A Long Way from Heaven
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
About the author
Author’s Note
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Part Five
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Epilogue
Copyright
A Long Way From Heaven
Sheelagh Kelly
Dedication
For David, Gayle and Vanessa
About the author
Sheelagh Kelly was born in York in 1948. She attended Knavesmire Secondary School for Girls, left at the age of 15 and went to work as a bookkeeper. She has written for pleasure since she was a small child, but not until 1980 were the seeds for her first novel, A Long Way from Heaven, sown when she developed an interest in genealogy and local history and decided to trace her ancestors’ story, thereby acquiring an abiding fascination with the quirks of human nature. A Long Way from Heaven was followed by For My Brother’s Sins, Erin’s Child, My Father, My Son, Dickie, Shoddy Prince and A Complicated Woman.
Author’s Note
Though Britannia Yard was a real place – my own great-grandfather was born there – the similarly named yard in this novel is fictional, a composite of Walmgate’s courtyards. I have also taken the liberty of adding a slaughterhouse which many of the yards did have but Britannia Yard did not. All the streets and public houses which I name exist or did exist in that period. Dunworthe Hall alone is fictional, as are all the characters, with the exception of James Hack Tuke. Though the episode in which he briefly appears is purely imaginary, the fact that he and the Society of Friends were instrumental in saving hundreds of immigrants is not.
Prologue
July 1846
The sun struggled to break free of the early-morning mist, bathing the land with a lazy, golden tranquillity. Out of the swirling haze a chequered blanket of colour unfolded: wild thickets of gorse, though they had shed their saffron gowns no less resplendent in their dew-kissed tiaras; whispering, blood-sprinkled oatfields; lush pastures, no larger than a pocket handkerchief; a winding stream whose banks glistened with wild angelica and blue forget-me-not. Even the granite mountain which provided a backcloth to this beautiful setting seemed less forbidding in the gentle light of morning; its harsh summit lost among the clouds, its foot melting into the vast expanses of pink and purple heather.
Slowly the inhabitants of this small corner of Ireland began to come alive. A hare ventured a tentative whisker from his hollow secreted amid a tangle of briar and gorse. His wide brown eyes cast nervous glances over his shoulder, long ears twitched, alert for the sound of predators. Emboldened, now that the air held no alien scent, he succumbed to the urgent desire to stretch his cramped limbs, bounding with great, joyous leaps over the springy turf, pausing occasionally to nibble at a sweet, young shoot.
Some unseen hand conjured up a breeze, dispersing the last of the wispy clouds that had erstwhile draped the sun, teasing them into fragile cobwebs to leave the sky clear and blue. With the unveiling of the sun the hare suddenly realised he was no longer alone; a dark, aeronautical shadow hovered ominously beside his own. He made a frantic dash for cover, the muscles in his powerful hindquarters rippling under the tawny fur. His heart beat wildly as he slipped into the undergrowth to await the hawk’s departure.
His action had been instinctive but unwarranted; the hawk had already eaten when the sun had been but a glimmer of orange on the horizon. The bird was merely re-enacting the hare’s impulse to stretch his limbs, slicing the firmament with an easy, gliding arrogance; flying simply for the joy of it. Idly he tipped his handsome wings and veered abruptly away from the hare’s hiding place, leaving the relieved animal to settle back into its hollow and relax.
In the crystal clear stream that wound its route between aromatic ferns and secret rockpools two otters frolicked, intertwining to let the stream carry them on its laughing course. Sleek bodies rolled and cavorted. Each sank playful teeth into the other, chattering and squeaking until the sound of barking sent them darting away, leaving only an eddying cloud in the water to tell of their passing.
The dogs, pink tongues lolling, plunged headlong into the stream, drawing howls of good-humoured protest from the two men they accompanied. At first glance one would not have imagined the men to be father and son. The grizzled head of the older man barely reached the other’s shoulder, and whilst Richard Feeney was wiry, his son, Patrick, was powerfully built with wide chest and long, muscular limbs.
Richard smiled up at his son and wondered how on earth he had sired such a giant, and such a handsome one at that. He was by far the most good-looking man for miles around, as his bevy of admirers would bear witness. Ah yes, there had been many a fight over Pat, but much good would it do them now, thought Richard. Today Patrick would wed Mary McCarthy and put an end to the speculation of whom he would finally choose, no doubt breaking countless hearts.
He was Richard’s only child. Patrick’s mother had died shortly after the birth of her second – stillborn – baby, leaving Richard to bring up the boy alone. When his grief had abated he had toyed with the idea of remarrying, but had soon cast this notion aside. While his wife’s eyes shone out of Patrick’s face he would never be able to forget her.
Ah, muirnin, muirnin! cried his heart. ’Tis a tragic shame you could not live to see what a fine man our son has become. He raised his eyes to the sky, trying to picture her sweet face smiling down at him. God be good to her.
Patrick saw the moisture in his father’s eye and wondered what thought had provoked it – but then it took little to set Richard weeping; he was such an emotional man. They would be treated to many such displays of emotion today, thought Patrick, turning his glance to the harp which his father carried. It was somehow as if the
strings were connected to his tear ducts, for the moment the first chord was struck the tears would invariably flow.
As well as producing such a wondrous sound, the harp was an object of great beauty in its own right. Its bowed forepillar was carved, in meticulous detail, with scrolls and vines, flowers, birds and fishes, all sleeping within the wood – sleeping, until someone caught at the strings, when each of the carvings would spring to life! Its graceful neck swept with an inward curve to meet the body, inlaid with a marquetry so fine as to defy description. But, to Richard, none of these things meant so much as that the harp to him was Ireland herself. When he played, he could feel the love and hate of centuries vibrate within the harp’s form. He had promised faithfully that there would be no rebel songs today, knowing even as he said it that the promise was as hollow as the inside of Crazy Declan’s head. Once the poteen was flowing through everyone’s veins, they would be dancing on the tables and roaring the old, fighting songs with the usual gusto.
These thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the village: a small cluster of white dwellings, flung by some careless gesture over the green landscape. Outside the priest’s house the wedding guests were assembled. Patrick’s eyes searched for his bride. It was no hard task to single her out, a tiny fragile creature who looked as if a puff of wind would blow her over. At sixteen she was the youngest of five surviving children and, with her alabaster skin, glossy black mane and eyes the colour of Lough Conn, she was also the prettiest.
Mary stood with her hands clasped in front of her, making a church steeple with her forefingers which she nibbled anxiously as she waited for a sign of her man. It was nothing short of miraculous, she thought, that he had chosen her when he had had the whole of the village to select from. She knew that her two unmarried sisters would have made sparks to the altar had he asked either of them – as she herself had expected him to. Why hadn’t he, she asked herself again. Why had he picked her when the others were so much prettier? She did not know and she had never asked him, but when he strode over the brow of the hill her heart soared at the sight of him … How beautiful he was, with his crisp black hair and strong jaw, the tip-tilted nose that belied his twenty-six years – but it had been his eyes that had first fired the attraction. Their irises were of the lightest blue ringed with grey and had a piercing effect as if they could see into her very soul. She now drank deeply of those eyes as he stood before her, feeling the blush rise from her throat under that bold appraisal. Then the throng of delighted guests encircled the couple and bore them into the priest’s house to be joined in the sight of God.
Later, when the ceremony was over, they spilled into the sun-drenched morning; how much later not one of them could tell, for who among them possessed a timepiece? In this ageless land of theirs the time to rise was when the rooster filled his lungs and shrieked a noisy reveille, the time to sleep was when the sun had passed behind the granite mountain, and the time now, their grumbling stomachs informed them, was to eat and make merry. Headed by the fluter the gay procession made its way back to the bride’s house for the wedding feast which would continue for as long as the poteen held out. With the strawboys dancing behind them, wearing their long, pointed hats and white shirts decorated with coloured ribbons, the happy participants began their celebrations.
* * *
Many hours later, when the cerulean day had given way to deep purple shadows and the mountain bore a halo of burnished gold, the creatures of the night began their rituals. The owl paused in its meticulous preening to watch the passage of a lone vixen. It blinked its great, inscrutable eyes as the russet shadow threw back her head and emitted a bloodcurdling scream. The eerie sound was transported over the hillside by a gentle breeze to where two lovers sought out a clump of ferns for their marital bed. The sound did not alarm them; they knew it for what it was – a call of love.
Mary Feeney lay in the strong, protective arms of her husband, staring at the twinkling constellations that scattered the black velvet above them. If there were truly a Heaven up there how could it better the one which enveloped her at this moment? The thought was blasphemous, she knew, but she could not help the thinking of it. A similar thought ran through Patrick’s mind: what man could ask for more? He had a beautiful wife to bear his sons, a warm roof over his head and a plot of land for his livelihood. Below him he could see the nodding heads of the potato flowers reflected in the pale light. Fields full of the tiny, silvery beacons bursting white and healthy from the kind earth. He filled his lungs with the scent of peat and bracken, of wild honeysuckle and meadowsweet. If God had created man in His own image then surely He must have adopted a similar criterion for the land, for if ever a place were akin to Heaven then this was it.
He turned to look at his wife and all thoughts were suddenly lost in desire. He bent his dark head over willing lips, oblivious to all else. He was deaf to the vixen, the owl and the muted strains of merriment from the wedding guests, blind to the beauty around him – for the loveliness of his bride outshone all other things.
But deep in some crevasse of Fate, lurking in the rich, black soil between the ranks of bobbing potato flowers another creature waited. His name was Death.
Part One
Chapter One
August 1846
Mary opened her eyes and stared up into the rafters where the hens roosted, red and speckled puffballs of feathers. Stretching, she placed an exploratory palm on her flat abdomen and her lips parted in a secret smile as she recalled Pat’s rapturous expression when she had told him. She hoped that it would be a son, for her husband had made it clear that this was what he expected of her; many sons to help him with the land. Perhaps later it might be nice to have a daughter who would assist her mother – mother! ‘Mammy’ – how great it sounded. Perhaps … ah no, she chided herself, there’s no time for idle dreaming today – or any day come to that, for it was a strenuous life they led, working the soil. Giving the child in her stomach a last tender pat she threw back the blanket and leapt to her feet. She drew on the red flannel petticoat, musing over the absence of any nausea – she knew that this was the secondary indication of pregnancy but as yet had no experience of it. She just felt wonderful and happy and alive.
A grunt assailed her from the bed of rushes that she had vacated as Patrick missed her warmth. Devoting a moment to gaze down at him, she marvelled how she could ever have felt nervous of marrying a man so much older than herself. How like a child he looked in sleep, with his long dark lashes and parted lips. Feeling her scrutiny, his eyes slowly opened. He did not return her smile at once, for he was still in that state of limbo between sleep and consciousness.
She gave him a light prod with her bare foot, and when she spoke it was in her native tongue, the only language spoken in this wild corner of Connaught. ‘Hóra! a dhuine! Is it the life of a gentleman ye’d be after or are ye thinking of getting up to do some work?’
Patrick yawned and stretched his great frame, then his hand shot out to grasp her ankle. ‘Sure, isn’t that a fine way to illustrate the splendour of wedded bliss, kicking a sleeping man.’
She laughed and extricated her ankle. ‘Ah, come on now ye lazy good for nothing. Ye’ll not be leavin’ the work to me in my condition – you too, Dad!’ she added to the lump in the blanket beside Patrick. Receiving no response she nodded meaningfully to her husband who jumped up and whipped the blanket from his father’s complaining carcase, wishing him a vociferous good morning.
‘Ach, not so loud, son,’ groaned Richard. ‘Ye’re enough to wake the Devil himself.’ He tried to retrieve the cover but his son flicked it out of reach.
‘Away up, ye lazy old rogue or I’ll set the wife on ye, bruiser that she is.’
Mary grinned up at him from the hearth where the fire glowed beneath the ovenpot; the fire that was never allowed to go out or bad luck would befall them.
Richard raised a gnarled hand to his temple and glared at his son, his eyes shot with scarlet – a testament to the previous ni
ght’s revelry at Murphy’s shebeen. Reluctantly, he hauled his bony, work-abused body from the bed and pulled on his breeches, at the same time putting out a coated tongue to show his distaste of the morning.
‘Sure, you’re not going to put that filthy thing back in your mouth?’ asked his son. ‘The mere sight is enough to make the hens stop layin’.’
‘In the name o’ God what’s that smell?’ Richard wrinkled his nose in distaste.
‘An’ how would I be knowing? Sure, your nose is too near your arse.’
‘Patrick!’ Mary almost flung two bowls on the table by the window. ‘I’ll not have such talk in my house.’
Patrick, laughing, seated himself on a stool. ‘Her house, says she. Throwing her weight around already an’ hardly married above a month. Ye’ll need to grow a bit before ye’re big enough to give this one orders.’
‘I don’t need brawn to deal with the likes o’ you, Pat Feeney.’ A stack of potato bread was placed alongside his bowl. ‘Doesn’t everyone know I can twist ye round me little finger.’
He knew that what she said was true but strenuously denied it. ‘God forbid that a woman could get the better of a Feeney. What do you say, Dad?’
‘I say, if the pair o’ yese go ranting on much longer me head’s going to drop off,’ muttered Richard grumpily.
‘Ah, y’old misery,’ voiced his son loudly. ‘Ye were talkative enough last night.’ Big hands broke the bread which a grinning mouth consumed.
Mary agreed. ‘Aye, kept us awake half the night with his tales, the scoundrel.’
‘Enough! Enough, the both o’ yese.’ Richard covered his ears.
‘See, Mary, he doesn’t care for the taste of his own medicine,’ laughed Patrick. ‘Come on, Dad, give us an old rebel song just to start the day right.’
His father pushed away an untouched bowl. ‘I’ll remember your kindness the next time Father Brendan asks me why ye haven’t been to Confession.’ He screwed up his face. ‘An’ I can still smell whatever it is. ’Tis as if something crept in here an’ died.’
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