‘Is that all I’m good for then?’ A seductive glance as she left the table.
His meal finished, he leaned back in his chair rubbing his belly. ‘Well, as they say, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Maybe I’ll sample a little piece later on.’ The suggestiveness of his tone provoked a grin.
Erin, tired of being either chastised or ignored, pushed away her plate and without a word left the room. It seemed to her that all of her father’s love was directed at Thomasin, leaving none for her. He was punishing her for rejecting the interloper as her mother. She trudged sadly up the stairs and into her own room. Even though it was nice to have somewhere private, she missed the warmth of the Flaherty girls at night, sleeping alone on the small, lumpy mattress. Closing the door, she listened for any movement on the stairs, then, satisfied that she would not be disturbed, she pried up the loose floorboard and reached inside. Her fingers touched the cool face and she lifted the doll from its hiding place. She wondered if Thomasin had noticed it missing from the cupboard downstairs. The temptation had been too strong.
‘Come and sit here, Mary, and I’ll tell ye a story.’ She shook the creases out of the doll’s blue gown, smoothing the skirts into position and propped it against the wall. ‘Now, if you’re a good girl I might let ye listen to me harp,’ she informed the doll, which stared back with sightless eyes. ‘But if you’re naughty,’ she wagged a grubby finger, ‘the gombeen men will come an’ get ye.’ She had no idea what a gombeen man was, but it must be pretty awful, for hadn’t her mother threatened her with the same fate?
‘Right, Mary, pay attention. This is a song about a great king of Ireland, that’s where we come from, his name was Brian Boru.’
The light, airy chords sprang forth, lifting some of the loneliness from her heart. Whenever it was close to her, she felt her mother’s presence.
Downstairs Patrick cocked his ear at the sound of her music. ‘She’s really taken to that thing hasn’t she?’
Thomasin sighed. ‘Aye, I wish I could say the same for me.’
‘’Tis still as bad with the two of ye?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried my damndest to fetch her out of herself but she just won’t take to me.’
‘Does it upset ye?’
‘Well, course it does,’ she cried. ‘What do yer think I’m made of?’ She brushed off his apology. ‘It’s all right, I think it bothers me more for her sake than for mine. It can’t be doin’ her any good, an’ I think what’s upsettin’ her most is that she thinks I’ve taken yer away from her. You’re sometimes very hard on her yer know. Like just now. An’ it allus seems to be me what’s in the middle o’ things. I know yer ’aven’t ’ad much time lately, but I think yer should try to make time, after all she is yer daughter. Go tell her a story or summat while I get cleared up.’
Patrick wrapped strong arms about her. ‘D’ye really think that’s what’s going through her mind?’
‘I know it is.’
‘I didn’t realise ’twas as bad as that – so ye think I oughta go an’ spend some time with her, d’ye?’
‘Patrick Feeney, are them two baps yer’ve got stuck on t’side o’ yer head? I just said so, didn’t I? Now tear yerself away from me an’ get upstairs.’
‘I will.’ He saluted and went towards the staircase. ‘But I’m also goin’ to have a serious talk with her. It can’t go on like this. I’ll not have you upset.’
‘Not too serious though, eh?’ she begged. ‘Yer might make things worse.’
Patrick’s foot caught at a loose stair and immediately the music stopped.
‘Don’t let me interrupt ye, darlin’,’ he told Erin, poking his face around her door. ‘I like to listen to ye play. Sure, you’re going to be a fine musician one o’ these days.’
Erin bit her lip. ‘I don’t feel like playin’ any more.’
He sat beside her, back against wall. ‘Why’s that, my pet?’
She hesitated for a moment, then asked in a tiny, quivering voice, ‘Why don’t ye love me any more, Daddy?’
If she had physically struck him it would not have compared with the pain he now experienced. ‘Aw, Erin! Erin, darlin’ I do love ye, I do.’ He gathered her up into a tight embrace, fighting to keep the tears at bay. ‘Ah, God, Erin, what makes ye say such a thing? Have I ever said I didn’t love ye?’ He stroked her hair roughly as she wept into his chest. ‘Ye think that Thomasin has taken your place in me heart?’
‘She’s taken Mammy’s place,’ sniffed Erin.
‘Nobody can take your mammy’s place, Erin,’ he said firmly. ‘Not even Thomasin – even if she wanted to. Ye know that, don’t ye?’ His calloused hand smoothed the black curls from her brow. ‘You loved her an’ I loved her, but she’s gone now, nothing’s going to bring her back, and she wouldn’t like it if she could see the way you’re carryin’ on – an’ she can, ye know, she’s up there with the angels watchin’ over ye an’ she knows that ye still love her. But she also knows that ye need a new mammy to take care o’ ye. Ah, I know,’ he nodded, silencing her interjection, ‘you’re going to tell me ye’ve got Granny an’ Aunt Molly – but they don’t belong to me, Erin. A man needs a wife – ye won’t understand that now but ye will when ye get older – not somebody who cooks his meals then goes back home to her own family. I need someone who’s there all the time; someone to love me.’
‘But I love ye, Daddy.’ The plaintive voice was a knife thrust. How could you explain to a five year old child that her love was not enough?
‘I know ye do, darlin’,’ he whispered, kissing her soft cheek. ‘An’ I love you too. But so does Thomasin, can ye understand that? She isn’t trying to take me away from ye, she wants to love the both of us.’
Erin was torn in half. On the one hand she was desperately in need of female affection, for even though she had Bridie and Molly, theirs was not the same as a mother’s love. On the other hand she still felt that it would be disloyal to her mother’s memory, whatever her father might say to the contrary. If she could only reach a compromise.
She finally decided. ‘All right, I’ll try an’ like her, Daddy, but just for your sake, do you understand?’
‘Aye, I understand,’ replied Patrick quietly.
Her hand reached out and pulled the doll from under the mattress where she had hastily shoved it on his entry to her room. Patrick made no comment as she hugged it to her chest.
‘Come on,’ he whispered softly. ‘Let’s get ye ready for bed, then Daddy’ll tell ye a nice, long story.’
* * *
Later, with the pots washed and replaced in the cupboard, Thomasin sat on the rug, leaning against Patrick’s legs. Her long, auburn hair flowed over his lap as she pillowed her head there. The wide mouth curved in a secretive smile as she awaited the right moment to break her news. He stroked her hair and stared pensively into the fire.
‘Pat?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’ve got another birthday present for yer.’ She did not look at him.
‘Another? Sure I’m a lucky fella today. Is it as good as the one I got this mornin’?’
‘Better,’ she smiled.
‘Then it must be something special.’ He looked around the room. ‘Where is it then?’
Only now she lifted her face to meet his, touching her stomach as she spoke. ‘In here.’
His hand stopped its stroking. ‘Ye mean…?’
She nodded, anxiously awaiting his approval.
And there it was. His eyes sparkled in the darkened room, outshining the candlelight. The smiling mouth opened to speak but paused, unsure of what to say. What words were adequate at a time like this? He had thought never to encounter such joy again when he had learned of the conception of his firstborn, assuming it to be a once in a lifetime experience, the thrill of finding oneself a parent for the first time. Yet here was that same feeling rising in his breast, the mixture of love and achievement. Tenderly he cupped her small face in his rough hands.
‘God, I do
love ye, ye red-haired demon.’
The light kisses that he gave her became more insistent and she returned them with equal fervour. Her fingers began to struggle with the buttons on his shirt. The feel of his smooth, warm skin made her shiver in anticipation and a feeling of urgency surged over her as she directed his hand inside her bodice.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ murmured Patrick through the web of her hair, sending ripples of pleasure down her spine.
But she refused, saying, ‘No, let’s do it in front of the fire tonight. It’s a celebration, let’s go mad.’
He shrugged off his shirt as Thomasin rapidly undressed and leaned towards him. His belt buckle proved more difficult than the shirt buttons and she had to sit back impatiently while he did it himself. Soon, his hard body made contact with hers. Together they sank to the floor in a clumsy embrace, caressing and kissing as they lay down. The flame of the candle fluttered, casting dancing shadows on the stark walls. Raindrops began to tap at the window, but the sound was lost to them as their bodies united. Faster, faster fell the rain as though attempting to keep pace with their increasing rhythm, rising to a wild reverberation and culminating in a tremendous roar of thunder, drowning the cry that escaped her lips, seconds before his own climax.
The dying fire hissed its annoyance at the drops of water that invaded its territory. Rain cascaded relentlessly outside, but they were oblivious to its presence. Their bodies were still joined in love, his head cushioned on the white breast. She took a deep breath, arching her body and forcing him to support himself on his elbows, looking down at her rosy face. He bent and kissed her nose. Not satisfied, his mouth made frequent contact with her cheeks and lips, as if to devour her. She offered halfhearted objections, feeling him harden and pulsate within her.
‘Haven’t you had enough?’
‘That’s rich coming from you.’ His laughing reply infected her and she pulled his face down to her breast, making a crescent of her body to join every part of it with his. The dance of passion began again.
So wrapped up were they in each other that the draught from the open door failed to alert them. The little intruder stared, fascinated and unnoticed, watching their bodies seek satisfaction, her eyes becoming even wider as he began his violent thrusting.
Erin observed for a few, quiet seconds, then closed the door gently behind her and went back to bed. The rain that had awoken her had subsided. She wondered what Thomasin had done to so incur her father’s wrath. He must have been really angry to punish her so hard. A half-smile of satisfaction crept into her face. Perhaps he did not love Thomasin as much as her after all, because he never punished her like that. Funny though, she thought sleepily as she snuggled up under the blankets, funny that he had to take all his clothes off to do it.
Chapter Twenty-one
The months crawled, frustrating Thomasin’s impatient longing for motherhood. She wondered if her mother would feel any differently towards the child when it was born, for she had shown little interest up till now apart from saying that she would be present to assist at the birth. When Patrick had suggested that Molly act as midwife Mother had gone up in the air. Thomasin often despaired of the relationship between her mother and Patrick. Hannah would not even try to like him, belittling all his efforts to improve life for them. Had she known the source of some of their home comforts there would have been more reproof. By, he was a lad was that John, thought Thomasin, always rolling up with joints of meat, odds and ends for the house. The Lord – or the Devil – knew where they came from. Patrick, poor innocent soul that he was, seemed to attach nothing sinister to these gifts. Well, Thomasin wasn’t going to be the one to put him right, although she did sometimes give John a ticking off if the ‘gift’ he brought was too extravagant. She wished that his powers would extend to magicking this baby into being. Oh, if only this dratted bulge would turn into a child.
Not until Christmas did she begin to visualise an end to her waiting. Why then, she could not say. It was just the way she felt when she awoke that morning. Her eyes opened tentatively, blinking in bewilderment as she studied the window. There were lace curtains where there had been none the night before. It was some seconds before she realised that the delicate filigree of fern and feather was composed not of lace but of frost. Her breath shone white upon the air as she studied the cracked ceiling, gathering up the strength to lift her weighty body from the bed.
Her husband turned to ask if she wanted assistance and when she nodded pathetically he leapt up and grabbed hold of her hands. ‘Holy Mother o’ God, we’ll be wanting a winch if ye get any bigger.’
She gave him a look of pure loathing. ‘What’s up wi’ you any road? Yer normally need gunpowder to shift yer from bed, an’ ’ere y’are up at crack o’ dawn.’
‘Ah well, I have to look after me little wife, have I not – or me big wife, should I say. I can’t be havin’ ye stuck in bed all day when I’m wantin’ me breakfast. Anyways, I couldn’t sleep, I kept dreaming this elephant was squashin’ the life out o’ me.’
‘You’re lookin’ for a clipped ear’ole.’
The cold December air sent a tremor through her naked body as, hastily, she wobbled over the room to get her clothes. Pulling aside a curtain she selected a drab woollen creation that had been altered to fit her increasing girth. Cursing at her ill-fitting underclothes she finally succeeded in pulling them on and over them the drab frock. Fastening her buttons she turned to address her husband who was hastily dragging on his own garments.
‘Merry Christmas, Pat.’ She moved heavily towards him, delivering a kiss to the bristly cheek.
‘A merry Christmas, Tommy.’ He returned the kiss. ‘Our first together. I’m sorry ’twon’t be all that festive.’ He reached for his jacket which was slung over the end of the bed and thrust a hand into its pocket, searching for something. His fingers closed around the small package and withdrawing it he held it out to her.
‘For me?’
‘Don’t sound as though ye weren’t expecting anything.’
‘Aye, you’d’ve been for it if yer’d bought me nowt.’ Her face lit up as she took the gift then, before opening it, ducked behind the curtain once more, emerging with a gift of her own. ‘Here y’are, open yours first.’
Patrick tore off the paper and lifted out a pair of grey woollen stockings. ‘Elegant stuff, just what I need,’ he told her. ‘Thank ye kindly. Can I put them on now?’
She nodded and he bent to pull off his old, darned ones, replacing them with the new while she unwrapped his gift to her. He looked up at her cry of wonder.
‘Oh, Pat, it’s beautiful.’ She took the tiny silver locket from its box, feeling the cold metal on the palm of her hand. The tears sprang to her eyes. ‘But yer shouldn’t go spendin’ all yer money on me. Yer must’ve saved up ages for that and yer know yer can’t really afford it. Why d’yer do it?’
‘’T wouldn’t matter if I spent every penny I had,’ he replied. ‘It still wouldn’t be as much as ye deserve, putting up with the likes o’ me. Anyway, ’twas worth every penny just to see your face.’
‘God, yer’ve made me feel so guilty now, only givin’ yer a pair o’ stockings.’
A finger to her lips stopped her self-recriminations. ‘They’re the best present ye could’ve given me,’ he said softly. ‘I never had a pair o’ stockings made with so much love – d’ye think I don’t know how much ye hate knitting, haven’t ye told me often enough? Yet ye spent all that time making these for me.’
She hugged him in gratitude and turned to the door as Erin burst in, face aglow with excitement.
‘Look what I do be gettin’!’ she bubbled, showing them the apple, orange and small packet of lovehearts that they had placed at the foot of her bed. ‘Can I eat them now?’
Patrick laughed and ruffled her already tousled curls. ‘Ye’d best ask the gaffer.’ He gestured at Thomasin who refused at first, saying they would spoil the girl’s breakfast then, seeing the resentment creep into the girl’s face,
she relented.
‘Oh… go on then.’ She laughed as Erin bit into the orange without taking off the peel. ‘Here, let me do it,’ but Erin had fled to her own room. Thomasin sighed. Would she ever truly find a place in Erin’s heart?
Downstairs, Patrick raked out the ashes, a task usually undertaken by Thomasin who now found the job impossible. He then laid a fire. His wife buttered some bread and took some bacon from the cupboard, throwing it into the pan while she waited for the fire to establish itself. Apart from the gifts it would be hard to distinguish Christmas from any other day of the year. No smell of roast beef – the traditional dinner of the North — would invade their kitchen to set mouths watering. The recent bad weather had called a halt to building work and Patrick had found the effect on his wages had put paid to any lavish festivities. Thomasin’s savings had run out long ago and she would not demean Patrick by asking her parents for financial help. But they had each other, and their friends.
Liam called whilst they were breakfasting, presenting Erin with her first rosary and demanding to know what Patrick was doing here eating when he should be saving that till after church. The Irishman was still no closer to the faith, but that did not seem to matter to Liam and he sat there talking with them for quite a while.
Shortly after the priest’s departure John called. ‘Top o’ the mornin’, Patrick,’ he shouted through the crack of door, giving a poor imitation of an Irish brogue.
‘My, we’re certainly popular today.’ Patrick ushered his pal into the kitchen. ‘Come on, come on, let’s be keepin’ the cold where it belongs.’ He eyed the parcel under John’s arm. ‘What’s that ye’ve got there?’
John placed the object on the table and stood back smugly. Giving the impersonation of a conjurer he went through his paces. Indicating nothing up his sleeves he held his arms wide, telling his audience, ‘Observe.’ With pronounced movements he took hold of a corner of the newspaper and proceeded to reveal the parcel’s contents. Leaving the last layer intact he held them in suspense until, with the flick of a wrist, he whipped it away. ‘Da-da!’
A Long Way from Heaven Page 20
