A Long Way from Heaven

by A Long Way from Heaven (retail) (epub)

  ‘I’m not,’ announced Raper. ‘Not concerned in the bloody least. I couldn’t give the bloody Pope’s balls if you lot all dropped dead, the more the better, I say. Vermin should be exterminated.’

  ‘Why, did ye hear that?’ ejaculated Molly. ‘Jimmy, are ye goin’ to stand there an’ let him insult ye? Go give him a pastin’.’

  Thomasin had spotted that Patrick’s jaw had set into a dangerous angle and stepped between him and the butcher. ‘Look, can’t yer sort this out without all this bawlin’?’

  ‘Oh, got yer bloody dollymop to fight yer battle, ’ave yer?’ scoffed Raper, crossing his arms, a rather foolish action as it left him quite defenceless.

  ‘I’ll give yer bloody dollymop!’ roared Thomasin and swung the bag at him. With the added ballast of the doll the bag provided a formidable weapon, taking Raper completely off balance and making him stagger backwards to land slap-bang in the middle of a dung heap.

  Thomasin turned furiously to Patrick… then her face relaxed. He was shaking with merriment, throwing back his head and booming with laughter. To her astonishment he was not the only one. She peered round him at Molly whose grimy face was wreathed in amusement, the slitty eyes had almost disappeared, the bony hands clasped to splitting sides. Jimmy, too, was enjoying Raper’s discomfiture; he chuckled bronchially, then nudged his wife and winked at Thomasin.

  Molly wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve and came to stand beside the red-haired woman, still laughing as Raper vanished into his abattoir with: ‘I’ll ’ave you buggers one o’ these days.’

  ‘How could I ever o’ thought ye were English?’ she asked a bemused Thomasin. ‘Sure, the way ye sorted that varmint there’s got to be a drop of Irish blood in ye somewhere.’

  Thomasin grinned, assuming this to be a compliment. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Flaherty, though it’s kind o’ yer to say so.’

  ‘Ah, less o’ the Mrs Flaherty.’ Molly laced a dirty mitt through her new friend’s arm. ‘’Tis Molly to me friends, an’ anybody that can get the better of old Porkface is a friend o’ mine. Would ye like to come back in for another cup o’ tea an’ some bread an’ butter?’ She saw the other’s mouth twitch. ‘Ah sure, I’ll give ye fresh this time. I only put the stale out for I thought ye were all stuck up ’cause o’ the way ye’re dressed.’

  Thomasin looked down at her outfit. It had been a mistake to wear it, but she had little guessed she would be stepping into such poverty. Small wonder Molly had been hostile. She declined the offer, explaining, ‘We’d best not, we’re meant to be going to visit me parents – but I’d like to come for a cup o’ tea another day if that’s all right?’

  ‘Any time, pet, any time,’ sang Molly. ‘Oh, an’ when ye find yourself wantin’ a midwife, Molly’s the one to send for.’

  Thomasin laughed and looked at Patrick. ‘Well, I don’t think I’ll be needin’ one this week, but thanks for the offer.’

  Molly returned to her house and Thomasin looked uncomfortably at Patrick. ‘Pat, I don’t really know how to put this – whatever I say it’ll sound as if I’m pickin’ fault — but here goes: d’yer think I could give Erin a bath before we take ’er to meet me parents?’

  ‘A bath?’ Patrick looked to where his daughter played ring o’ roses amongst the dung heaps and saw her as Thomasin must see her: a dirty ragamuffin with lice abounding in the haystack of hair. ‘Jazers, Tommy I see what ye mean, she’s not exactly fit to meet anyone, is she?’ He summoned the child over and chucked her under the chin.

  ‘Come in the house, Erin.’ He took his daughter’s hand. ‘Let’s get ye tidied up before we go for our walk.’

  Thomasin trailed after them. ‘Where’s yer bath?’ She unfastened her bonnet and looked around for a clean surface on which to lay it, then instead hung it on a hook that protruded from the back of the door.

  Patrick pointed to a tin bath which Thomasin dragged before the fire.

  ‘Get me some pans an’ we’ll heat water. Ee, wait on, let me just ’ave a look in me bag t’see if that doll’s still in one piece.’ She opened the bag. ‘Ah, yes no damage done – only to Raper’s head.’ She laughed and held out the doll again to Erin, who swung her shoulders round in mute antagonism. ‘Ah well, maybe yer might change yer mind later,’ sighed Thomasin, then began to roll up her sleeves.

  Erin’s apprehension grew as the water was tipped into the tin bath and Thomasin advanced on her. The child clamped her arms round her father’s long legs.

  ‘I’m not gonna bite yer,’ soothed Thomasin. ‘But we can’t bath yer wi’ yer clothes on.’

  ‘Daddy!’ shrieked Erin and ran up and down on the spot in a panic.

  Thomasin sighed. ‘All right, if yer don’t want me to do it yer daddy’ll ’ave to ’cause yer needn’t think yer comin’ out with us lookin’ like a bag o’ rags.’

  ‘I don’t want to come with you,’ cried Erin. ‘I don’t like ye.’

  ‘Erin!’ Patrick gripped her shoulders and shook her. ‘Say ye’re sorry to Thomasin.’

  ‘I’m not sorry. I don’t like her,’ Erin sobbed.

  Patrick was about to reprove her once more than Thomasin stepped in.

  ‘Don’t, Pat,’ she mouthed. ‘It’s only natural. I’m a stranger to ’er, she don’t want me seein’ ’er wi’ no clothes on, d’yer, love?’ She put out a sympathetic hand to Erin who ignored it. ‘You get ’er ready an’ put ’er in t’bath. I’ll just nip out for some soap, there’s bound to be a shop open somewhere.’

  An hour later Erin looked like a different child, and the bathwater had an inch of silt at the bottom. Those lumps of hair which had been so matted that they had defied the comb had been trimmed away and the hair now hung, damply obedient, over Erin’s shoulders. Her face was as clean as a newborn piglet’s and her nails no longer capable of growing potatoes. It was a pity that the child did not have another set of clothes to change into, for the drab little pinafore she had worn before was soiled and creased.

  Thomasin stood back to inspect the finished result. ‘There, don’t yer feel much better for bein’ clean?’ she asked brightly.

  Erin scowled.

  ‘Mm, yer just need somethin’ to brighten yer dress up.’ Thomasin chewed on a fingernail. ‘I know!’ She undid the sash from her own waist. ‘If I cut a bit off ’ere it’ll make a lovely ribbon for yer hair.’

  ‘But ye’ll spoil it,’ objected Patrick.

  ‘Nay, nowt’s too good for our Erin, is it, love? Pass us them scissors will yer, Pat?’

  ‘There,’ said Thomasin, clipping off a length of the sash and fastening the remainder around Erin’s hair. ‘That looks lovely, don’t it, Daddy?’

  ‘He’s not your Daddy!’ Erin ripped off the ribbon and flung it to the floor where she danced upon it.

  ‘Mm, what are you gonna be if yer grow up, love?’ muttered Thomasin to herself, then to Patrick, who had raised his hand to strike the girl, ‘No, don’t! It don’t matter, honest, she didn’t mean it.’

  Patrick and Erin glared at each other, both knowing that this was far from the truth.

  ‘Any road, come on,’ said Thomasin in an attempt to pacify. ‘I thought we were off to see this new house of ours?’

  ‘So we are.’ Patrick, with a defiant glare for his daughter, caught the child’s hand.

  Although situated in another of Walmgate’s many courtyards this place could hardly be grouped with Patrick’s present address. The yard, though unpaved, was relatively clean and instead of ashpits and middens outside each door these were restricted to one corner of the yard. Two closets served the area, both amazingly clean, and the absence of an abattoir meant that access to one’s entrance was not moated by blood. The house itself was bigger, having two rooms up and two down. The previous occupants had apparently taken great pride in their dwelling as there was not a speck of dust and the walls lacked the damp patches that plagued so many of these houses.

  None of these agreeable points suited Erin who moaned constantly that she would be
away from Aunt Molly and Granny and refused to say anything in its favour. ‘I want to go home now,’ she said decisively when they exited.

  ‘Thomasin’s kindly invited us to supper,’ her father informed her.

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  He stopped and whispered. ‘Erin Feeney, ’tis lookin’ for a striped backside y’are,’ then beamed at Thomasin. ‘I’m sure we’re both going to enjoy it greatly.’

  * * *

  The dazzlingly-white cloth floated down to cover the table and Hannah smoothed out the creases. Out came the best china, the only marring feature being the lidless teapot. It had grown quite dark outside, much to Hannah’s relief. She made nervous, last-minute inspections of the table and room, then started as the door to the street was opened.

  ‘Oh, William, that will be them!’ She began to pace this way and that.

  ‘I don’t know what tha’s gerrin’ thissen all wound up for,’ said William calmly. ‘He’s only a peasant like us, not one o’ thy plumgobbed in-laws.’

  ‘Typical,’ hissed Hannah. ‘Typical.’ She spun round as the parlour door opened. ‘Oh, our Thomasin what a surprise.’

  Thomasin caught her father’s eye, smiled then introduced Patrick to Hannah who perused the tall, handsome man before her and found him more expensively dressed than she had anticipated.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Feeney?’

  ‘Charmed, Mrs Fenton, charmed.’ Patrick bowed low over Hannah’s outstretched fingers. ‘Your daughter has told me so much about ye, but she omitted to mention your beauty.’

  Hannah laughed simperingly. ‘Oh, Mr Feeney, you flatter me, I think.’ The man was obviously a much better prospect than she had supposed and his manners were faultless. ‘Thomasin has told us so much about you too,’ she added as an afterthought.

  Patrick smiled at his Intended. ‘All good, I hope?-’

  ‘Of course.’ Hannah took his hat, then peered around him as if looking for something. ‘Thomasin, I understood Mr Feeney was bringing his daughter?’

  ‘Oh, Patrick please,’ insisted the Irishman. ‘After all, with your kind permission I am to be part of the family.’ He looked for his daughter who had lingered at the outside door. ‘Erin, come in, child.’

  If Hannah’s hopes about Patrick’s prosperity had been escalated at their meeting the appearance of his daughter dashed them to smithereens. She looked aghast from the smartly-dressed man to the ragged child, her disapproval evident. The girl was positively destitute; just look at that moth-eaten dress. Thomasin’s heart sank as she watched her mother’s face and realised that all her efforts had been wasted.

  ‘Come on in, love an’ ’ave summat to eat,’ she softly instructed the child.

  All Hannah’s politeness vanished. ‘You may as well sit down,’ she said abruptly. There was little point in wasting niceties on these two.

  ‘I find it somewhat remiss of you, Mr Feeney,’ she said coldly, ‘that you did not see fit to attire your daughter to the same standards as yourself for our meeting.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fenton,’ replied her guest. ‘I would have done so had she owned another set of clothes.’

  Hannah was astounded. ‘You can sit there in your finery and tell me that your daughter has only the rags she stands up in?’

  Patrick looked uncomfortably at William who had not yet spoken. ‘I know it sounds a poor excuse but had I known she’d be in such illustrious company I should’ve purchased more suitable clothes for her.’ He tugged at his own suit. ‘I know how it must appear – that I put myself before my child – but believe me it was only because I couldn’t possibly have visited you in my everyday working clothes. It grieves me to admit it but after the wedding these will have to be returned to the pawnshop.’

  ‘So, you sought to impress us with your finery,’ condemned Hannah. ‘Leading us to believe that you were a gentleman.’

  ‘Mother!’ objected Thomasin, wishing she had warned Patrick that one was not allowed to be open and honest in this house.

  Patrick held up his hand to stay the interruption. ‘No, Mrs Fenton I did not wish to mislead anyone into thinking I was other than what I am. I’m not ashamed of my background. My intentions were merely founded on good manners, which I had hoped might be returned.’ He looked past her to her husband who now approached the table. ‘I believe we’ve yet to be introduced, sir?’

  William leaned across his blushing wife and shook hands with Patrick who had risen. ‘Nay, don’t mind me, lad. I come last in this ’ouse. She usually keeps me locked up when we ’ave visitors in case I show ’er up.’ Without ceremony he seated himself at the table and turned to his wife. ‘Well, are we gonna sit ’ere an’ look at it all neet — or are we gonna eat it?’

  Patrick, sitting also, attempted more flattery. ‘I must say, Mrs Fenton that pie looks particularly edible.’

  Hannah gave Patrick a withering stare, making him feel more uncomfortable than ever, and passed him a plate laden with minute sandwiches. He had begun to sweat. His collar was chafing and the trousers were proving much too tight for comfort now that he was sitting. He thanked Hannah politely and took a sandwich. What a dragon.

  Thomasin relieved her mother of the plate and offered it to Erin who shook her head and stared down at the table, though the sight of all this food provoked terrible hunger. At least the ginger-haired woman had seemed to like her, but this other one openly detested her; that was plain from the disdainful glances Hannah kept shooting at her.

  Thomasin placed a piece of cake on Erin’s plate without giving her the chance to refuse. ‘Get that down yer. No wonder yer so skinny.’

  Erin nibbled sullenly and though she found it absolutely delicious she would not have dreamed of informing the hoity-toity one who had probably made it.

  Patrick, his own taste buds a-tingle, was about to place the whole sandwich in his mouth, then caught Hannah’s look of repugnance and delicately nipped off one of the corners.

  Thomasin narrowed her eyes at her mother and issued a mental warning — be nice to him, or else. Hannah pursed her lips and began to pour the tea. She supposed that she should show some form of politeness. ‘Have you set a wedding date yet, Mr Feeney?’ She flatly refused to use his Christian name.

  Patrick maintained his well-spoken English. ‘As yet, no. Perhaps when I’ve consulted Father Kelly…’

  ‘Oh!’ Hannah had knocked over her tea cup, staining the spotless cloth and now stared glassily at her guest.

  ‘I’m sorry, have I said something wrong?’ Patrick looked bewilderedly across at William who shook his head.

  ‘Nay, lad it’s just that I think t’wife’s a bit concerned tha’ll be wantin’ our Tommy to convert.’ He put down his cup with a clatter. ‘Stop it, tha soft bugger,’ he berated Hannah who had started to weep. His wife gave a squeak and rushed from the room.

  ‘Eh, I don’t know,’ sighed William. ‘Tommy, go get a whatsit to clean this tea up, lass.’

  Thomasin went to the scullery to fetch a cloth. Whilst William was talking to her father Erin sneaked another piece of cake and crammed it into her mouth.

  ‘Tha’ll ’ave to excuse lass’s mother,’ the man told Patrick. ‘She meant nowt by it, she’s allus bealin’ an’ carryin’ on about summat. She’s just thinkin’ to do best for her lass as she sees it.’

  ‘An’ yourself, Mr Fenton,’ returned Patrick. ‘How d’you stand on this marriage?’

  ‘Will it make any difference to thy plans what I think?’

  ‘No… I’m sorry,’ admitted Patrick.

  ‘Just as well tha said that,’ nodded William satisfiedly. An unusual man, it was not that his other daughters’ husbands weren’t good enough but that they were too good; William detested his other sons-in-law and was delighted that this one did not – as they did – make him feel like muck. ‘Well, lad, thee asked for my opinion so I’ll tell thee: tha seems a nice enough bloke to me. It’s way tha treats my lass, not which foot tha leads with as concerns me. It’s not way a fe
lla preaches but how far apart his eyes are that I use as yardstick; never trusted a bloke whose eyes are too close-set.’

  ‘Should I get my tape-measure out?’ offered his daughter.

  ‘Soft bugger – an’ stop shovin’ that pie down yer neck; gerrit passed round.’

  Patrick then explained to William that Mrs Fenton was worrying needlessly as he did not practise his religion any more. ‘I only mentioned Father Kelly ’cause he’s a personal friend. I didn’t mean he’d be officiatin’ at our weddin’; that’ll have to be in a register office. About the nuptials, I’ve very little saved …’

  William forestalled him, speaking through a section of pie. ‘Nay, that’s our worry, lad. We’re used to forkin’ out what with five lasses. Thee leave it to us. Pass us one o’ them whatdyercallits, Tommy, then go sherrack tha mother. Tell her if she sits blubberin’ up in that bedchamber all neet we’ll have to consider who gets fishin’ rights.’

  ‘Does anyone else want owt to eat before I go?’ asked Thomasin. ‘Erin love, ’ave another piece o’ cake.’ She placed it on the child’s plate. ‘Right, I’ll go persuade ’er to show her face, then.’

  ‘Aye, well don’t try too hard,’ muttered William. ‘This hot pastry’s given me wind an’ I shan’t be able to let go if she’s ’ere.’

  Fifteen minutes later, during which time William and Patrick had come to know each other better, Hannah put in a reluctant appearance. Her husband hoisted his cup. ‘Oh, back to the land of the livin’ esta?’

  Patrick smiled. The man had a comfortable roughness about him. He stood and went towards Hannah. ‘Before we have to leave, Mrs Fenton I’d like to thank ye for the supper, also to explain my remark about the priest, if ye’ll let me.’ He had abandoned his refined speech, deciding that she must take him as he was.

  ‘There’s no need for explanations,’ replied Hannah, still aloof. ‘Thomasin has told me that you no longer practise your faith and though it is a relief to me that my daughter will not have to undergo a conversion I cannot help feeling that one who dismisses his faith so lightly is not to be depended upon. Will you abandon her in the same manner when you have grown tired of her, Mr Feeney?’