For My Brother’s Sins

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

  ‘I suppose so.’ She gave an absent nod and he turned to go, standing aside for her to unlock the door. As he passed over the threshold she asked suddenly, ‘Is it all right for me to carry on with what I was going to do, then?’

  ‘I assume it will be in order,’ he replied, and left.

  ‘Well, can anyone tell me what all that was about?’ Thomasin picked up the mug of tea and finding it only lukewarm poured it away. ‘Eh, mebbe Mr Penny’s left me some money.’ She nudged Erin and chuckled. ‘He was always sayin’ “I’ll remember you in my will”.’

  ‘Maybe that’s not as daft as it sounds,’ replied Erin, washing the cups. ‘Didn’t ye say he was very fond of ye? I’d not be surprised if he left ye a few bob.’

  ‘Eh, I don’t know about that. It has been said about Mr Penny that he were that narrow-nosed he’d take the sneeze out o’ the pepper before he’d part with it.’ Thomasin mused, a finger to her chin. ‘Still, happen yer could be right about him leavin’ me summat. He were never stingy where I was concerned. It would be nice if he left us a fiver. At least it’d tide us over till I find another job – ’cause if His Holiness what was just here is representing t’new owner I’ve not much chance o’ keepin’ this’n.’

  ‘I’ll bet ye were relieved when he said he wasn’t the new owner,’ laughed Erin.

  Dickie joined in to mimic the visitor. ‘“Do I look like a shopkeeper, madam?” Silly old fart.’ He received a cuff round the ear.

  ‘Don’t you let me hear you using language like that, young man, else it’s a wagon to Wetwang for you.’

  They proceeded with the stocktaking, the boys stacking each commodity into piles for easy counting whilst Erin and their mother toured the shop with a clipboard and counted each item, giving an occasional screech as a disturbed spider ran from between the boxes. The lamplighter came and went proclaiming the lateness of the hour. After the last stack was counted they straightened their aching backs, the boys swept up and everything was left neat and tidy.

  ‘I’ll take the books home wi’ me, I think,’ yawned Thomasin, as they all brushed the patches of flour and dust from their clothes. ‘Solicitor’ll no doubt want to cast his beady over ’em.’ She gave a last sad look around the shop – she had been very happy here – then locked the door on another episode of her life.

  * * *

  It had taken twenty minutes to reach the solicitors’ offices in High Ousegate. She was early for her appointment; better early than late. Turning the brass handle she peered nervously around the door, expecting it to open onto an office. Instead, there was a dark and dingy corridor leading up to a flight of stairs. Closing the door behind her she made her way slowly up these stairs and, on reaching the top, was confronted by two more doors. On one was a sign saying: Geo. Ackroyd, Chartd. Acc. The other bore a brass plaque which stated: Ramsworthy, Duce and Saddler, Solicitors and Attorneys. With a tentative knock she entered the office.

  The clerk whom she had encountered the previous evening sat at a high desk which immediately faced the door, so that she had to make the long walk up to it under his disapproving sneer.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Feeney!’ The man forced a brief smile then reverted to his former grandiloquence. ‘I shall inform Mr Ramsworthy of your arrival. Pray take a seat.’

  He disappeared into another office while Thomasin seated herself and nervously examined her surroundings. The dark, unfriendly room smelt of ancient manuscripts, dust, pipe-tobacco and male sweat. Besides the clerk’s desk, on which was spread a ledger, two inkwells – one red, one black – and a selection of writing implements, there was an aged table where, between the rolled and bound documents, she could detect the carved initials of apprentices long past, and the ink blots disgorged from troublesome quills. In one corner of the room was an umbrella-stand housing one battered gamp, presumably left by a forgetful client. In another corner was a coat-stand swathed with garments.

  Thomasin began to perspire, due more to the thought of what awaited her in the other office than to the warm weather. If a humble clerk could be so formidable then what sort of ogre would his master be? She was about to find out; the clerk emerged from his superior’s lair and informed her that Mr Ramsworthy would see her now. With a downwards tug at her grey zouave jacket she straightened her shoulders and swept into the solicitor’s office with more confidence than she actually felt.

  But instead of an ogre she was greeted by a whitehaired, pink-featured old gentleman with a stomach that bespoke its propensity for suet puddings and port wine. He shook her hand warmly as if she were an important and valued client, putting her immediately at ease. He bade her take a seat and spoke with a voice that made her imagine that his collar was fastened far too tightly and the words had to force themselves through the constricted aperture.

  ‘Now, Mrs Feeney, as you are the only person to whom the will pertains I shall without further ado attempt to convey to you the deceased’s wishes.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ stammered Thomasin. ‘Did you say will?’

  He responded with perplexity. ‘Did not my clerk inform you of my reasons for this meeting?’

  She shook her head and thought – no, but I’ll have that little so-and-so given the opportunity. ‘But do go on, Mr Ramsworthy.’

  He unrolled the last will and testament of Arnold Penny and, putting a paperweight on the top edge, held a pair of spectacles to his eyes and read: ‘I, Arnold Geoffrey Penny, being of sound mind etcetera do hereby bequeath all my properties, the chattels within the said properties including all outbuildings, and all monies owned by me to my trusted friend and employee, Thomasin Feeney, to do with as she so wishes and … ’ he paused here and squinted over the spectacles, noting the startled expression. ‘Mr Penny did not give you prior warning of his intentions?’

  She barely heard him, so absorbed was she with what she had just heard. When he asked if she was all right and repeated his question she shook her head, knowing that she must present a pretty picture sitting here gaping like a fish but oh – what a surprise!

  ‘You know of course that he had no family?’

  With some difficulty she regained her power of speech. ‘Well, yes but I never thought … I mean, yer wouldn’t, would yer?’ The words leaked out in an incoherent jumble. She was finding it impossible to digest the revelation.

  ‘Yet you must have had some inkling of his fondness for you?’ pressed the solicitor, who had not only acted as Mr Penny’s lawyer but as friend and confidant. Arnold had often spoken of his employee in the most effusive terms. Looking across his desk, Mr Ramsworthy could see why he had been so enamoured; Mrs Feeney was a handsome woman. With the help of this inheritance she would be even more attractive, clad in fashions that would do more justice to her looks than the modest garments she wore now.

  ‘Yes, I was aware of his affection,’ said Thomasin with a sad smile. ‘But, dear me – this! It’s the sort o’ thing that only happens in books.’

  Ramsworthy leaned forward. ‘But we are in a book of sorts, Mrs Feeney – the book of life. If you have ever read a good novel you will know that the story will take an unexpected twist from time to time. There are some boring passages, of course, and some exciting ones – this is one of your exciting passages, Mrs Feeney.’

  She shook her head. ‘Things like that just don’t happen to me. I admit that it did cross my mind that he might leave me a few bob – he was always sayin’ “I’ll remember you in my will … ” ’ She broke off as Ramsworthy nodded and said, ‘There you are! He did offer you an intimation.’

  Thomasin took a deep breath. ‘But I never once dreamed he’d be this generous. I don’t know what to say. It’s got me completely stumped.’

  ‘There has not been an inventory of his possessions,’ went on the solicitor. ‘But you can be assured that you have inherited a considerable sum.’

  ‘D’yer mean it could be as much as hundreds?’ she had the temerity to ask.

  He laughed and his cheeks crinkled like pink crêpe paper. ‘
My dear lady! Considering the fact that Mr Penny owned a profitable business apart from a very roomy house I think you can safely say that the gross bequest will run to four figures rather than three – indeed, it could be even more.’

  She was aghast. ‘But surely the grocery trade alone wouldn’t produce such an amount; at least not one so modest as Mr Penny’s?’ Her speculation was founded on experience; she knew every penny that went through the till and it certainly did not add up to that sort of money. She had often wondered what she would do to improve the takings had she the chance; well, now she had.

  Mr Ramsworthy replied, ‘You are of course correct in your assumption, Mrs Feeney, although the shop does have a fine potential, its central position being one of its attributes. It will be breaking no confidence now to tell you that Mr Penny was himself the beneficiary of a similar bestowal some years ago, indeed that was how he came to be in possession of the property in Goodramgate. The house in Monkgate was also included in the bequest, left by a maiden aunt – the lack of a direct heir seems to be a family trait.’ He began to lift up papers on his desk, looking for something. ‘Alas, I’m unable to give you the keys at present as I’ve temporarily mislaid them. I shall send my clerk round whenever… tut! I’m sure they were here.’ He finally gave up. ‘Anyway, you’ll find that one of the doors needs a new lock. The police had to break in. They boarded it up afterwards.’

  ‘Does all this mean it’s all right if I take me wages from t’shop till, then?’ she asked, having wondered at the legality of such an act.

  The solicitor obviously found her naïvety delightful. ‘Mrs Feeney, do you not understand? It is now your shop, you may do as you wish.’

  The full extent of his statement did not hit her until she was halfway home then, in mid-step, she stopped and a surge of excitement seemed to emanate from her boots. It forged up her legs and finally gushed from her mouth in a great whoop. She began to skip, lifting her swirling skirts to expose a well-shaped calf and drawing whistles from a gang of navvies. She laughed and broke into a run, intent on one thing; to tell Patrick the good news. She pulled up abruptly. Fulford was a fair walk and she might not be back to get the children’s dinner. Oh, how disappointing. Then she berated herself. – Well, you daft clot! You’re in money now, you can get the omnibus and be back in time for dinner. No! a cab. That would really set tongues wagging. Seeing a hansom speeding towards her she leapt into the road and waved him down.

  ‘What’re you tryin’ to do?’ bawled the cabbie. ‘Get yerself killed?’

  She placed her hands on her hips. ‘Kindly show me some courtesy, my man. I will have you aware that you are talking to a woman of means.’

  He gave a warped leer. ‘An’ I’m Lord bleedin’ Carlton.’

  ‘I require your services,’ said Thomasin ignoring his manner, and before he had a chance to move off she climbed into the cab.

  He banged on the roof. ‘Oy! I hope you’ve got the money to pay for this.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ returned his passenger. ‘Now shurrup gasbaggin’ an’ take me to Fulford.’ As the cab pulled away she hastily examined the contents of her purse to make sure she could fulfil her boast.

  Her arrival at the building site caused a minor sensation. Patrick’s workmates gathered round the cab as she alighted and addressed the cabbie. ‘Be so good as to wait here, my man. I shall require your services further.’

  The cabbie snorted and gave the workmen a look that said – she’s mad!

  ‘Michael O’Leary, what’re ye doing?’ hissed Patrick as she flounced importantly up to him.

  ‘Mind your manners, Feeney. I’ve already put one lout in his place this morning. Kindly employ the deference you would show to a person of distinction.’ .

  ‘The Lord preserve us, ’tis mad the woman’s gone.’ Patrick was undergoing a severe bout of embarrassment at his wife’s odd behaviour in the presence of his friends, who seemed to be greatly enjoying his discomfiture.

  The conversation was interrupted by the foreman who had stepped from the site office when the cab had drawn up, thinking it was his superior. Though hie was relieved to find it was not, he was angry at being drawn out of his comfortable seat for nothing. ‘Oy! What the hell’s going on? I’m not payin’ you lot to stand chatting to bawds all day. Get back to work!’

  Patrick, already aggravated by his wife’s eccentricity, turned on the man. ‘Bawds, is it? I’ll have ye know that’s my wife you’re talkin’ about.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a damn if it’s the Queen o’ bleedin’ Sheba, just get your arse back to work!’

  The man turned his back and Patrick was about to follow him when Thomasin halted them both. ‘Wait on! Don’t you go talking to my husband as if he’s a clart; you address him properly – an’ while yer at it don’t go callin’ me no bawd neither.’

  The foreman threw up his hands in mock consternation. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon if I’ve offended madam,’ he spat sarcastically. ‘Now, bugger off an’ let these men get some work done.’ He assumed this to be the end of the matter, but knew differently when he felt a large hand grasp his collar.

  ‘Ye’ll watch your mouth in front of my wife, Burns,’ growled the Irishman.

  ‘I can stick up for meself, thank yer very much,’ cut in Thomasin, and took a swing with her boot at the man’s shin.

  Dancing about on one leg, the man snarled at Patrick, ‘Can’t you keep your drab under control?’ And his foolish tongue earned him an impulsive blow to the jaw which sent him sprawling onto a pile of sand.

  ‘That’s it!’ stormed Burns, spitting out a mouthful of sand and blood. ‘That’s bloody-well it! You’ve finally done it now. Go on, bugger off! You’re sacked.’

  ‘He’s not sacked – he quits!’ retorted Thomasin, and with ruffled hauteur pushed her fuming husband into the cab and shouted instructions to the cabbie.

  ‘Oy, I don’t want mud all over my seats!’ he complained.

  ‘Oh, get on with yer,’ snapped an impatient Thomasin and clicking her tongue set the horse in motion.

  ‘Oh, after my job an’ all, are we?’ shouted the cabbie. ‘You’ll be climbin’ up here an’ drivin’ the blasted thing next.’

  ‘I will if you don’t stop your infernal complaints and allow me to talk to my husband,’ she threatened, then turned to Patrick and planted an enthusiastic kiss on his muddy cheek.

  ‘Stop that!’ He pushed her away. ‘Has the devil got into ye today? Ye come an’ make a fool of me in front of all me friends, kick the gaffer, then get me sacked. Is it mad ye are? What are we going to do for money now?’

  ‘Nowt,’ she answered smugly, cuddling up to him.

  ‘Ah, Jazers,’ he sighed, then to the cabbie: ‘Forget the previous directions. Take us to the asylum – the woman’s off her head.’

  ‘You keep going,’ she warned the driver, then took hold of both Patrick’s hands and shook them. ‘Silly boy! D’yer think I’d be actin’ like this if I didn’t have summat up me sleeve?’

  ‘Sure, I never know with you. When there’s a full moon anything can happen.’

  ‘Has it escaped your notice that it’s broad daylight? Not a full moon in sight.’

  ‘Then please, please, Tommy will ye tell me why you’re acting so?’

  To his growing disbelief she related word for word what had transpired at the solicitor’s office. When she had finished he merely sat there with his mouth open. ‘Well, are yer gonna sit there catchin’ flies?’ she demanded.

  ‘Mary Mother o’ God!’ he gasped. ‘Tell me again for I can’t take it in.’

  ‘Nay, I’m not goin’ through all that again.’ She linked her arm through his and snuggled delightedly against him. ‘But in short, Mr Feeney, in a pixie’s earhole – we’re rich!’

  ‘Rich,’ he repeated to himself, then laughed stupidly. He tore off his cap, threw it to the floor of the cab and sprang up, banging his head in the process. ‘We’re rich!’ He craned his neck over the half-doors of the hansom which r
ocked and swayed precariously. ‘We’re rich!’ he shouted to every passer-by. ‘We’re rich, hah! The Feeneys are rich!’

  ‘Christ, he’s mad an’ all,’ muttered the cabbie under his breath. The horse pricked its ears as though to say – aren’t you all?

  When the cab deposited them at their front door, Patrick helped his wife down and unlocked it while she paid the cabbie, needing all the money in her purse to do so. But then, she could draw her wages this afternoon. Eh! she reminded herself with pleasure, they wouldn’t be wages now. All the money in the till would be hers; all the money in the safe; all the money in the bank.

  She emitted a delightful whoop then, seeing Miss Peabody’s curtains move, she pressed her nose against the neighbouring window in devilment ‘Have a good geg, Nelly!’ she called, as her neighbour bobbed out of sight, then giggled and followed her husband indoors.

  Inside they both hugged each other tightly. ‘Oh, Pat.’ She laid her auburn head against his dusty shoulder, i can’t believe it’s true. Am I dreamin’?’

  He pinched her bottom, bringing forth an indignant squeal. ‘No, ye can’t be dreamin’.’ He rubbed his rough hand over the spot he had nipped. ‘Best do that to me; it might be me who’s dreamin’ all this.’ He leapt back at her groping hand. ‘Hey, you’re not supposed to nip me there! Ye’ve got me all het up now – d’ye think we’ve time for a bit o’ sport before the spoilers get home?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ she murmured into his ear, teasing the lobe with her teeth.

  ‘Is me dinner ready yet?’ Dickie came in and flopped down on the rug to pull off his boots. ‘Jazers, these crabshells are killin’ me.’

  His parents regretfully pulled apart. ‘Them’s not all as’ll be killin’ yer,’ grumbled his mother. ‘Yer really pick yer moments.’

  ‘Ah, now ye’d miss me if I didn’t come home, Mam.’ Dickie’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners, then looked towards the door as his brother and sister entered.

  ‘I went to see how Aunt Molly was faring and found this young fellow hanging round Raper’s place,’ said Erin, receiving an accusing glower from Sonny.