‘Actually, they’re buried in the back garden, but don’t let that concern you.’
‘I won’t. As for tomorrow, your luck is in, it’s me afternoon off. You can collect me at one o’clock at shop.’ She picked up her skirts and stepped down from the cab then, as he pulled the doors shut, said, ‘Will yer do me a favour?’
‘Anything.’
She tiptoed up and kissed his cheek. ‘For God’s sake stop callin’ me Thomasin, will yer? I allus thought it were too grand a name for the likes o’ me, but there y’are, that’s me mother all over; all us lasses’ve got daft names.’
‘Then what do I call you?’ asked Roland as she stepped back onto the pavement.
‘Tommy!’ she shouted and picking up her skirts once more ran full pelt down the streets and disappeared into the shadows.
* * *
All that had taken place six months before, since when Roland Cummings had provided Thomasin with the house on Hull Road, an extensive wardrobe, tons of trinkets and many nights of pleasure – the latter being reciprocal. Only one thing had changed. Roland, philanderer though he was, had fallen hopelessly in love with her. Alas, to Thomasin everything was as it had been – purely a business relationship. To her he was still good old Roly who gave her anything she asked. He doubted she even knew how he felt.
‘You’re dreaming, Tommy!’ Roland waved a hand in front of her face, abruptly ending her recollections.
‘Sorry, I was just thinkin’ on how we met — it seems ages ago.’ She put down the tray of bread and wiped her floury hands on a cloth, not caring to soil the pristine apron that she had donned that morning. ‘What’re you ’iding?’ She eyed the large box that he was trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal.
‘I thought we should do something special tonight,’ he told her, handing over the package. ‘There’s a good play on at the Theatre Royal – would you care to go?’
‘Oo, don’t yer think that’s temptin’ Providence a bit? I mean, we were on the town every night last week and we’re bound to get caught out one o’ these days. We might just bump into somebody who knows yer wife an’ they’d tell her.’
‘Bugger being caught,’ declared Roland. ‘Anyway, I told you my wife and I have an agreement.’
Thomasin laughed in surprise at hearing him swear. ‘No cussin’ in front o’ ladies, if yer don’t mind.’ She lifted the lid from the box and let out a cry of delight. ‘Oh, Roly it’s lovely! Oh, I can’t wait to see it on.’
‘Personally I can’t wait to see it off.’
‘Eh, control yerself, Lothario.’ The green satin was cool to her touch as she held the dress against her. Though he had bought her many gifts this was quite the nicest. In a fit of girlish enthusiasm she began to waltz around the shop. The frilled sleeves floated about her as she spun, sending a pile of neatly-stacked cake boxes flying in all directions. Round and round she twirled, the dance becoming more frenzied by the second. Spinning, whirling, the unimaginable yardage of the dress billowing out, speckled with flour in the confined space of the shop. Her abandoned laughter obscured the sound of the shop bell.
Suddenly she stopped: a man stood in the doorway – a man she had seen before but not at such close quarters – and now as she looked, breathless and admiring, she saw that he was even more handsome than she had imagined. From his crisp black hair and bright blue, quizzical eyes, to his long, lean body and muscular thighs.
Roland turned, smiling, to discover what had caused the cessation of movement. The smile froze when he saw the way the man returned her discerning stare — and he knew that he had lost her.
* * *
The night that he had intended to be so enjoyable proved to be a disaster. Roland sat uncomfortably beside her in the dimly-lit theatre, growing more and more annoyed at the slurping of oranges, coughing and fidgeting from the audience who waited for the play to commence. Every time he instigated a conversation she would answer in the briefest possible manner as though it was an intrusion into her thoughts and making him feel like some insignificant adornment. At last he could bear it no more.
‘It’s that man, isn’t it?’
‘What yer talkin’ about?’ she said absently, nibbling the edges of her fan.
He gripped her arm, making her painfully aware of his presence. ‘Ow! Roly, that ’urt.’ She rubbed the spot in discomfort. ‘What did yer do that for?’
‘Because when I spend a lot of well-earned money on a woman I expect her to listen when I have something to say,’ snarled Roland, black eyes blazing. ‘I said it’s that man that so preoccupies you, is it not?’
‘Who? What’re yer talkin’ about? Let go.’
‘That… that peasant in the shop this morning! The one who looked as though he’d like to rip off his clothes and take you there and then before my eyes.’
‘Oh, don’t talk rubbish,’ said Thomasin. ‘I don’t even know ’im.’
‘You’d like to though, wouldn’t you? Deny it if you can.’
‘I don’t ’ave to deny anything, Roland. You don’t own me yet!’ She lowered her voice as people started to stare, spoke kindly. ‘Look, would I choose somebody like that when I’ve got you? Yer think that after all t’good times we’ve ’ad together?’ She tapped him lightly on the shoulder with her fan. ‘I do believe yer jealous.’
‘You’re damned right, I am!’
‘Well, there’s no need. I’ve told yer, I don’t even know the fella so stop worryin’. Now, be quiet like a good boy, the play’s gonna start.’
‘Ssh!’ said the woman in front as the curtain rose.
‘Shush yerself,’ retorted Thomasin and gave a reassuring smile to Roland who found it not the least reassuring.
She could deny it all she liked, but he had seen her face as she looked at the man and he knew. He smouldered in his seat, eyes on the ornate ceiling, and gave a deep sigh of regret. It was as he was lowering his gaze back to the stage that it alighted on a familiar face in the box opposite his. Helena had seen them the moment they had entered the box and now gave a satirical inclination of her golden head. She turned to her chinless companion and mouthed something behind her ostrich feather fan, then let out a tinkling laugh, eyes still on her husband.
Roland fumed — I am glad at least someone is amused, he thought acidly.
But despite the laughter Helena Cummings was not amused; she was very, very angry. It was an odd quirk in Helena’s make-up that, although she did not want him for herself, she would be damned if anyone else was going to make Roland happy.
There was, however, some small satisfaction to be gained from the fact that, at this moment, Roland looked anything but happy.
Chapter Fifteen
It was all too ridiculous, Patrick told his reflection in the triangular piece of reflective glass. He raised a hand to feel his cleanshaven jaw. As if she would look at you, a lovely lady like herself. He grinned and turned away from the mirror. It was worth a try though. From the moment he had felt the lurch in his stomach – the one that had hit him like a pole-axe as he opened the bakery door and saw her smiling back at him – then he knew that the memory of his dead wife was finally laid to rest. His mornings began earlier. He made a special effort to look presentable, drawing raucous comments from his workmates.
Pulling the tunic-shaped shirt into position he fastened a belt around his waist. The close-fitting breeches of brown worsted clung to his legs like a second skin. Brown woollen stockings began at the calf where the breeches ended and a tasselled cap of green tweed completed his outfit, lending him a rakish appearance — too rakish, perhaps? He studied his reflection, then decided it was. He would take it back to the pawnshop on his way to work.
His inspection was interrupted by the arrival of his daughter. ‘Daddy, Aunt Molly says ye’ll be late for work if ye don’t hurry.’ She hung back in the doorway, wondering what her reception would be this morning.
Patrick felt a rush of guilt at the little face which glowed in admiration for his new stylishness. How cou
ld he have treated her like he had? Swiftly he bent down and scooped her up in his arms.
‘D’ye think Daddy looks nice?’ he asked softly, brushing her tousled hair from her eyes.
‘Oh, ye look lovely, Daddy. Ye’ll have to be careful ye don’t get your nice clothes dirty at work.’ She put a tiny hand on his cheek and rubbed it. ‘Ye’re not all scratchy today.’ His breath caught at the soft sweetness of her. ‘Oh, Erin.’ He hugged her tightly making her squeal in discomfort. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt ye – not just now but all the times. I’ve not been meself since your mammy died. An’ I couldn’t bear to look at ye; not because I didn’t love ye – I do – but ’twas ’cause ye reminded me so much of her. D’ye see?’
The child nodded solemnly. ‘But ye’re better now?’
He kissed her and swung her up in the air. ‘I am. I’m much better now. An’ I’m gonna make it up to ye, I promise.’ He dropped her gently back to the ground.
Erin, delighted at the change in him, scampered off to tell Aunt Molly he was on his way. Her skinny legs carried her into the Flaherty house, where Molly grinned at her breathless arrival, guessing that Pat had made it up with his daughter at last. It had taken a long time, and who knew what scars it had left, but the child was happy again and that was enough for the present. With a bit of luck, now that he had more or less returned to his old self, Patrick might find himself another wife and the child could return to her own home. Not that Molly minded looking after her – Pat paid for her keep and what difference did one more make – but all said and done the child’s place was with her own family.
Patrick’s head appeared round the door. ‘I’ve not time for a cup o’ tea, Molly, I’d best be straight off to work.’
‘Ah, sure you’re that busy preenin’ yourself these days ye don’t leave any time for eatin’. Ye’ll have to be more careful or ye’ll be fainting on her.’
‘Who?’
‘Ah, stop codding! ’Tis a woman ye’ve got hidden away somewhere. Joseph!’ she shouted to a half-naked youngster. ‘Stop swingin’ that knife about else somebody’ll be walkin’ about with no legs.’
‘Woman?’ said Patrick. ‘Sure, what woman in her right mind would take me?’
‘There’s one here,’ answered Molly saucily.
‘Sure, I’m not man enough for you, Molly.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Anyway, I haven’t the time, I’ll be late for work.’
‘Ye’re just trying to wriggle out of it,’ shouted Molly as he disappeared, then, ‘Here, wait a moment!’ She hurried after him with an oblong package, shoving it roughly into his bag. ‘That’s for to eat with your break.’
He smiled down at her, looking healthier than he had for a long time, she thought. His eyes were shining, black hair neatly brushed. ‘I want to thank ye, Molly,’ he blurted out suddenly.
‘’Tis only a bit o’ bread an’ butter for God’s sake.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about as well you’re aware. I don’t know where I’d’ve been without you an’ Jimmy – all of yese. These past years have been hell. I sometimes thought I was going mad.’
‘Didn’t I get to thinking the same?’ replied Molly, her arms crossed over her bulging abdomen.
‘Will ye not take me seriously? I’m tryin’ to thank ye.’
‘Ah, away with ye, ye’ll be late for work,’ said Molly gruffly. ‘I don’t want your thanks. I’d do it for anybody, so I would.’
‘I know that, Molly,’ he persisted. ‘I just want ye to know if there’s anything I can do to repay ye…’
She shoved him towards the alley. ‘Yes, there is. Ye can find yourself a good Catholic girl who’ll be willing to take this child o’ yours off me hands; ’tis beginning to look like a baby farm here.’ She gave a wink at Erin who smiled. She was used to Molly’s rough talk and knew it was not to be taken seriously.
Patrick waved cheerfully as he vanished into the alley, feeling rejuvenated and full of excitement. His late arrival at work was greeted by catcalls and whistles.
‘S’truth, look at Beau Brummel ’ere,’ shouted John. ‘Thinks he’s gonna impress that fancy piece at cake shop.’ He took hold of Patrick’s shirt with a dainty thumb and forefinger. ‘Yer’ll not get anywhere with her, Demick; she don’t look at any fella unless he’s wearin’ gold-lined clouts.’
‘Can’t a fella look smart without y’all thinking he’s after some woman?’ Patrick took his pick from the lock-up.
‘Yer must think we’re dummies,’ laughed John. ‘Don’t think I ’aven’t noticed yer creepin’ off to cake shop every five minutes. Yer’ve eaten enough o’ them pies to feed a bloody army this past week. They’re puttin’ a right kite on yer.’
‘You’re only jealous ’cause she’d not have any truck with a jackeen like you.’ Patrick swung his pick viciously at the ground.
John leaned on a spade. ‘So, it is her yer after then?’ Patrick gave no answer. ‘She’ll not ’ave yer. I had a go at her meself t’other day; she told me where to go.’
‘An’ ye’re surprised?’ grunted Patrick, hacking away at the ground. ‘Anyway, I’ll thank ye to keep away from my woman.’
John hooted. ‘Hah, listen to it! His woman, he says.’ Still laughing he went off to his bricklaying.
The morning wore on amid a strenuous bashing and digging, swearing and laughing as the men persistently tormented Patrick. The sun peeped over the rows of grimy buildings, bringing a fresh layer of moisture to his brow and making him hot and bad-tempered. He threw down the pick and straightened his back, feeling the dampness of his new shirt. He was a fool to have kept it on; it would smell; that would impress no one. Time for a breather anyway. Without addressing his companions he wiped his hands on a rag and made his way over the road to the cake shop.
John shook his head as he watched the Irishman cross the road, dodging the horse-drawn traffic with a spring in his step.
‘Don’t be pinchin’ t’cherries off her buns!’
His jocular shout reached Patrick who raised a middle finger in a gesture of insolence. The bricklayer gave a dirty laugh and went to speak with the others.
Once inside the cake shop. Patrick approached the counter, trying to look confident. ‘Could I be after havin’ one o them pies, please?’
Thomasin felt herself blushing – an unusual occurrence as she was normally in command of a situation. She felt his eyes boring into her as she selected the biggest pie and wrapped it. Every day for the past week they had enacted the same roles; he asked for the pie, she handed it over with a ‘thank you very much, sir’. It seemed the question she wanted to hear would never come.
Patrick stared at her adoringly. She was so… so full of colour – vibrant, effervescent. He could almost feel the aliveness of her. Just as it had on previous encounters his courage failed him. How could he ever have thought to ask her? What had he to offer? Taking the pie he dropped his eyes from her face and, putting his money on the counter, was about to leave. This was costing a fortune.
‘Look, this is gettin’ a bit ridiculous, don’t yer think?’
He turned at Thomasin’s words. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, are yer gonna ask me or aren’t yer? Yer’ve been comin’ in ’ere every day; we both know what for – an’ it’s not meat pies.’
‘Now wait a minute.’
‘Well, I ’ad to say summat, didn’t I? If I’d left it to you we’d’ve got nowhere.’
‘Who says I want to get anywhere?’ asked Patrick coldly.
‘The Irish aren’t always so shy. I know yer fancy me.’
Patrick showed amazement. The forward madam! ‘Listen, if I’ve anything to say to ye I’ll say it – all right? But I haven’t.’
Thomasin was undeterred. ‘Oh, no? Yer just like to undress people wi’ yer eyes, d’yer?’
Patrick’s heart sank; she was not living up to her image. He became annoyed. ‘Now listen, ye may be right when ye said I was interested in ye, but that was before I was better informed as to your characte
r. The reason I haven’t said anything was because I thought ye were a lady an’ wouldn’t be interested in the likes o’ me. I can see now I was wrong – you’re no lady.’
‘Why, you ignorant bloody spud-basher!’ She picked up the nearest thing to hand and hurled it at his retreating back. The trifle decorated his checked shirt with cream and jelly, much to the amusement of his friends who cheered and clapped the spectacle in noisy appreciation.
‘Oh, the joys of love are sweet,’ trilled John, mincing along with his hand on his hip as Patrick attempted to scrape off the offending mess.
The Irishman growled and stormed off to find a quiet corner.
John cupped his ear. ‘What was that – rollocks? Yer can’t use language like that in front o’ these innocent young lads.’ He turned to his mates. ‘Right, hand it over.’
His companions made wry faces and dug into their pockets, handing over their threepences into John’s grimy hand. ‘Wharrabout you, Ghostie?’ asked John. ‘Away, cough up.’
‘Could I give it ye on payday?’ pleaded Ghostie, who today was looking sicker than ever at having lost the wager. ‘’Tis a bit short I am.’
‘Yer always short – especially in the arms.’ John tutted. ‘Oh, go on, I suppose it’ll do on Sat’day.’ He put the rest of the coins in his pocket. ‘I told yer, didn’t I? I said she’d ’ave nowt to do wi’ him, but would yer listen?’ He shook his head. ‘I feel sorta guilty about tekkin’ yer money.’
‘Not guilty enough to give us it back, though,’ replied one of them.
‘Well, I reckon yer’ve learned a valuable lesson today, Ronnie. Yer know what they say about a fool an’ his money.’ He looked over to where Patrick bit savagely into his meat pie. ‘An’ yer can tek comfort in t’fact that yer not the only fools around ’ere. Look at yon. Fancy workin’ yerself up into a state like that over a woman. He’s biggest fool o’ lotta yer.’
A Long Way from Heaven Page 14
