For My Brother’s Sins

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

  ‘But why d’you stand for it?’ asked Sonny, wanting to beat the living daylights out of the brute who had struck that pert face.

  She gazed up at him with bright eyes and said simply, ‘He needs me.’

  He felt a rush of tenderness and a great need to put his arms around her, to show her that he understood. Dickie would have found no difficulty in such an act, but Sonny’s arms remained twitchingly at his sides.

  They were in Walmgate. The sun was gentle on their shoulders. Sonny felt very happy. Oh, she was lovely …

  * * *

  Dickie slouched despondently down Walmgate, hands in pockets, stock awry, kicking viciously at every stone in his path. The child’s mother had shown her gratitude not in the manner which he had expected, but by providing him with the reward she fancied every boy his age would most appreciate – a slice of plum pudding. Had he guessed that this would be the outcome he would not have bothered to desert his brother. Sonny had probably had a more satisfying morning at the market.

  He had just reached Violet Nesbitt’s house where the windowbox overflowed with tiny magenta blooms, when he spotted his brother not twenty strides away – and the girl who accompanied him was quite a looker. They had stopped in the middle of the footwalk to watch a dancing bear which had been tethered outside a public house while its master drowned his thirst. There were no shadows on this side of the street in which to escape the pitiless sun and in its thick coat the creature was boiling alive. It reared up onto its hind legs and began to pirouette, clawing frantically at the leather muzzle which had begun to chafe terribly. The bear’s giant paws scraped feverishly at its ears, trying to dislodge the strap. It danced agitatedly all the while, only stopping to charge at the urchins who tormented it as far as the chain would allow. The crowd which had gathered thought this splendid entertainment. Not so Sonny, who found it appalling that anyone could find pleasure in a creature’s sufferings. He glanced down at Annie whose pixie-like face was wreathed in smiles and felt a touch of pique.

  ‘Will you excuse me while I go see if I can find its owner? The poor thing is going to lose its mind if it’s left any longer in the sun.’

  Annie showed surprise that Sonny wanted to spoil the fun, but said that she would wait for him.

  Dickie watched his brother cross the road and disappear into a tavern. It was obvious that Sonny had no idea how to treat a female. With a saturnine grin he straightened his stock, dipped his hand into Mrs Nesbitt’s windowbox and uprooted a fistful of violets. Suitably equipped he made a beeline for his prey.

  Sonny emerged from the public house in time to see his brother bearing down upon his lady-love. He left the irate man to tend to his equally irate bear and rushed across the road to Annie, reaching her at the same instant as his brother.

  ‘Trying to beat me to it, are we, Son?’ said Dickie amiably, hand behind back. ‘Well, I can’t say I blame you. She’s a prize worth winning.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Sonny hotly, ‘Annie was already with me.’

  ‘Ye don’t say? Ye mean to tell me ye’ve been familiar with this pretty young damsel for some time an’ never introduced her to your brother?’

  ‘We’ve just met today actually,’ provided Annie, undisguisedly taken up with this charming, handsome fellow. She forced herself to spare a glance for Sonny. ‘Are you going to introduce us, John?’

  Sonny dismally acquainted Annie with his brother who grinned and brought the tiny bouquet from behind his back. ‘As I have no drink with which to toast your beauty, ma’am, may I be allowed to present you with a humble token of my undivided admiration. You are indeed the most ravishing creature I ever set eyes on in all me life.’

  Annie uttered a delighted gasp and buried her face in the purple blooms. ‘Oh! but no one’s ever given me flowers before.’

  ‘Is that right? Then ’tis a wicked cryin’ shame that the men in these parts go around with their eyes shut. They must be blind not to honour such beauty.’ He took her hand and laid it in the crease of his arm.

  Sonny scowled as his brother coaxed Annie away, and obstinately clung to her side. Her face was turned away. She seemed to have completely forgotten his presence and the fact that it was his half-crown that was to save her a beating.

  Dickie mouthed his practised oratory, entrancing the girl and further enraging his brother. – I’ll kill you! raged Sonny, I’ll bloody-well kill you.

  Towards midday, after the couple and their gooseberry friend had taken refreshment in a small café, Annie begged leave to go. ‘My da will be finished with his business now. I must leave or there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘If there is,’ replied Dickie, pulling out her chair, ‘just refer your father to me. I’ll take any blame that’s coming.’ He steered her to the door, leaving his brother to settle the bill.

  – Oh, I’m sure you will! flared Sonny. Since when have you faced up to any trouble? He tapped his foot impatiently while the waitress counted out his change, and watched them through the window. They were talking earnestly, their faces almost touching. He pocketed his change and rushed out into the street.

  ‘Annie!’ he blurted awkwardly. ‘If you come to York next week perhaps we could meet and …’

  She never even allowed him to finish his sentence. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, John.’ She didn’t appear to be at all sorry; her eyes remained glued to Dickie’s face as she answered. ‘I’ve already promised to meet your brother. You should’ve said before.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he replied quickly, too quickly for sincerity. ‘Really, I just thought … but if you’re …’ He glared at his brother who was smiling that arrogant smile of his. – Why, he’s done it on purpose! he exclaimed to himself. He knew all along she was with me – he must’ve seen us. He isn’t really interested in her the way I am, he only did it because I saw her first.

  He made a vain attempt to salvage the situation. ‘We could all meet and go somewhere …’

  Dickie was quick to intervene. ‘Son, I’m sure Agatha wouldn’t be too pleased if she thought ye were giving your attentions to another young lady,’ he said slyly, preempting any other bid.

  Agatha. How could he have transferred his affections so glibly, when the object of those affections was about to disappear on the arm of his brother – a situation that was to be a recurring feature in Sonny’s life. He could have gone after them, but he didn’t. Once Dickie had had his hands on her, things would never be the same. He stood outside the café, trembling with outraged passion and watched them walk away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday afternoon invariably found Thomasin poring over her accounts, comparing the figures with those she had inherited from Mr Penny. The results were very uplifting. The business had undergone a transformation in these three short years, and the once dingy store had evolved into a competitive business. Thomasin’s first instincts on becoming the proud owner had been to rid the shop of its dowdy image by decorating the interior. This had been done in light blue and dove-grey, and these instincts had proved to be well-founded, judging by the number of compliments she had received from her customers.

  The one thing that remained almost unaltered was the name over the shop’s façade – Penny’s. When Patrick had expressed surprise at this, assuming her first act would be to place her own name above her property, she had smiled shrewdly and said, ‘That name is going to be our trademark, a symbol of our competitiveness.’

  ‘You’re certain there isn’t a more devious reason?’ was his reply.

  She asked what he meant. ‘Ye know quite well what I mean, Tommy. Are ye afraid that if ye put your own name over the shop ye’ll lose your trade?’

  She had been surprised and hurt that he should think her capable of such disloyalty. ‘It never even crossed my mind. Besides, I don’t imagine people would give two hoots if an Irish name were over the shop – or a Jewish name, or a French name. You’re far too touchy. All they care about is the quality and price of the goods inside.’ Patrick had
then pointed out, not unkindly, that the prices would hardly bear comparison with those of the market stallholders’.

  Thomasin had been forced to agree. ‘But the market isn’t here every hour of the day –also I intend this to be a shop renowned for its quality rather than cheap prices. Though I do plan to have a bargain corner to get rid of all the stuff Mr Penny was bent on hoarding, and to boost my liquid assets.’

  ‘I could do to boost mine an’ all,’ he joked. She had made him get rid of the illicit still when they had moved to the new house.

  ‘Things are going to change around here, Pat – drastically,’ she had said, and they had. Thomasin had begun by approaching each of her suppliers, armed with an ultimatum: they either renegotiated their terms, or she would take her custom elsewhere. The few who had not been swayed by her persuasive nature and had taken exception to these upstart tactics had regretted it, for in that first year of business Thomasin had doubled her orders to those with faith in her. To these firms Thomasin was now one of their best customers.

  Another way she had found to bolster her stock was to visit stores which were about to go into liquidation and purchase leftover items at rock-bottom prices. In such dealings her bank manager, Mr Eade, another captive of her vivacious nature, would tip her the wink when he heard of any impending bankruptcy, allowing her to be first on the scene with her cheque. The outcome of these lucrative meanderings was arranged in the window to lure in more customers who, lulled by the low prices in the bargain corner, would often purchase their entire grocery order there.

  Sonny had returned to college now, but on previous vacations had applied his artistic flair to the window display, making it even more alluring by his clever play with colour. In the centre of the window was a sugarloaf which he had painstakingly chiselled into the shape of a fairy castle. Cherries and angelica served as doorknobs and windowpanes, with marzipan battlements upon crystalline turrets. It was this that brought the local children flocking to the window, dragging along their mothers or nurses who, eyeing the high quality fare which completed the fairytale scene – neatly-sculptured pats of butter, rich amber sultanas, dewfresh fruit and vegetables depicting the castle’s grounds – decided that here was a shop worthy of their patronage.

  Sonny had not only been the motivator of the interior design but also that of the outside, and while he agreed with his mother’s decision to keep the original owner’s name, he thought that it looked that little bit better when he had personally repainted the name in gold copperplate and had amputated the s, leaving it simply Penny.

  Thomasin’s growing clientèle was positive proof of the efficacy of these small amendments, for never was there a moment in the day when the store was completely empty. Also, her custom covered a wider spectrum than had visited the dingy little shop before. Overnight, it seemed, it had become fashionable to be seen at Penny’s – for despite Sonny’s alteration people would insist on calling it that, the habits of the shop’s lifetime dying hard.

  The grocery round was proving to be very beneficial too and would be even more so when Patrick’s fruit trees came to maturity and another middle-man was deleted. It was part of Dickie’s job to deliver weekly orders as well as running the travelling shop; people were inclined to buy more if they did not have to struggle home under the weight of a heavy shopping basket.

  Thomasin reclined in her chair and touched the hilt of the pen speculatively to her lips. Patrick sat opposite reading one of Mr Penny’s books and making frequent referrals to the dictionary at his arm. He felt her gaze and looked up. She smiled and stretched her legs under the grey silk gown. It rustled invitingly and Patrick experienced the usual rush of warmth whenever he looked at her. If there was one thing above all else that had stemmed from their good fortune it was to see those dowdy, homespun dresses cast away. For all he worried about her overstepping her limits she did look beautiful.

  In the beginning she had put on quite a lot of weight – they all had, but Thomasin had exceeded moderation. This was due to the fact that she could not bear to see food left on anyone’s plate – each crust had counted in the old days – and had insisted on consuming all the leftovers. It was an obscenity to waste good food, she had told them. But the sly digs from her husband, and the rolls of fat which oozed over the stays that her improved status had warranted, soon communicated the impracticality of her conviction and lately she had shown a marked reservation at the table. Patrick’s only wish was that she would find no need for the stays once the excess fat had dissolved, but sadly it was not to be granted. Instead of the warm squash of flesh when he put an arm around his wife, these days all it encountered was an unyielding barricade of whalebone.

  ‘Not now, Mr Feeney.’ She intercepted his question and pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing shut her eyes which ached from the surfeit of figures.

  ‘Now, how did ye know what I was going to say?’ protested her husband, who had changed from his uncomfortable Sunday best after Mass and now wore more casual attire. ‘Sure, I never opened me mouth.’

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ she replied. ‘You always get that look in your eye when there’s something you’re after.’ The broad accent was still there but had been tempered to fit in with Thomasin’s new lifestyle. She had found that people tended to look down on her at first, assuming that because she spoke that way it meant that she was a poor gullible peasant to be cheated. The strong-minded Tommy had soon altered their ideas for them, but had also decided, if only from good manners, to try to moderate her speech. After all, it was difficult to do business with someone who had to keep asking you to repeat yourself. One was still able to detect that she hailed from Yorkshire, but there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that this was no country bumpkin to be manipulated.

  A faint jingling conveyed that someone was paying them a visit. Obviously it was not one of their neighbours; no one had been near since the Feeneys had moved in. Patrick half-rose to answer the door. Thomasin leaned forward and touched the shaft of her pen to his knee, keeping him in his seat ‘We’ve got somebody to do that now, remember?’

  ‘Ah, so we do.’ The reflex took some curbing. ‘Three years an’ I’m still not used to it Doesn’t seem decent somehow.’ He relaxed as the maid, Amy Forsdyke, wiggled into the room.

  ‘Yes, Amy?’ Thomasin always reckoned she must have been suffering from a brainstorm on the day that Amy came for her interview. For what else would have persuaded her, a seasoned judge of character, to employ such a sly, lazy baggage? Especially one with no references. But then Thomasin had been determined not to be one of those employers who treated people like minions. She knew what it was like to be in such a position and decided from the start that she would not expect Amy to do all the dirty jobs; the workload would be divided between herself, Amy and Erin. At first she had shied away from Hannah’s suggestion to hire a maid; it seemed so … pretentious, as if she, Thomasin Feeney, was now too good to lift her hands to menial work. But as her expanding business took her farther and farther afield, and kept her engaged until all hours – Erin too – she had finally made the move that gave just acclaim to her new prestige.

  Amy ignored her mistress and addressed herself to the master. ‘There’s a young man at the door, sir. Says could he have a word with Miss Erin?’ Her eyes brazenly toured the length of Patrick’s body. What a way for the master of the house to dress – soiled breeches, a baggy, shapeless tunic – anyone would think he was the odd-job man. What a waste, because he was really a fine figure of a man, and very handsome, even if he were twice her age and Irish too. She always went weak at the knees when he turned those speedwell eyes on her.

  Patrick’s mood changed. He rose abruptly and the book fell from his lap as he reached for a pipe and tobacco.

  ‘Tell him she’s not at home,’ was his blunt response as his teeth clicked on the pipestem.

  Amy retrieved the book and laid it on the table. She ran her eyes over him again, inclined her head at Thomasin’s request for tea and left
the room.

  ‘You’ll have to stop doing that, you know.’ Thomasin brought the two halves of the ledger together with a heavy thud and laid it on the carpet at her feet.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. You know very well what I’m talking about. This is the third one you’ve sent away. Your daughter is going to end up a crabby old spinster like Miss Peabody.’

  ‘God forbid.’ He slung his leg over the chair arm and reached for the book. Erin’s beauty had always attracted male attention, with young men openly ogling her, but he had thought to leave the worst of that behind when they had moved to a more respectable district. Not so – he had still to put up with it at Mass. And not content with making sheep’s eyes at his daughter over their prayer books the young buggers had had the audacity to follow her home. The first time a young man had called, Amy had unwittingly let him into the drawing room where Patrick sat. When the fellow had had the gall to tell him that his daughter was so beautiful he had just had to follow her to see where she lived and had blithely gone on to ask permission to take Patrick’s daughter out, the Irishman had told him that if he ever followed Erin here again he’d better hire crutches to carry him home. After this, when told by Amy there was a young man at the door, he had always instructed her to send them away.

  Erin was sauntering through the hall when she heard these instructions conveyed: ‘Miss Erin’s not at home, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said in a puzzled tone and came to the door to see who was calling. She blushed then. It was the young man she’d seen at church this morning, the one who’d kept smiling at her. He was rather nice-looking.