For My Brother’s Sins

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

  ‘There! Perhaps you’ll be able to hear me better in here,’ he told them, still shouting through force of habit. ‘A job, you say? Are you sure you’re up to it?’ He eyed Dickie up and down. Though the lad was tall he had not much depth to his chest.

  ‘I am,’ replied Dickie stolidly.

  ‘Aye well, I’ll give you t’benefit o’ t’doubt. Your brother wants work as well, does he?’ He turned his attention on Sonny and gripped the boy’s upper arms. ‘Bit more meat on this’n. When can you start?’

  Sonny was ready to answer, ‘Today’ when he felt his brother’s nudge.

  ‘Next week,’ Dickie was saying. ‘I have to work notice at my present employment.’ Might as well cadge a week’s holiday if it were possible.

  ‘Why are you leaving there?’ enquired the man, over whose appearance Sonny was puzzling. What was so odd about the foreman? Why, that was it! He had no facial hair; no eyelashes nor brows, and there was none protruding from his hat, either. Sonny unconsciously fingered his own bright hair. He did not relish this happening to him.

  ‘I wanted a better job,’ replied Dickie. ‘More prospects. I heard it was good here.’

  ‘Oh, you did, did you? Well, I don’t know what else you heard, but I don’t tolerate no tomfoolery; any o’ that or any disrespect for myself and you’ll be out. The hours are six till six with Saturday afternoon off.’ The man opened the door and the clamour leapt back with a vengeance. ‘Start Monday next. Six o’clock on the dot. Any latecomers or bilkers get some o’ that!’ He brandished a hefty fist.

  Assured of a job, the boys set their faces to the exit, peering through the ochrous haze for a sight of their friend. In the event it was Bones who spotted them. He had been sent to fetch some water for one of the fettlers and came trotting over in his ungainly fashion, on his arrival offering the cup to Dickie. ‘Have a drink on me.’ Dickie studied the layer of oatmeal that floated gruesomely on the surface of the water – an addition that helped to ward off the stomach cramps – and not so politely declined. Bones caught the impatient glare of the foreman and returned to his post. Halfway there, he turned to grin at his friends, walking backwards and making gestures that involved testing the muscles of his right arm. The Feeneys, however, interpreted the action’s true meaning, and grinned back; Bones was still full of himself over Saturday’s escapade.

  He continued to walk backwards, leering and making graphic signals that referred to the accommodating Beth, when Sonny caught the agitated mouthings of the men standing to Bones’ blind side. If Sonny had shared their lip-reading skills he would have deciphered the cries of: ‘Eh up!’ So would Bones, if he had been looking where he should have been, but he wasn’t – he was still acting the goat and walking backwards.

  A second before the back of his heel touched the great mould of boiling metal, his play-acting gave way to a bemused frown as Sonny and Dickie, realising what the others were trying to convey, started to leap up and down, pointing, stabbing frantic fingers in the air. But their semaphore was insufficient to stop him taking one more step backwards. One fatal step.

  Bones finally sensed the obstacle against his heel and turned suddenly. Too suddenly. His mouth flew open in terror. His hands flailed like windmills trying to regain his balance as his knees began to bend into a sitting position – then the white-hot molten metal seemed to erupt and cascade over the sides of the mould as Bones plunged down into its searing folds.

  The onlookers, their mouths tortured O’s in the scorched faces were caught in a suspension of time. They saw the young apprentice swallowed up by the threshing lava, heard the hideous cry that pierced the hitherto impenetrable barrier of noise.

  Dickie felt an excruciating pain in his arm. He lowered his astonished face to the source of the discomfort and saw his brother’s fingers digging deep into the flesh. He prised open Sonny’s grip and, rubbing at the crescent-shaped weals which oozed blood, ran over to the scene of the tragedy. The men, finally coming to their senses, had gathered round the huge mould searching for a way to save the boy. One of them seized a pair of giant tongs and fished about in the steaming liquid, taking care not to splash any onto his feet. Eventually the tongs bit on something and the man attempted to pull it free.

  His revulsion and shock as the object bobbed to the surface made him hurriedly drop the tongs, and what remained of the Flaherty boy sank once more to the bottom of the mould. The men leapt back as the lava slopped over the sides.

  The brief glimpse of Bones’ face where the flesh had burst through the skin like plague buboes was too much to stomach. Dickie whirled away and was violently sick. The force of his retching made him feel as though he were bringing up his very boots. His eyes swam as the vomit forced its way into every tube in his face, burning, scalding – like Bones had been. Sonny was coming towards him. ‘Go back!’ he managed to splutter, flapping his hands at his brother. But Sonny, like some automaton, came on.

  With the re-emergence of their senses, the men had begun to hack at the mould. The brick and sand construction caved in and the still-hot metal trickled thickly over the foundry floor. Dickie pulled out a rag handkerchief and wiped his face, staring hypnotically with his brother as the level of the liquid diminished.

  They had joked yesterday about Bones’ nakedness, saying that there was more meat on the bones their mother used for soup – and that was exactly what the object at the bottom of the mould could be compared to as the last of the liquid drained away. On the parts of his body unprotected by the leather apron and solid boots – his face, the vee of his open-necked shirt, his hands – the liquid had boiled and rendered what little flesh the boy had on him, causing it to fall away and expose the pearly white of his bones. The agonised cavern which had been his mouth was still filled with the molten iron; a metallic, solidifying pool in the unrecognisable face. Mummified into a silent scream.

  I hope to God it’s not soup for dinner, was Sonny’s first illogical thought as the grotesque corpse was swiftly covered over with someone’s apron. Even when it was hidden he could not tear his eyes away. Quite suddenly he realised that the clamour had stopped; there was now only the underlying roar of the furnaces as men came from all directions to join the horrified cluster. A desperate figure fought its way through the crush. Jimmy Flaherty – Bones’ father – shook off the hands that tried to shield him from the horror. ‘Come away, Jimmy! For pity’s sake, come away!’ and came to stand where his son lay like a baby in a cradle. A crib of death. He sharply pulled back the apron that hid Bones and drew in a tortuous breath.

  ‘Oh, Mother o’ Christ! Me son! Me son!’ His fingernails clawed at his waxen cheeks and he drew up sharply, the whites of his eyes turning red as the tears formed. He dropped his hands to his stomach and rubbed heavily as though trying to soothe a terrible ache. He bent over with the agony, moaning in a strange, wild language. His anguished sobs gave way to a bout of consumptive coughing. He heaved and barked into a filthy rag that, when it came away, was spotted with red. And still he coughed. Coughed and coughed.

  Someone set up a firm clapping between his shoulder-blades. ‘As if that’ll help,’ wept Jimmy. ‘As if that’ll shake out the filthy rot that’s set into me lungs, that’s killing me.’ He held up a hand to ward off the thumping and Sonny dropped his hand to his side, watching helplessly as Jimmy’s harsh, dry cough competed with the roar of the furnaces. He felt a tug at his sleeve and looked up as his brother bent his face to mutter, ‘C’mon, ’tis best we go, there’s nowt we can do here.’ Sonny was about to lay a last compassionate pat on Jimmy’s shoulder, then decided against it and followed his brother out into the welcoming fresh air.

  Dickie once again pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating face which had temporarily lost its healthy tan. ‘Well, that puts paid to that,’ he said, roughly shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket, if they need a new apprentice they can look elsewhere. I’d rather make love to a pox-ridden donkey than go back into that hell-hole.’

  Sonn
y did not reply. Could not reply. He just kept seeing that appalling sight. It would not go away. Oh, dear God, Bones! I can’t believe it. I can’t believe we’ll never see ye again.

  ‘Mother o’ Mercy, Son,’ breathed Dickie. ‘Did ye see it? One minute he’s walkin’ about, the next he’s screaming like a crab that’s been chucked into boiling water.’ Sonny winced and his mind begged, please don’t! But he couldn’t coax the thought through his lips. ‘And his face,’ Dickie went on, regardless of the mental pain he was inflicting. ‘There was nothin’ left of it, was there? Ye could see all the bones an’ stuff …’

  ‘Don’t!’ Sonny finally managed to squeeze out.

  But his brother appeared not to have heard. ‘Did ye see his mouth open as he went under? All that boiling liquid must’ve poured straight into his lungs. God, didn’t he look horrible with the skin all meltin’ off him like lard? And did …’ He did not finish the sentence. Sonny grabbed hold of his shirt and rammed him up against a wall, his eyes brimming with moisture in the lobster-red face.

  ‘Will ye shut your cruel mouth or will I shut it for ye?’ he rasped. ‘That’s Bones you’re talking about – our friend – not some lump o’ bloody meat!’ – Though God knows that’s what he looked like, came the anguished thought.

  Dickie laid pacifying hands over the palsied fists that imprisoned him. ‘Hey, you’re tremblin’.’ He felt the vibrations from Sonny’s body run into his own. ‘God, I’m sorry, Son. I didn’t mean … it was just… I can’t believe what I saw.’ He too began to feel shaky. ‘It’s the shock of it… I keep seeing him going in there over and over again.’ He disentangled Sonny’s fingers from his shirt and patted his brother’s cheek. ‘C’mon, what we need is a drink.’

  Sonny fell in beside him again and the pair slipped into the first public house that they encountered. Dickie slammed a coin on the counter and asked for two nips of gin, then rubbed his hands briskly over his face in an effort to rid himself of the vision.

  ‘That’s the money me mam gave ye to pay the men who empty the sugar-house,’ Sonny pointed out in a dull voice. ‘Ye were supposed to take it round to Miss P.’s.’

  Dickie summoned a grin despite his queasiness. ‘Then Miss P. will get the blame if the closet overflows before the next time ’tis emptied. Anyroad,’ he nodded at his brother’s glass where the gin slopped about with the boy’s trembling, ‘’tis not as if we squandered it but, like, spent it on medicine. Don’t we need something to calm our nerves after that lot? Knock it all back at once, Son, else ye’ll not feel the benefit.’ He followed his own advice and slammed the glass onto the bar. ‘’Fraid I’ve not enough for another. Have you any money?’

  Sonny shook his head. He threw the contents of the glass down his throat and fought back a cough as the gin burnt its way down his gullet.

  ‘Christ, I still can’t believe it, can you?’ Dickie played with his glass, upturning it on the counter and making a pattern of wet rings. ‘’Tis such a terrible way to die. When I go …’

  ‘Please,’ snapped his brother. ‘Do we have to talk about it?’

  ‘Oh, no … no … ’course not. Well, if we’ve no money we might as well be off.’ Dickie led the way out of the saloon and into the street where they made for home.

  ‘Did ye mean it about not startin’ at the foundry?’ asked Sonny, then side-stepped to avoid a quack who had planted his display case upon a trestle in the centre of the footwalk and who was in the motions of persuading a householder to purchase one of his patent remedies. His presence had attracted a number of street arabs who were doing their utmost to disrupt his smooth patter by their impertinent enquiries: ‘’Ave yer gorrowt for a boil on the bum, mister? Gorrowt to mek me cleaver grow?’ until the housewife grabbed a besom and chased them off. On any other occasion Dickie and his brother would have joined the urchins in their torment of the quack, but today the scene passed almost unnoticed.

  ‘I meant it all right,’ answered Dickie. ‘Sure, I’m not ending up like a boiled shrimp.’ Sonny glared at him threateningly and he shrugged his apologies.

  They took a short-cut through an alley where they stumbled upon a game of pitch and toss. The group of players looked up sharply at their approach then, satisfied the intruders were harmless, continued their game.

  ‘You’ne not gonna tell me that you’re still startin’ on Monday?’ continued Dickie.

  Sonny screwed up his mouth in indecision. ‘I don’t want to – but what will me mam say when we tell her we don’t want to work at foundry? She was banking on us.’

  ‘Don’t you worry none about Mam,’ said Dickie. ‘When I’ve finished tellin’ her about poor Bones she’ll not be lettin’ the pair of us within fifty yards o’ the place.’

  Chapter Nine

  Dickie was correct; he had only related half of the grisly catalogue of Bones’ injuries when Thomasin begged him to stop and he relaxed into a chair with a triumphant wink at his brother.

  – Well, what little sympathy you had for our friend was short-lived, thought Sonny, feeling the familiar rush of aversion which was common to their relationship.

  ‘Oh, that poor lad!’ Thomasin could not get over the horror. ‘An’ his mother … I’ll have to go see her, Pat.’

  ‘Should we go right away, d’ye think?’ he asked concernedly.

  His wife thought for a moment, then decided, ‘No, we can’t afford for you to be getting the sack for being late back to work – an’ I daren’t abandon the shop in case t’new owner turns up … anyhow, we’ll probably be in the way this afternoon. We’ll go directly we’ve had tea.’

  ‘Anyways,’ Dickie went on casually, ‘I forgot to tell ye, Mam, – the foreman says we can start on Monday next.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Thomasin downed a plate on the table ready for dinner as Erin leaned over her to position the cutlery. ‘I’d be worried out o’ me mind every time yer went out o’ t’door in case it were t’last time I’d see yer.’

  Patrick was quick to agree. ‘An’ now I’ve given it more thought I don’t much care for the idea o’ Sonny leavin’ school, neither. It seems such a waste of his skills, him being so brainy-like. I would’ve preferred for him to find something more worthwhile than the iron foundry.’

  ‘There’s lots o’ things I’d like an’ all,’ retorted his wife as she arranged the table. ‘But we can’t afford ’em now, that’s why he’s got to leave an’ find a job. I told the same thing to Brother Francis when he cornered me about Sonny’s absence.’

  ‘Just hold on!’ Patrick waved his pipestem. ‘You’re not thinking any further than the end o’ this week, woman. Just consider … if Sonny’s allowed to continue his education there’ll be a better job at the end of it.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to talk, you don’t have to make the money spin out.’

  An argument ensued, at the end of which it was decided by Patrick that Sonny would take a little time from his studies to find a temporary job, but the minute the others found work he would go back to school.

  His wife nodded. ‘Sounds reasonable enough – but I wasn’t doin’ it out o’ selfishness, yer know. Way you’re going on yer’d think I enjoyed makin’ him miss his education. I think it’s just as important as you do.’

  ‘Good! Then perhaps we might have our dinner? If we spend any more time jawing I am going to be late back for work. An’ then we really would be in the you-know-what.’

  Thomasin sighed and struggled with a large saucepan on the hob. ‘Right. Come on, Erin – get rest o’ them spoons laid out.’ She took off the lid and, with a pair of tongs, began to stir about in its depths, eventually withdrawing a steaming chicken carcase. ‘I can’t say I’ve very much appetite after hearing about poor Martin but starvin’ ourselves won’t help him, poor lad. Anyway, it’s only a bit o’ soup.’

  She turned bemusedly at the noisy scraping of chairs that greeted her innocent statement. There were now only two persons seated at the table. The others were out in the y
ard – retching their boots up.

  * * *

  ‘Anybody home?’ rang out the cry and the family’s response came as a combined groan, knowing what the visit would entail.

  ‘Where the hell does she think we are?’ muttered Patrick. ‘There’s nobody escapes this house without herself knowing about it.’

  The family had just had tea. Patrick normally liked to relax with a good read at this time of day, but there was more serious thoughts to consider this evening. A wizened squirrel face peeped around the inner door and Nelly Peabody insinuated herself into the unenthusiastic gathering.

  ‘I just thought I’d come round for a little chat,’ she told Thomasin as she seated herself next to Dickie on the sofa. Thomasin’s son rose and made to leave the room.

  ‘Sit down!’ commanded his mother. She knew from experience that one by one the room would be vacated, leaving her to listen unsupported to Nelly’s non-stop gossip. If she had to suffer Nelly then so would they. ‘You too!’ she ordered Erin who had edged towards the scullery.

  ‘Sure, I was only going to wash up,’ offered the girl lamely.

  ‘I know what you were gonna do,’ answered Thomasin sternly. ‘Now sit down.’

  Even Miss Peabody was taken aback by Thomasin’s curtness; she seemed unusually on edge this evening. ‘I can see you’ve got a new vase,’ – she moved her head towards the one which held Sonny’s bouquet. No one answered; she always began her conversations like this, starting with the insignificancies and progressing craftily to more pertinent issues. Tonight, Thomasin cut her short. Nelly’s gossip was all very well when it didn’t involve personal friends but she was damned if she was going to listen to that awful compendium of young Martin’s injuries again. ‘If yer’ve come to tell us about Molly’s boy, Nelly,’ she said blundy, ‘then yer can save yer breath, we already know. Dickie and Sonny were there, and we’re going round to see her the minute I’ve stitched this hole in Sonny’s shirt.’ She continued with her sewing, temperamentally weaving the needle in and out of the fabric.