards. Salaam, thought Erin disgustedly.

  Back in the kitchen, the girl stood her ground. ‘She did order tea, I know she did!’

  ‘This is the second such mistake you’ve made this morning!’ snapped her superior.

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Erin slammed down the tray. ‘The other one was your fault. I’ve been run off me feet this morning; there’s only me to see to the tables. ’Tis all very well for you being hoity-toity when ye don’t have to bother lifting a finger to help.’

  ‘Miss Feeney, I do not like your tone.’ Mrs Bradall hung onto her challenged superiority. ‘I cannot be held responsible if the other girls don’t turn up for work.’

  ‘Well, then neither can I!’ Erin ripped off her apron.

  ‘What’re you doing, girl?’ cried the other in alarm.

  Her vocal affectation had always irritated Erin, who now thrust the apron into the astounded woman’s arms. ‘I’ll tell ye hhhwhat I’m doing!’ she mimicked. ‘I’m hoff, that’s hhhwhat I’m doing.’

  ‘Off?’ Mrs Bradall reverted to her native accent. ‘Whar-rabootme? Ah’ll nae be able tae see tae all this on ma ayn!’

  ‘Whyever not?’ asked Erin cuttingly. ‘That’s what ye seem to expect o’ me. Ye’ve got two hands, haven’t ye? And your head. That’s room for three trays. If ye tie a duster on each foot and be very, very mindful o’ them splinters on that broom ye’ll be able to clean the floor at the same time.’ With this she swept from the kitchen, bubbling over with self-congratulation. It was high time someone knocked that one from her pedestal.

  The pedant at table six accosted her as she squeezed past. ‘And what, pray, has happened to our coffee?’

  It may have been the heat, at least this was the excuse she would give later for her conduct, but all Erin saw now was an opportunity to wreak vengeance on all the customers who had ever mistreated her, using this one as a scapegoat for them all. She bent and whispered confidentially in the woman’s ear, ‘If I were madam I’d not be bothering whether ’tis tea or coffee ye get – what with the tomcat that pisses all over the kitchen they both taste pretty much alike. Enjoy your cakes.’

  She giggled to herself as she emerged into the brilliant sunshine and pranced towards home. But the sobering thought soon came to her: what would her mother’s reaction be when she heard the news?

  Chapter Four

  Dickie sang an Irish ditty as he trundled his handcart of groceries along Walmgate, peering alertly about him for a pretty face at which to direct his song. Shortly, he arrived at the penultimate delivery point of the morning – Mrs Nesbitt’s. He wondered what she would have in store for him today, and the thought produced a grin. Ginger beer, rock cakes – or would today bring the reward that her eyes always offered? He lifted the brass knocker and tapped out his special code: rat, tat-tat-tat-tat, tat-tat!

  Behind the door, Violet Nesbitt smoothed her clothes and took a last-minute look in the mirror before opening up. ‘Why, it’s young Master Feeney!’ she exclaimed as if he were the last person she had been expecting. ‘Do come in.’ A most personable boy; she always looked forward to his visits. He was young, yes, but his complimentary chatter was most welcome to a woman on her own.

  Dickie flashed his teeth and stepped through the doorway which opened directly onto the front parlour, a pleasant room, housing a high grade of furniture. The carpet, too, was of good quality and he politely wiped his boots before proceeding. Before him was a large mahogany circular table on which he knew he must not place the box of groceries but instead, as was usual, he carried it through to the kitchen. Once the box was out of his hands he took off his cap. ‘I hope everything’s to your satisfaction, Mrs Nesbitt?’

  ‘I’m sure it will be, dear, it usually is. Now, sit down and I’ll pour you a glass of refreshment; it’s such a sticky day. What would you like?’ She leaned towards him, the scent of violets drifting from the braided bodice of her dress. Her eyes rested briefly on the open neck of his shirt which he had adjusted to display the proof of his virility. Mrs Nesbitt seemed suitably impressed. ‘I think perhaps you’re getting too big for ginger beer,’ she decided. ‘How would a glass of porter take your fancy?’

  ‘Are ye trying to get me drunk, Mrs Nesbitt?’ His recent exploits had made him bolder.

  This new assuredness made her wonder whether it had been wise to offer alcohol. She sought to keep him in his place. ‘What a thing to say, you cheeky boy!’ Great emphasis was laid on the last word. Her hand inched towards the ginger beer.

  ‘The porter will be fine,’ he instructed firmly. She gave him a long look, then began to pour the ale.

  She was quite a handsome woman, he decided, even if she was old – she must be at least thirty – and her sombre widow’s weeds, heavily-draped with braid and tassels like a funeral hearse, could not hide the hourglass figure inside them. Her eyes, reflecting the colour
of the violets she so lovingly nurtured in her windowbox, darted up occasionally to study him as she poured. Dickie took the drink from her, allowing his fingers to ‘accidentally’ brush against hers. He held the glass to his lips, then lowered it again.

  ‘Mrs Nesbitt,’ he tested the ground. ‘Has anyone ever told ye that you’re very pretty?’

  My! he was growing up. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact they have – quite often.’

  Her answer threw him offbalance and he quickly raised the glass to his lips again. While he drank his mind searched for some other comment with which to ingratiate himself. Violet watched as he swallowed it down in deep, thirsty gulps. The glass drained, he placed it on the table and trained his eyes on her again. White froth dappled his upper lip and he curled out a pink tongue to lick it away.

  The porter, consumed far too quickly, began to take effect. Dickie felt a new bravado flooding through him; it started in his chest where the liquid seemed to solidify into a burning concentration; it then spread down his arms into his fingertips, and from his legs to his toes. But he felt the effect most acutely in his head: a warm, happy feeling that made him want to say things he knew would get him hanged. His first request, however, was for another of the same.

  She took in the flushed face, the added spark to his eye. ‘You’ve had enough, young man. I don’t know what your mother will think of me should you go home inebriated.’ She reached over his shoulder to lift the empty glass from the table and as she did so, felt a warm pressure on her breast.

  ‘I’ll tell ye what she thinks of ye, Mrs Nesbitt – Violet,’ whispered Dickie into her astonished ear. ‘She thinks you’re after havin’ the trousers off me – an’ I’m thinkin’ she’s right.’

  Violet, her motion suspended by disconcertment, closed her eyes and a frantic argument took place inside her head. My God, it had been so long since anyone had touched her there; a man. But he’s not a man, Violet, he’s a child. What has got into you, allowing this to pass? But I want him. Don’t be silly! Think of the scandal it would cause. Surely you could find someone nearer your own age? But no one will know! Oh, will they not? And what do you imagine will be the first thing he does when he leaves here? He’ll go and tell all his friends. Think how you’ll feel with all the neighbouring children queuing on your doorstep. Have you no shame, allowing a fourteen year old boy to behave so improperly?

  With Violet’s seeming reluctance to pull away, Dickie’s confidence had swollen and now his hand began to trace the line of her curvaceous body, coming to rest on her hip. Unfortunately for Dickie this movement snapped Violet out of her trance. Looking into the face of the boy who was young enough to have been her son she felt a deep disgust with herself. The slap that she delivered to his face came so swiftly and so unexpectedly that he had no time to raise a protective arm. The fingers which had, a moment ago, been stroking her hip now flew up to his tingling cheek. His expression was one of surprise and accusation. Giving him no time in which to protest, she grasped him painfully by the ear, hauled him from the kitchen, through the parlour and shoved him from the house, slamming the door.

  Shaken by his impromptu departure Dickie quickly picked himself up from the filthy gutter. He darted shame-faced glances about him, trying to ignore the pointed fingers of amused onlookers. With a token brush of his clothes he heaved his barrow towards his next port of call. The fervid air crept into every crevice of every courtyard, sucking up the wide variety of smells – rotting vegetables, rancid offal, dung, urine, people’s midday meals – and forced the combined atrocity up his nasal cavities. Women! He would never understand them if he lived to be a hundred. He had been so sure about her …

  Some time later, after depositing the final box of groceries, he returned to his base, the incident with Violet filed away at the back of his mind. ‘Finished, Mr Hawksby!’ he bawled as he burst through the door, setting the bell jingling furiously. ‘Can I go for me dinner now?’

  ‘One moment, young Feeney!’ A grim-faced Mr Hawksby materialised from the back of the store, perching pince-nez on his Roman nose. ‘I’ve just had Mrs Nesbitt round here.’

  Oh, Jazers she’s told him! Dickie’s heart palpitated. The two-faced old witch. He tried to inject some neutrality into his reply. ‘What did she want? Did I forget to give her something?’

  ‘Don’t play games wi’ me, lad!’ spluttered Hawksby, embellishing his whiskers with spittle. ‘You tried to give her something she hadn’t bargained for – an’ we both know what that was.’

  Dickie, realising the futility of denial, bore the accusation in silence, shuffling from one foot to the other.

  ‘I can’t have it, lad! I won’t have you messin’ around wi’ my ladies.’ The boy stifled a snigger and Hawksby crashed a fist onto the counter. ‘And take that smirk off your face! I can’t see owt to laugh at. You’ll be getting me a bad name.’ He began to march up and down in agitation, then swung round. ‘What does it say above that doorway?’ Dickie frowned and opened his mouth to speak but his answer was cut short. ‘I’ll tell you what it says!’ Hawksby’s whiskers were in danger of becoming swamped. ‘It says: F. Hawksby, Grocer and Provision Merchant.’ He started to walk away then spun back and wagged a finger under Dickie’s nose. ‘Not R. Feeney, Groper and Sedition Merchant.’ He clasped his hands behind his back, tapping them impatiendy. Tears of laughter formed in Dickie’s eyes and he pressed his chin into his chest to try and contain a strangled laugh. ‘Not funny, lad, not funny!’ sprayed the grocer. ‘You took advantage of a poor, helpless widow, abused her hospitality. I can’t have such improprieties conducted in my employ. You’ve besmirched my good standing. I can’t have it, I won’t have it – you’ll have to go.’

  Dickie decided that it was time to defend his tarnished honour and assumed a look of boyish innocence. ‘But Mr Hawksby, it weren’t my fault! She’s been shovin’ herself at me for weeks.’

  ‘Don’t be coming that hiley-ho with me,’ scoffed the grocer. ‘I’ve seen you sniffing round t’lasses. If you’re man enough to do what she accused you of you’re man enough to own up to it.’

  ‘But it was her, I tell ye!’

  ‘Right! You’ve had your chance. If you’d’ve admitted it I might’ve overlooked it this time, you young lads being what you are, but you stood there and lied, let a poor, innocent widow take the blame. Well, I can do without your sort in my shop. You needn’t bother to return after lunch – you’re sacked.’

  It was pointless to argue. With a resigned shrug Dickie took off his apron, laid it over the counter and with a last pleading look at the grocer left the shop. Christ, was his mother going to be mad!

  * * *

  The midday sun hovered directly above the space between the two rows of houses as Thomasin plodded down the street. It beat down upon her shoulders, causing her to whip the shawl away in vexation and use a corner of it to fan her crimson face. Her petticoats seemed to be weighed down with moisture, clinging to her stockings, catching round her ankles to hamper her movements. She laid down the heavy basket and ran a hand across her slippery brow, dragging away the stray hairs that clung to it. She then examined her palm, rubbing at the red criss-crossed imprints that the wicker handle had produced. Why did the passage to one’s front door always seem twice as far when one had heavy baskets to carry?

  A figure was coming towards her. The sun shone into her eyes making identification impossible. He seemed an odd shape with a tiny pin head on wide, square shoulders. It was only when she shaded her eyes that she could make out the sandwich board that swamped little Freddie Gash’s frame. She did not have to read the message which was printed on it; she knew it off by heart – Prepare To Answer For Thy Sins, The Judgement Day Is At Hand.

  She smiled widely as the diminutive Freddie took off his wide-brimmed hat with a sweeping flourish. ‘Hello, Mr Gash, and how’s the world behaving itself today?’

  ‘I have very grave news to impart,’ answered Freddie, ice-blue eyes glaring fanatically. ‘Today will see the d
estruction of the entire human race.’

  Thomasin lifted her eyes to the dazzling sky. ‘Well, it’s as good a day as any, I suppose.’

  ‘Ah, you mock!’ he breathed loudly. ‘But you will not find it so amusing when the Lord vents His wrath on all the evils of this world. In one hour’s time the sun will explode into a million fiery embers. Molten lava will spill from the great caverns that appear under your feet.’ He swept his arms about dramatically. ‘A plague of locusts will descend upon the countryside, devouring every last grain of wheat, every blade of grass until the earth is barren. Violent thunderbolts will bombard our helpless land. Torrents of rain shall cascade upon your …’

  Thomasin cut in here. ‘By, I’d best get home then – I’ve left me washin’ out.’ Picking up her basket she bade the eccentric Freddie a hasty good day. He was the last person she wanted to be saddled with, the way she was feeling.

  On reaching the maroon front door, she unlocked it and limped along the dark passage. After swilling her face with cold water she took an ovencloth and lifted out the pot of stew that she had prepared before breakfast and which had been simmering while she had been at work. The thought of her dead employer returned. Every item upon which her eyes rested took on the wrinkled contours of Mr Penny’s face. Poor old devil, she would miss him. He had been a grand old chap to work for.

  ‘By, it’s a bit cooler in here!’ Sonny came in from school and flung himself on the well-punished sofa, raking grimy fingers through his brilliant hair. He caught her mood at once. ‘What’s up, Mam?’

  She wiped her eyes briskly and shook her head. ‘Nowt.’ Flicking a cloth over the table she placed the stewpot on a mat in the centre. ‘Go wash yer hands ready for dinner.’ A burst of steam and rich aroma escaped the stewpot as she took off the lid, floating up to the ceiling and misting its cool surface.