Paddy turned to Fiona, still at his bedside, and took her hand. She looked down at their two hands, her tears flowing.
“Fee …”
She looked up at her father’s face. His blue eyes held hers. “Promise me, lass,” he said, with violent emotion, “that you’ll keep hold of your dream no matter what it takes. You can do it. Get your shop, you and Joe, and never mind about people who tell you you can’t… promise me …”
“I promise, Da,” Fiona said, choking back her tears.
“Good lass. I’ll be watching you. I love you, Fiona.”
“I love you, too, Da.”
Paddy turned to Roddy; he took his hand. The two men looked at each other. No words passed between them; none were needed. Paddy released him and Roddy walked silently away. Paddy’s breathing was labored again. He lay quiet, not speaking for a moment, just gazing at Kate. She was crying and could not lift her head to look at him.
When he could speak again, he touched his fingers to her face. “Don’t cry, luv, don’t cry,” he said softly. “Do you remember that day at the church, all those years ago? The day I first laid eyes on you? You were no more than a girl. So bonny. Running in the snow, late for Mass. And me, back from the tuckshop with a bacon sandwich. I stuffed it in me pocket, followed you in and stunk up the whole church with the smell of it. You were the most beautiful t’ing I’d ever seen.”
Kate smiled through her tears. “And ever since, you wished you’d never laid eyes on me. I kept you from roaming. From America. Kept you ’ere in London.”
“You stole my heart. And I’ve never once wanted it back. Only happiness I’ve known, I’ve known because of you. Loved you from that day at St. Pat’s and I always will.”
Kate bowed her head and wept.
The hitching started in Paddy’s chest again. A drop of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth and trickled down his jaw. Fiona wiped it away with the edge of his bedsheet.
“Kate,” he said, his voice a whisper now. “Listen to me … there’s two quid in the lining of me old suitcase. The lads at Oliver’s will take a collection; you’re not to be too proud to take it. You’ll need it.” Kate nodded, struggling with her tears. “Write to Michael and tell him …” he started to say, but his pain cut him off. He gasped and gripped her hand. “… tell him what’s happened. He’ll send money. And make sure I’m not buried with me wedding ring on. It’s in the little dish on top of the mantel. Take it and pawn it.”
“No.”
“Do it, it’s just a ring …” he said fiercely.
Kate said she would and he slumped back against his pillow. She dug in her pocket for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, then she turned back to her husband. His chest was still, his face was peaceful. He was gone.
“Oh, Paddy, no!” she wailed, throwing herself upon his body. “Don’t leave us! Please, please, don’t leave us!”
Fiona saw her father’s face, heard her mother’s cries, and felt the bottom drop out of her world.
Chapter 10
“Fiona, luv … eat a little something,” Rose Bristow pleaded. “A bit of stew, a sandwich?”
Fiona, sitting at her kitchen table, smiled wanly. “I couldn’t, Mrs. Bristow.”
“Child, you ’ave to eat. Your clothes are ’anging off you. Just a bite? Come on, lass. Joe’ll be furious with me when ’e sees you, nothing but skin and bones.”
Fiona gave in and allowed Rose to fix her a bowl of beef stew, just to please her. She wasn’t hungry and couldn’t imagine ever being hungry again. Their kitchen was full of food. Neighbors had brought meat pies, sausage rolls, stews, cold meats, potatoes, boiled cabbage, and soda bread for her family, so that they would have enough for themselves and the mourners through the three days of the wake, the funeral, and the burial. Under Rose’s watchful eye, she lifted a forkful of stew to her mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it.
“That’s a good lass. You polish that off and I’ll go see to your mother. ’E’ll be ’ere soon, Joe will. I sent the letter two days ago. Don’t you worry, luv, ’e’ll be ’ere.”
Mrs. Bristow quit the kitchen for the parlor to tend to the mourners who had walked back with Fiona and her family from the churchyard. Fiona put her fork down and covered her face with her hands. Images of her father’s burial replayed themselves in her mind. The long procession to the graveyard, his coffin going into the ground, her mother’s legs buckling as the priest dropped a handful of dirt upon it. Her da had spent his last night under their roof and was gone now, buried in the cold earth.
She didn’t cry as these pictures swam before her eyes; she was too tired. She had cried in the hospital, cried until her eyes had swelled shut, and again at the wake. The wild tearing pain she had felt the night of his accident had become a dull and heavy ache that suffused her entire being – body and soul – and made her leaden and unaware of everything except that her da was gone and would never be coming back. There was no relief from this pain. She would be all right for a moment or two, occupied with Seamie or Eileen, and then she’d remember, and her breath would catch. It felt like a deep wound splitting open and bleeding afresh. Everywhere she looked there were reminders of him – his chair at the hearth, his tobacco pouch, his grappling hook. How could his things be here when he was not? She went to the mantel and took the hook down, curling her fingers around the wooden handle, worn smooth by use.
What would become of them? Her mam … for two days she’d barely known them. She’d refused to feed Eileen. Mrs. Farrell across the street, herself with a newborn, had nursed the baby. Kate had lain in her bed, weeping and calling for her husband, out of her mind with grief. On the eve of the second day, she’d come downstairs, her face white, her eyes dark hollows, her long auburn hair tangled and matted, and had taken her place by her husband’s coffin. There she had joined in the unearthly shrieking and wailing that the Irish make for their dead, so that the dead will hear them and know their grief. It was a terrifying thing to witness, the sound of a human soul, bereft, howling its agony to the heavens.
Afterward, she had allowed Rose to bathe her, apply warm compresses to her milk-swollen breasts, and comb her hair. Still dazed, she’d asked after her children and insisted that Eileen be brought to her. She talked to Roddy about the burial arrangements, then she returned to her bed and slept for the first time in days.
Charlie was trying hard to be strong and carry his family through. He’d helped with the funeral and burial. He’d been a pallbearer. Fiona hadn’t seen him weep, but she’d seen him sitting in the kitchen by himself, staring into the fire, holding their father’s watch.
Seamie had reacted like any four-year-old. There were times when he was frightened and confused, crying for his father, and times when he sat in front of the hearth and played with his toys, oblivious to everything. Fiona’s heart ached for him and Eileen, for all the things they’d never know of their father – the tales he told of Ireland, the ghost stories on All Hallows’ Eve, the walks to the river. So many things. Things she would try to tell them, things she couldn’t begin to tell them.
A soft hand on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. “Fiona, could you put the kettle on?” Mrs. Bristow asked. “Ben Tillet’s ’ere with ’is lads. They could use a cup of tea.”
“Aye,” she said, returning the hook to the mantel.
Rose disappeared again and Fiona prepared the tea, relieved to have a job to occupy her. As she carried the pot into the parlor, she saw that there were still many mourners in the house; their presence now and throughout the last three days was a tribute to her father, evidence of their esteem. She forced herself to talk to her neighbors and friends. Old ladies squeezed her arm, others whispered condolences and told her how much she looked like him. She looked up every now and then, searching for Joe. How she wished he were here. Mrs. Bristow had sent a letter to Covent Garden, telling him what had happened. She would’ve gone to get him, if she could’ve, but she had no money for bus fare and was too worried about Kate to lea
ve her. Mr. Bristow couldn’t go after him, either. He’d missed a day of work to help with the funeral arrangements. Any more days away from the market and another coster would claim his space. Fiona listened politely, trying to conceal her weariness, as Mrs. MacCallum told her about the kindnesses Paddy had shown her.
As the old woman talked on, another conversation caught her ear. Two men, Mr. Dolan and Mr. Farrell, neighbors and dockers, were standing in a corner, also talking about her father.
“Fifteen years on the docks and ’e never ’as so much as a slipup,” Mr. Dolan said. “No fingers gone, no broken bones. And then ’e falls from a loop’ole. It just don’t make sense, Alf.”
“I ’eard the coppers found grease on the platform,” Alfred Farrell said. “They think it dripped from a winch and that’s what caused ’im to slip.”
“Bollocks! You ever know anyone at the docks to fling grease about? It just ain’t done. It’s like a wedding ring – no one wears one ’cause it’s dangerous. Get it caught and there goes your finger. Same goes for grease. Spill any and it’s wiped right up, spot’s covered with sand. Any man at Oliver’s would know better than that.”
Fiona was struck by what they were saying. They’re right, she thought; it doesn’t make sense. She knew enough about her father’s work to know a docker would never be sloppy with grease, no more than he would stack a crate of nutmeg on top of a chest of tea, lest the leaves pick up the flavor. She’d heard Roddy talking about the inquest, how the police had found the loophole door unbolted and a splodge of black grease on the floor near it. The foreman, Thomas Curran, said he figured one of his men hadn’t secured the door properly. It was a windy night and her father must’ve heard it banging against the side of the building. He would’ve gone up to latch it, and with it being dark and him having only a lantern, he wouldn’t have seen the grease. Curran said he had told one of his men – Davey O’Neill – to grease the winches earlier in the day. Davey may have dripped some. It was a tragedy, Mr. Curran said. The lads would take up a collection and he was certain Mr. Burton himself would find something for the family in the way of compensation. Satisfied with this explanation, the coroner had returned a verdict of accidental death.
Fiona had heard all this, but overwhelmed by the shock of her father’s death, it had barely registered. Her da had fallen from a loophole. The particulars hadn’t mattered; all that mattered was that he was dead. But now that her mind was a little clearer …
“Excuse me, Mrs. MacCallum,” she said brusquely. She left the woman rattling and returned to the kitchen. She had to be by herself for a minute to think.
She sat down in her father’s chair. It was clear as day: somebody had put grease on the floor so he would slip. Why hadn’t anybody seen this? It almost hurt to think, her mind was so thick and fuzzy, but she would write down her thoughts, get them all straight. And then she would tell Uncle Roddy and he’d have the ones in charge do another inquest. It was obvious what had happened, it was plain as the nose on her face … it was … ridiculous.
Why would anybody injure me da? she asked herself. Least of all one of his workmates. Was she mad? Yes, that was it. She was losing her mind. She was looking for a reason for her father’s death, grasping at straws.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and rested her head in her hands. She still couldn’t accept what had happened; part of her still expected her father to come through the front door, home from the docks. He’d sit down, read his paper, and this whole nightmare would be forgotten. When she was a child, he had been the center of her universe and she had assumed he would always be there – to take care of them, put food on the table, shield them from the world and its dangers. Now they had no father. Their mother had no husband. He was gone. Who would look after them? Where would they go from here?
Now, as it had over and over again during the last three days, the pain of his death came crashing in upon her like an avalanche. She tried to hold it back, but the emotion was too great. Crying bitterly, she wasn’t aware that Joe had come into the kitchen.
“Fee?” he said softly, kneeling down beside her.
She lifted her head. “Oh, Joe,” she whispered. Her eyes were so full of pain that tears came to his eyes for her. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept. He rocked her gently, stroking her hair, as her grief wrenched sobs out of her.
When she could weep no more, he held her face between his hands, wiping the tears from her eyes with his thumbs. “My poor lass,” he said.
“Why, Joe? Why me da?” she asked, her eyes bright blue through her tears.
“I don’t know, Fiona. I wish I ’ad an answer for you.”
“God, I miss ’im,” she whispered.
“I know you do, luv. I miss ’im, too. ’E was quite a man, your da.”
They sat quietly together for a few minutes, Joe holding Fiona’s hand, Fiona sniffling. No flowery words, no platitudes passed between them. Joe would have done anything to ease her suffering, but he knew nothing he might do, or say, could. Her grief would run its course, like a fever, and release her when it was spent. He would not shush her or tell her it was God’s will and that her da was better off. That was rubbish and they both knew it. When something hurt as bad as this, you had to let it hurt. There were no shortcuts. He sat down heavily in Kate’s rocker.
Fiona looked at him and saw he was tired and unwashed. “Peterson working you ’ard?”
“Aye. Got ’arvest wagons coming in. Unloading them round the clock. I would’ve been ’ere sooner otherwise. Got me mum’s letter yesterday morning, but I couldn’t get away. If I’d ’ave left, I’d ’ave got the sack. Tommy P. don’t give a damn for anyone’s funeral, less it’s ’is own. ’Aven’t slept since I read what ’appened. I’m sorry, Fee. I wish I could’ve come sooner.”
Fiona nodded; she understood. He was here now.
“When do you ’ave to get back?”
“Tonight. Not right now, later. I left ’Arry to finish up, but there’s another load due in early tomorrow morning.”
She was disappointed. She’d hoped he’d be able to stay. God, how she wished he were still in his parents’ house instead of all the way across London. She needed him so much now – to talk to her, to comfort her. She’d need him in the days ahead, too. But he wouldn’t be here.
As if reading her mind, he took out a shilling and pressed it into her hand. “ ’Ere. For paper and stamps. You can write me. Every night. When you can’t stand it anymore, just write me a letter and it’ll be like we’re talking to each other, all right?”
“All right.”
“I’ve got time for a walk,” he said, standing up. “Let’s get out of ’ere. All this whispering and moaning won’t do you any good. Let’s go to the river and watch the boats. We’ve still got an hour or so before it’s dark.”
Fiona stood up and took her shawl off its hook by the back door. He was right; it would be good to get out of the house. As she readied herself, she was possessed by the strangest feeling that her da would be at the waterside, present in all the things he loved – the rolling gray waves and the scudding clouds, the gulls wheeling and soaring, the eager prow of a ship nosing its way out to sea. He wasn’t here in this house of pain, he was there, by the river – she was certain of it. And as Joe took her hand and led her out of the house, that certainty soothed her and gave her some small measure of peace.
Chapter 11
Kate checked the number on the scrap of paper she held: 65 Steward Street. That was the number on the door. Why was no one answering? She knocked again.
“ ’Old on, will you?” a voice shouted from within. “I ’eard you the first time.”
The door was wrenched open and she was face-to-face with a fat, disheveled woman who, judging from her appearance, had been asleep and was not pleased to have been roused.
“Are you Mrs. Colman?”
“I am.”
“I’m Mrs. Finnegan. I’m ’ere about the room.”
“
Come in, then,” the woman said, ushering her into a hallway that was dark and stank of cabbage. “Room’s upstairs. Top floor. Door’s open. It’s a nice room, Mrs. Flanagan,” the woman said. Her teeth were black. She reeked of whiskey.
“Finnegan.”
“Flanagan, Finnegan, it’s all the same to me. Go on up.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Colman,” Kate said, mounting the stairs. The banister wobbled under her hand as she climbed to the first landing. The stairs shuddered and creaked. She glimpsed a young woman through an open door, gnawing on a crust as she nursed her baby. In another, a man was stretched out on a cot, snoring.
She continued up to the second landing. One of the three doors there was open wide. She walked in. Something crunched under her feet. Probably a bit of plaster, she thought. The room was dark; shutters covered its only window. She pulled them open and screamed.
The entire room was crawling with black beetles. They ran madly over the floor and ceiling, shying away from the light. They scuttled over the filthy wallpaper that was hanging down in strips. They darted into the fireplace and swarmed over a stained mattress. She was back downstairs in seconds, tugging at the front door.
“Did you like the room, then?” Mrs. Colman shouted, waddling after her.
“It’s crawling!”
“Oh, the bugs won’t ’urt you. Tell you what, I’ll let you ’ave it cheap. Includes use of the kitchen, too.” She leaned in close to Kate. “And there’s another advantage to taking that room. If you’re ever ’ard up, you can make a few bob without leaving it.” She gave her an oily smile. “Mr. Daniels, second landing. Pays well, I’m told.”
Kate wrenched the door open and ran out. The beetles, the dirt, the stink of the place all made her nauseous. That filthy bitch, she fumed, making her filthy propositions. If Paddy’d heard her, he’d have knocked her rotten teeth out.
Paddy. At the thought of him, tears welled. She drew her handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. She could not afford to start weeping now. She had to find a room, for she was nearly out of money and could no longer afford the rent on the Montague Street house.
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