For My Brother’s Sins

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

  ‘But how can I go like this?’ Her hand swept over the blue silk dress.

  ‘Looks all right to me,’ said her husband. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  She tutted. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it! Only I’m going to stick out like a bishop’s corporation, aren’t I?’

  ‘Haven’t ye got an old dress ye could put on?’ he persisted.

  ‘Patrick, this is an old dress – at least the oldest one I’ve got. Besides,’ she put two more marshmallows on the fork, ‘women of my standing do not frequent public houses.’

  ‘Standing? I’d’ve said leaning – leaning towards snobbery.’ Patrick snatched one of the marshmallows from the dish and rolled it petulantly around his mouth. ‘It was good enough for ye before.’ His wife had begun to annoy him lately. It was only natural that primarily the tremendous jump in finances should drive them all a little crazy. No one had enjoyed the initial spending spree more than Patrick himself, and not the least of his pleasure had been derived from watching his wife – freed of her restrictive budget – fill the house with new furniture and fine clothes. Once the novelty had palled he had expected her to return to earth, to be exactly the same as before, but she hadn’t. Somewhere on her fanciful flight she had changed. He was not certain he liked it.

  ‘Look, can’t you see?’ She turned around too quickly and one of the marshmallows fell onto the ash-smeared grate where it oozed and bubbled stickily. ‘Oh, damn! Now look what you’ve made me do.’ She put another sweet on the fork. ‘What I mean is, it’s a different life we lead now. We don’t fit in any longer round there. Besides, our neighbours think badly enough of us as it is without me visiting the boozer.’

  ‘Well, they’re not going to stop me enjoyin’ meself,’ said her husband positively, and turned to his son. ‘Surely you’ll not let your father drink alone?’

  ‘I had hoped to have an early night,’ was Sonny’s excuse. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I’m really worn out with all that travelling. A hot bath would be more appreciable to a quart right now.’ Thomasin told her son she would arrange it.

  ‘Then I’ll go by meself an’ bugger the lotta yese!’ Patrick slapped his knees and stood up. Dammit, his son had changed too, no longer referring to his parents as Mam and Dad but as Mother and Father. Had he been doing it all along or had Patrick’s impatience at his wife suddenly made all these tiny points more noticeable? ‘Do I get something to eat before I go?’

  ‘Supper will be on the table when you come back down,’ promised his wife.

  ‘Who said I was going up?’

  ‘Well, I presume you are getting changed. You’d hardly be going out dressed like that.’ It was an order rather than an observation.

  Patrick looked down at his ragged, dirt-stained workclothes, his soil-embedded nails. He had not given it a second thought and had indeed been going out like this. What harm could a bit of honest grime do? It had never mattered in the old days. But at his wife’s edict he^-^went upstairs to wash and change.

  ‘And you may as well collect the rent while you’re down that end,’ she said before he left. ‘They weren’t in when I called this morning. I don’t see why we should leave it another week.’ Then an afterthought: ‘Give my regards to Molly if you see her.’

  ‘Ye didn’t think to call on her while ye were round that way this morning?’ He had stopped at the door.

  ‘I didn’t have time,’ she replied. ‘I don’t like to leave the store too long.’

  ‘Aye, an’ of course it would have rather taken you out of your way,’ he answered sarcastically and left.

  * * *

  After collecting the rent from the occupants of his previous home he called at The King William then, finding none of his old friends there, sank a quick tankard and retraced his steps to visit The Spread Eagle. At his entrance Molly Flaherty raised her glass and bared ochre-hued teeth. ‘Well, if it isn’t that rascal who deserted us! Hey, Michael, Jimmy, look who’s here!’

  Patrick grinned widely and awaited the buzz of greeting; it was strangely subdued and bewildered him. But he strolled across the sawdust-covered floor and sat beside the inebriated Molly, putting his arm around her to deliver a squeeze. ‘Ah, Molly me old flame can ye ever forgive the miserable wretch that’s neglected ye?’

  ‘I can if he’s a mind to fill this.’ Molly shoved her empty glass at him.

  Patrick’s nostrils flared at her smell as she swayed against him in pleasure at seeing him, but he remained smiling. ‘’Tis hollow legs ye have, woman.’ He went to order two whiskies, then returned to ask how life was treating her.

  ‘Oh, terrible, Pat, terrible,’ she slurred after the first pull. ‘Did ye hear I lost another o’ me babes? Aye,’ she nodded at his shock, ‘the angels took young Sile – that’s our Norah’s eldest, last Friday. The measles it was.’

  ‘God, I’m so sorry, Molly. That’s tragic … I knew nothing.’ He shook his head and sipped his drink, looking round at the poorly-clad assemblage, their faces drawn and undernourished. How come he had never seen them in this light before? Was it because once upon a time he himself had looked like that? He was still troubled by the lack of interest from his old chums. A year was a long time to stay away but surely it didn’t make him a stranger?

  ‘Little Paddy O’Kelley dropped dead on Monday an’ all,’ Molly continued, ‘An’ him just bringin’ me a jug of ale across the yard as a treat. He was awful taken with me was Paddy since Himself passed over.’

  ‘God save us, he was younger than me!’ Patrick experienced a flash of vulnerability. ‘What happened, Molly?’

  ‘The ale splashed all over the yard that’s what happened,’ bemoaned his partner. ‘Sure, I never got to taste a drop for Raper’s pigs got every lick. Such a cruel waste.’

  Patrick had to smile. Still the same old Molly. Some things never changed. ‘I really meant what killed Paddy, Molly.’

  ‘Oh! Well, I can’t say. Some queerfangled name it was they called it, but what I think it boiled down to was his heart gave out. It comes to us all.’ She pushed her empty glass gently towards him. ‘I don’t suppose ye’d care to fill that up again, Pat? An’ you lookin’ so effluent.’

  ‘An’ what have ye done with all that brass I gave ye?’ he chided. ‘I hope it hasn’t all been liquidated.’

  She gave him a look both guilty and beseeching. He tut-tutted and slipped her a sovereign before going for refills. ‘What about you, lads?’ he shouted to his old pals. ‘Will ye join me?’ They swapped glances. ‘Come on now. Aren’t I good enough to buy ye a drink now?’

  ‘God!’ exclaimed Molly. ‘Here’s the man throwing money about like a banker with palsy an’ not one taker. Well, ye don’t have to worry, Pat. I’ll drink with ye all night if needs be.’

  Fran Nolan spoke up grudgingly at Patrick’s repeated offer. ‘Go on, I’ll have a drop o’ that bilge-water he calls beer.’

  The landlord pointed. ‘Oy, you, watch your tongue.’ ‘What about you, Michael?’ said Patrick to Flynn, who also capitulated, albeit with some reluctance. ‘All right I’ll have the same as Fran.’

  ‘Come on now, do I have to ask each an’ every one o’ yese?’ shouted Patrick. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen this motley gathering an’ I want to buy ye a drink to make up. Speak now an’ let’s be having your orders. Sure, ye need something to oil them tongues o’ yours, not one o’ ye’s asked me how I am.’ His eyes flicked to the door where another old pal had just entered. ‘Ah, thank God! Ghostie, will ye come an’ stir up these spalpeens with your fiddle? ’Tis like a wake in here. What’re ye having?’

  The man with the mournful, spectre-like face did not even grant the other a glance as he moved across to the bar. ‘If ye expect me to doff me hat I’d as soon buy me own.’

  ‘Have I come to the right place?’ joked Patrick, but the humour was tinged with concern. This was not the welcome he had expected after such a long absence. ‘I thought, I’ll just saunter down to the old place an’ have a wee drop with a
ll me pals, an’ what do I find? A funeral parlour. There’s only Molly what’s had a kind word for me.’

  ‘She’d kiss the Devil’s arse if she thought it’d fetch her a drink.’ It was Ryan who spoke, one of Patrick’s workmates from the past. A deathly hush fell over the normally congenial atmosphere.

  ‘What did you say?’ Patrick stared hard at the man. ‘Has the money sent ye deaf too? I said …’

  ‘Sure, I heard what ye bloody said!’ returned Patrick. ‘Would you be placing me lower than Old Nick? ’Cause if y’are I’ll be calling ye out.’

  ‘Aren’t ye afraid o’ messin’ up your nice new clothes?’ sneered Ryan, hands gripping the edge of the table, poised for action. ‘I mean – look at ye, dressed up like a pig’s prick. Coming in here acting the swell, making out you’re better than everybody else. Motley gathering indeed!’ ‘That was only a figure o’ speech,’ protested Patrick. ‘Ye should know me by now.’

  ‘I thought I did, but not any more. Ye made a big play at first of being the same, but we all know ye couldn’t wait to see the back of us once ye got your riches. Well save your money, we’ll buy our own drinks. We don’t want your bloody charity, Lord Crapper, so just go back to your own kind – you’re fetching the place a bad name.’

  The place erupted as Patrick made a dive for Ryan. ‘Stand up an’ fight ye waster! I’ll not have anyone throw my friendship back in me face,’ and knocked him off his feet.

  Ryan scrambled up and charged headlong for Patrick’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him to the floor. They rolled about in the sawdust, pummelling and kneeing and grunting. Ryan was on top, pounding at the other’s face. Patrick wedged his boots under Ryan’s belt and heaved. The smaller man now hurtled backwards over the tables, smashing glasses and splintering wood. The place was a-boil as Patrick sprang up and delivered another punch to Ryan’s jaw as he closed in again. The receiver grunted and made a counter-attack, laying open the skin beneath Patrick’s eye. The landlord pleaded for someone to fetch a priest to break up the fight but his entreaties were drowned in the exhortative roar as the taproom became a boxing booth. Molly punched at the air with one hand while the other tipped her glass as the fight effervesced around her.

  ‘Please, please boys, leave me a glass or two!’ begged the landlord, wringing his hands.

  The two men fell to the floor again, grappling with each other, Ryan’s hands around Patrick’s throat. The heel of Patrick’s palm found Ryan’s chin and forced it backwards so that his oppressor eventually broke his grip and fell away. They were standing toe to toe, two middle-aged men hammering and punching at each other, both showing signs of weariness, when at last Patrick swung a hefty right hook and caught Ryan a beautiful smack on the jaw – more through luck than good aim, his exhausted arms flailing anywhere. Down went Ryan, rolling over and over, his ragged jacket caked in sawdust, and came to rest with his head clattering against the spittoon.

  ‘Jaze, I’m getting too old for this,’ wheezed Patrick as he stumbled to lean on the bar. ‘Gimme a whiskey, quick.’

  ‘Who’s gonna pay for all these breakages, then?’ demanded the ruffled landlord.

  ‘Will ye hold your whinnying an’ get me that drink? Then I may consider reimbursing ye for our sport.’ Patrick knocked back the whiskey, snorting at the burning goodness of it. ‘Ah, God that’s nectar!’ Then went to grab Ryan by the arm and haul him to his feet. ‘Now will ye let me buy ye a drink?’

  Ryan’s legs wobbled and he cradled his bleeding jaw in a red-knuckled hand. ‘God deliver us, will somebody remind me not to open me mouth, an’ me so short on teeth.’ He allowed Patrick’s hand to remain supporting him. ‘Your persistence is to be rewarded, yer honour. For that ye can buy me a treble Irish.’ Then he raised a chuckle at Patrick’s dishevelled state. ‘Will ye look at himself – the beautiful butterfly’s splitting out of his cocoon.’

  Patrick grimaced at the sawdust-covered frockcoat whose seams had burst under the arms. ‘If ye thought I packed a devilish punch wait till Tommy sees this – she’ll pulverise ye.’ His eyes toured the grinning faces, and his own split with good humour. ‘Don’t tell me I have to go through all this rigmarole every time I want to stand me friends a drink?’

  Ryan clapped him on the back and steered him to the bar amid a murmur of unanimity. ‘Ah, ’tis sorry I am, Patrick. I don’t know what got into me. ’Twas just the sight o’ them togs an’ the fact that ye haven’t been near for so long that set me ranting. I should’ve known the money’d never alter ye.’

  ‘Well, ye know now to your cost,’ said Patrick severely. ‘Landlord, drinks all round!’

  * * *

  Patrick felt as though he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for ages as he staggered home three hours later, his head still reeling with the whine of Ghostie’s fiddle and the joking, familiar banter of his kindred. He felt his pocket. It had been an expensive evening. But it had been well worth it once he had whittled away their understandable suspicion. The recollection of being treated like an interloper came as a sobering thought as he reached Monk Bar. Though he had weathered the experience he couldn’t help feeling that he didn’t truly fit in anywhere now. Here, in Monkgate, he was an outsider because he was Irish, because he was not, and never would be, a gentleman. There, in Walmgate, he was viewed – albeit in a less hostile fashion – as an outsider because of his wife’s good fortune. Hitherto it had been his poverty which had bought his inclusion to the clan and without it, his membership was forfeit. He had to face up to the fact that life was never going to be the same again.

  He drew in a chestful of air as he crossed the road. Better get smartened up before he got home else Tommy would have his hide. She was well on the way to becoming as bad as her mother.

  Chapter Fifteen

  This was Sonny’s fourth day at home and already he was wishing himself back at college. It was not that he didn’t enjoy being reunited with his family – he did – it was simply that here he felt guilt whenever he had the compulsion to pick up a paintbrush. All the family seemed so involved in the business and so, even though this was supposed to be a holiday, Sonny had felt obliged to pitch in too, helping his father with the planting of new crops. Following an afternoon spent in the company of Patrick’s new and crusty acquaintance and having to defend his reasons for being at school to Catch, he decided that if he volunteered for duties again it would be to assist his mother with the book-keeping, which after all had been the main reason for his going to college in the first place.

  It was seven o’clock on Tuesday morning. He lay, half in, half out of the covers and wondered what today had in store for him. Normally at this hour he would be far from his bed and entrenched in the military bustle of school life. He found it quite difficult to adjust to the quietness of this house, having spent most of the previous three years at college. He also had to get used to sleeping alone – something he had never done in his life. He had always shared a bed with his brother, and even at school he was expected to share a room. Now, in this spacious residence each had his own private quarters. It was rather ironic that even in his newfound privacy he felt unable to pursue his lifetime’s passion; his brush had been in use but once since he came home and would probably not come out again till it was time to leave. For that reason alone he’d be glad to get back there.

  He had already accumulated dozens of worthwhile landscapes, culled from the picturesque countryside in which the college was situated. It was too far to contemplate coming home often at weekends so, after Mass, his Sundays were filled with the heady scents of linseed oil and turpentine. Besides the landscapes he had also portrayed on canvas a great many of his schoolfriends and, secretly, the masters. Everyone agreed that Feeney had a superior talent. His canvases had travelled home with him, propped now against his bedroom wall.

  Sonny’s thoughts were shattered by the entry of his sibling who planted himself on his brother’s bed and pointed at the light sheet that covered Sonny’s body. ‘Talk ab
out tent-poles. Are ye still going short of it, Son?’

  Sonny dragged himself into a sitting position and laid his hands over his lap. ‘Still the same old Dickie with his crude humour. Do you never alter?’

  ‘Why should I alter when I’m already perfect?’ Dickie bounced from the bed and padded around the room in his stockinged feet, hands in pockets, chest bare.

  They had both noticed a difference in each other’s stature during Sonny’s time at college. Some time in his brother’s absence Dickie, though still of wiry build, had equalled his father’s height. Sonny, too, had gained inches in that direction but had added even more to his chest and the muscles of his arms – probably due to the gymnastic lessons he received.

  Dickie stopped and looked at the painting on the easel then stepped back to appraise it, nodding approvingly. ‘Ye know, you’re a damn good painter, Son. That lake is so convincing I could almost feel my fingers would come away wet if I touched it.’

  ‘They would – it’s just been varnished,’ said Sonny straight-faced.

  ‘Don’t they teach you how to take a compliment at that fancy school?’

  Sonny smiled. ‘I get so few from my brother.’

  ‘Well, I’m giving ye one now – you’re good. Look at this.’ He moved away from the easel to point at a portrait of one of Sonny’s schoolfriends that headed the stack by the wall. ‘Ye’d think he was goin’ to step right off the canvas any minute. S’bloody clever.’

  ‘Your praise is much appreciated,’ said Sonny. ‘But really, I’m no Leonardo Da Vinci.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Lenny O’Davinchy, the fellow from County Cork who painted our front guttering last year.’