‘Oh, how surprising!’
‘I didn’t think you’d mind as she’s so ill.’
‘Is she really so ill, Sonny? She’s having a baby, that’s all. It’s a perfectly natural thing to happen to a woman. You shouldn’t let her make an invalid of herself.’
He lost his temper. ‘I resent that! If you took the trouble to go up you’d see straight away how pale she is.’
‘Small wonder she’s pale if she’s bunged up in that stuffy room all day and every day. It can’t be good for her nor for the child. Tomorrow you ought to insist that she comes down and has a breath of fresh air and a stretch of her legs. She might feel more like eating if she gets some exercise. And another thing! I don’t want Josie traipsing up and down stairs a dozen times a day. She’s got quite enough to do.’
‘Good God! What d’you expect poor Peggy to do – drag herself downstairs just to save the maid’s legs?’ At this point Josie entered to clean up the pots, catching as she did so Sonny’s comment, and smarting at the way he referred to her. She had always supposed that she and Mr John were friends. However, she covered her hurt and said to Thomasin, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing, ma’am, and I don’t mind taking trays up, honestly I don’t.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ hedged Thomasin. ‘No doubt Peggy will soon be well again then we can all function correctly.’ She gave a meaningful look at her son.
But hopes for a change in Peggy’s conduct faded when the summer arrived. Her few appearances at the breakfast table sparked off so many incidents that most members of the household felt glad when she stayed in bed. She was now enormously fat, due not only to her pregnancy but to the vast amounts of confectionery she consumed. As soon as breakfast was over and the rest of the family had gone to work she would summon up Josie and demand that the maid go out and purchase her customary requirements.
Previously she had relied on her husband to supply her with these, but Sonny, in his maddening fashion, had asked his mother if so many chocolates could be good for the invalid whereupon the service was promptly curtailed, leaving her to rely on the maid.
At first Josie had put up a stand when told to take the money from the housekeeping allowance, but the tantrums which followed such resistance were so frightening that Josie, fearing that the baby might be harmed by the outbursts, gave in. The trouble was that Peggy craved so many chocolates and magazines that it became a great strain on her budget. She began to experiment with cheaper cuts of meat, and sometimes a course less than usual, hoping that her mistress wouldn’t notice. Poor Mr John was in his mother’s bad books already for marrying the girl, of this Josie was well aware, so if the mistress discovered Peggy’s latest recalcitrance then Mr John would suffer even more.
Such optimism that the cut in rations would go undetected was pitiable. On the evening that the events were to come to light she was entrenched in clearing the dinner plates. Thomasin and Patrick were holding a conference about the merits of adding to their labour force, when Patrick, noticing his son’s dejection, tried to induce him into the conversation.
‘Ye must try to curb this multiloquence, Sonny,’ he teased. ‘’Tis burnin’ me ears off.’
Thomasin’s lower jaw dropped. ‘Multi… ? Josie, you’ll have to stop serving all these dictionaries for dinner,’ she joked. It was one of Patrick’s pleasures to drop a word such as this into their laps just to show how his vocabulary had progressed. ‘Ah! Which leads me on to a point I’ve been meaning to mention …’ Josie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Now, I don’t want you to take this as criticism, Josie but I couldn’t help noticing that this is the fourth evening you’ve served boiled bacon. Is there any special reason for this?’
The maid felt her face go hot and she kept on working. ‘No, ma’am!’ It would be dreadful if the mistress thought she was scrimping on the meals to line her own purse.
‘Isn’t the housekeeping adequate?’ asked Thomasin.
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m getting a bit absent-minded lately. It must’ve slipped my memory that I’ve done it so many times – the bacon I mean.’
‘That’s not like you, Josie,’ replied Thomasin, but let the matter rest for now. She could see how flustered the question had made Josie. It might be that she was embarrassed to speak in front of Patrick and Sonny. Thomasin would consult her in private, for there was definitely something amiss. She then suggested they should all go into the other room, where Patrick picked up a newspaper and perused it lazily for a while before becoming excited.
‘Here, listen to this!’ He rustled the paper into a more readable position. ‘There’s a piece here about Appleby Horse Fair; ’tis comin’ up in a couple o’ days.’
‘Can’t you buy a horse round here without trailing all the way over the country?’ quizzed his wife. ‘What about Barnaby Fair?’
‘I don’t want another horse ye eejit. I’m thinkin’ o’ the Fallons. They’re nowhere round these parts for sure, but they might be up there. I don’t know whether they deal in horses or not but ’tis one o’ the biggest gypsy gatherings around an’ surely worth a try, don’t ye think?’ He turned to his son. ‘Will ye come with me, Sonny?’
Sonny gave the immediate response: ‘What about Peggy?’
Peggy, Peggy, bloody Peggy, sighed Thomasin to herself. He’s obsessed with that girl and she’s turning him into a proper dullard. He used to be so good-natured and conscientious towards his family; now he seems to consider no one but his wife.
‘We can be. there and back by the time she’s ready for birthing,’ promised Patrick. ‘I can ask Catch if he’ll keep an eye on the land while I’m away. It’ll not be for long, an’ there’s nothing much wants seeing to except a little hoeing now and again.’ He spoke to his wife. ‘You’ll be able to cope here without me for a couple o’ weeks?’
Thomasin suppressed a smile at his assumed indispensability. ‘Well, you’ll be sorely missed, but if there’s a chance you might find Dickie then you must go of course. Anyway, as I was saying before, I’ve been tickling with the idea of taking on two assistants. It’ll give me more time to be at home – I want to be here when you find him – and I shall start looking tomorrow.’ She saw the struggle that was taking place in her son’s mind. ‘Don’t fret about Peggy,’ her voice was warm. ‘Josie’ll take good care of her through the daytime and when I come home I’ll make sure she’s not ailing. This is a real chance of finding your brother; we can’t pass it up, can we?’
‘Oh, no,’ responded Sonny. ‘We must think of Dickie.’
Thomasin permitted the snipe to pass. ‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you two to make your plans. I’ve something I want to discuss with Josie.’
In the kitchen she presented the question again. ‘Now then, about that housekeeping money – and let’s be having the truth this time, Josie.’
The maid, while relieved to have the matter out in the open, could not conceal her trepidation and played with the hem of her apron, pleating it through her nervous fingers. ‘Oh, Mrs Feeney, I hope you don’t think I’ve been fiddlin’ you ’cause I’d never do a thing like that.’
‘I don’t recall saying the slightest thing about fiddling, Josie,’ overruled Thomasin. ‘Besides, you don’t own a violin, do you?’
Josie couldn’t find anything to laugh about. ‘But you must think … what with the meals being a bit … and … oh!’ She nibbled at the screwed-up apron.
‘Do you imagine that if I had the slightest doubt as to your honesty I’d’ve entrusted you to pay the food bills? Not many maids have that privilege, you know.’ She had given Josie this task to see how she coped, with the further intention of promoting her to housekeeper if she performed well. ‘Now come on, lass, stop eating your pinny, pull yourself together and tell me what’s been happening to that money.’
The words spilled from Josie’s lips. How Peggy ate so many chocolates that Josie could hardly keep up with her demands – those, and the stack of books and magazines she ordered. ‘She sends me out every day, ma’am, an
d you know how expensive they can be. I had to make ends meet somehow. I even added a few shillings from my own purse.’
‘You never did!’ exhaled Thomasin.
‘Oh, I’m not worried about that, ma’am. It doesn’t matter. I just didn’t want you thinkin’ I was pilferin’, that’s all.’
‘It does matter, Josie! It matters a great deal. Tell me, did you keep a record of how much of your own money you spent?’
Josie nodded. ‘I wrote every single item in the budget book – just in case.’
‘Wise girl. Let me see.’ Thomasin leafed through the account book. ‘Godfrey Norris! You’ve spent all this on chocolates? But you must have used all your wages, girl. Why on earth didn’t you tell me about it? Surely you didn’t think I’d be angry with you?’
‘It wasn’t so much that I was frightened what you’d think, ma’am – though I was. It was … well, I didn’t want to go telling tales, like. And as long as I have enough money to send home to Mam I’m not bothered about spendin’ any on meself.’
‘Telling tales my elbow. I’m not having you spending all your hard-earned cash on that little parasite.’
‘Oh, please I don’t want no trouble for Mr John!’ blurted Josie.
Thomasin stopped ranting and regarded the maid with new eyes. ‘And why should it cause trouble for my son?’
‘Well, he thinks the world o’ Miss Peggy – or rather Mrs Feeney, ma’am. I wouldn’t like to be the cause o’ Mr John being upset.’
‘And that’s another of her fads, is it – having you call her Mrs Feeney?’ Thomasin nodded grimly. ‘Well, I’ve got news for her: there’s only one Mrs Feeney what gives orders around here, and that Mrs Feeney is damned if she’s eating boiled bacon every day of the week just so’s her rotund lodger can stuff her face with chocolates.’ She patted Josie’s plump hand. ‘You leave everything with me, lass. Mr John will be off on a short trip with his father in a couple of days, so there’ll be no danger of him being upset. On the other hand,’ she smiled wickedly, ‘I know someone who is about to get a nasty surprise.’
Part Four
1872 – 1874
Chapter Thirty-Five
The mist had lifted, leaving the blankets of wild pansy and meadow vetchling sparkling with diamonds. He was glad that the icy mornings were over now – it was good to look out onto bejewelled pastures when one awoke. The life he led was harsh; not the least of it having to squat in an ice-hardened ditch and peer through the hawthorn hedge while the farmer trudged across the snow to feed his flock. There could be a long wait for the fellow to leave, after which, Garret Fallon would spring across the white coverlet and quickly bundle up the hay to take for his horses. It was hard luck on the sheep, but then who would look out for the Fallons if not themselves?
Garret tugged on the reins and jumped from the caravan, preparing to hitch up another horse to haul them up that last big hill to Appleby. The deft harnessing took but a few seconds and he was soon boarded again, moving lazily up the incline. The road was lightly-laden now, but soon it would be packed with vardos and wagons, their horses straining against the traces, many with leggy foals trotting loose at their sides. He craned his neck back down the slope to see how the others were getting on. When he had alighted at the foot of the hill so had they – no use the horse having to pull all that extra weight – and now they were far behind with Con leading the column of variegated horseflesh, plodding faithfully after his brother. Even old Mother walked, though she was a long way behind now. He would wait at the crown of the hill for her to catch up. There was only one person who remained in the caravan, and their weight would not affect the horse’s pulling power.
They came here every year. Garret, especially, would not miss it. For the Fallons were not tinkers in the occupational definition of the word – tincaerd – tin-maker. Although they did make a few pots and pans their income came mainly from horses.
Once at the crest of the hill, he took the opportunity to cogitate, visualising the scene here by midday. There would be tinkers and Romanies stripped to the waist, knee-deep in the river, preparing their nags for the sale. When they had finished, the river would be topped with foam from their painstaking latherings. The horses would stand there, ever-patient, while their owners soaped and twisted their tails into frothing plumes, manes too, allowing the indignities for the reward of feeling the cool water lap around their aching fetlocks. Afterwards, with the dust of many days’ travel added to the river’s silt, their feathered legs soft as baby hair and gleaming white, they would be pounded up and down before the cheering spectators.
Garret glanced down as Conor came alongside with his charges. ‘Is Mother far behind?’
‘She says for us to go on,’ replied his brother, with no hint of the exertion he had undergone. ‘She might sell a few pegs on the way.’
Hitching his horses to the back of the van he climbed up beside Garret and they made their rumbling way in the direction of the river.
* * *
The Irishman and his son emerged from the public house to a cacophony of shouting and whinnying. Patrick felt his hopes slide as he looked at the tumult of gypsy life before him. The place was overrun with swarthy-complexioned buyers, haggling in the time-honoured custom. Was it too much to hope that amongst the Smiths, Lees and Moores there might also be two Fallons?
Sonny had on a knowing expression, which Patrick could have done without. He did not need his son to tell him that it had been a waste of time their coming. Trying to find the Fallons here would be like seeking a ladybird on that gypsy wench’s red, polka-dot dress. The girl he was admiring tossed a lofty eye in his direction, and he looked away. ‘Come on,’ he said, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. ‘We may as well make an effort now we’ve come all this way. It’s stupid to admit defeat without giving it a go.’
The crowd parted with the quick sweep of a curtain as a skewbald stallion thundered proudly through their midst, mane flowing like silk, great legs pounding up the dust. The gypsy youth perfectly balanced on its back needed neither saddle nor bridle, his gangly legs jutting out like coat-pegs.
The midday heat intensified the smell of horse and man. Patrick and Sonny pushed their way through the hubbub, examining each face. His son had pointed out that Patrick had never seen the Fallon boys, so how would he know what to look for? This had been no deterrent to Patrick who had replied: ‘When I see them, I’ll know.’
Long into the afternoon they searched, with the sun beating down cruelly, baking their throats, until the crowd began to thin. Feeney was about to admit he was beaten, and prescribe adjournment to the inn, when he sensed Sonny’s tension and followed his gaze. His son’s waning vigilance had been refuelled by a young tinker who stood not a hair’s breadth away.
Garret Fallon maintained a grip on the horse’s tail while the bidding was going on, the latter consisting of much spitting and slapping of palms. Not until the final, acceptable bid was made did Garret permit his hand to be grasped in a firm handshake. The money changed hands. Garret, with no more horses to dispose of, was about to pack up for the day when both his arms were linked and he found himself being pressured through the crowd.
‘I’d warn ye not to struggle,’ growled Patrick in the tinker’s ear as they marched. ‘Arms tend to snap very easily.’
Garret, apprehensive but not unduly so, gave a derogatory laugh. ‘Is it a fool y’are? There’s a thousand men’d cut ye down before ever ye reached the edge of this crowd. If ’tis money you’re after I have to tell ye I’m a poor man.’
‘Don’t bother with the coddum,’ Patrick cut him short.
‘I’ve just seen the amount that fella paid ye. ‘Tis not your money I’m after. Just show me the way to your caravan.’
‘Sure, ye’re not thinkin’ to steal me home, are ye?’ joked Garret.
‘I’m not. But there’s something o’ mine gone missing an’ I’m thinkin’ I’ll find it in your caravan.’
‘I can’t think what that could be,�
� frowned Garret. ‘But if ye’re bent on goin’ d’ye think ye could let go of me arms?’ He addressed this to both parties and then, looking at Sonny a second time, had no further reason to ask what it was his tall assailants were after. He said no more.
Dympna Fallon was sitting on the grass by the caravan when the three men came. She saw Garret first and noticed he was empty-handed. ‘I thought ye was bringin’ me a quart of ale,’ she said in Shelta, the tinker dialect.
‘Sure, an’ I was, but the mood hopped off me like water off a duck’s back,’ he answered witheringly, forgoing the Shelta in favour of English. ‘Can’t ye see I was otherwise engaged?’
She too dipped into her reserves of English. ‘What did ye bring them wid ye for? We’ve little enough to paint our ribs with as it is – an’ somethin’ tells me they’d not be very partial to hedgehog.’
‘We don’t want your food, mother,’ said Patrick, releasing the tinker now he had reached his destination. ‘I’ve come for my son.’ He studied the brightly-painted wagon with its lace curtains, its odd chimney – a large black worm, frozen in its searching gyration to the sky.
The woman crooked an eyebrow at Garret for interpretation. ‘I think,’ he told her, rubbing his arms, ‘he be talkin’ about the bloke that had the fling with our Lucy.’
Her wrinkled face darkened – like a bitter old walnut, thought Patrick. ‘Then ye’ve had a wasted journey,’ she snapped abruptly. ‘He’s not here.’
‘I don’t believe ye,’ replied Patrick stubbornly. ‘I want to look in the caravan. Dickie! Are ye in there, boy?’ His cry was answered by a frail ribbon of sound. Patrick looked sharply at the tinkers then, before Garret could stop him, he leapt up the steps and into the caravan.
Inside, Dympna came silently up beside him. ‘Aye, that’s your son’s get,’ she spat at him as he stared down at the unhappy, red-faced bundle in the reed basket. ‘The one that kilt me daughter.’
Patrick stared at the babe for a long time until the woman shoved past him and picked it up. It ceased crying immediately, searching with gaping mouth for something on which to affix itself.
For My Brother’s Sins Page 45
