Unnecessary though it was to make a closer inspection to derive the fact that John was seriously hurt – if not dead, Patrick rolled onto his knees beside the man. No sound passed the blue swollen lips. His breathing was barely discernible as Patrick touched his chest. Only by putting his cheek close to John’s slightly open mouth did he feel the barest whisper.
Horror and revulsion brought the bile to his throat as he moved John’s head a fraction. The side of his face that had previously been concealed was a grotesque parody of its former self. Glistening splinters of bone jutted from the broken face, laid bare by the cleaved flesh. Even more appalling was the eye that dangled against the broken cheek like a cherry swinging daintily from its stem.
Patrick lurched away and threw up. Steaming, beer-scented vomit shot from his retching throat and he shuddered violently. Conflicting emotions raged inside him as the events of the previous evening returned with painful vengeance. He had felt angry and let down by his friend for involving him in all this, but now the anger was directed solely at the tinker, Fallon. It was understandable that the man had wanted revenge, but did he have to reduce a man to this, for two chickens? Trying to decide what course to take, Patrick wavered for a moment, then stumbled out of the alleyway towards the nearest house. His feet were encased in mortared boots, his body and mind numb. All he wanted was to be home, anywhere but here where he would have to gaze upon that terrible sight. His relentless pounding brought a bleary face to the bedroom window. A woman lifted the sash window and leaned over the sill.
‘What time of morning is this to come banging on my…’ The question remained unanswered. The man below had collapsed in an untidy heap on her doorstep.
Chapter Twenty-two
The dying coals noisily shifted their position, bringing Thomasin awake with a start. She blinked rapidly, attempting to shake the sleep from her head. Over on the table the glob of wax that had been a candle suddenly reached its end and snuffed itself out, filling the room with an unmistakable odour. The chair in which she had spent the night now held her like a vice, refusing to abandon its hold as she heaved her burdened body up. It had not been much of a rest either; this nagging backache had kept her awake half the night.
She raised a hand as the realisation dawned. It was morning and still Patrick was not home. Had he, seeing her sleeping and unwilling to disturb her, crept past and up the stairs? She moved as quickly as her bulk allowed up the tread and opened the bedroom door. The bed was unoccupied, its fine counterpane – a wedding gift from one of her sisters – still lay as smooth and unruffled as it had yesterday. Before she descended she peeped in on Erin who was sleeping soundly. It must be very early, she thought, for there was no sound from their neighbours or from outside. How maddening not to possess a single timepiece – though the time was hardly relevant; that it was morning and Patrick had not returned was cause enough for alarm. She rubbed her aching back, then listened, suddenly alert. Someone was lifting the sneck on the outside door. The absence of a balustrade necessitated resting her hands on the cool wall to steady herself as she negotiated the stairs. The figure had his back to her, attempting to close the door quietly. She reached the last stair as he turned into the room.
‘Oh, my God!’ her cry startled him, revealing more of his injured face.
Gone were the merry, twinkling eyes, hidden somewhere amongst black and swollen flesh. He tried to form a smile but the attempt made the cut on his mouth crack open and a thread of scarlet ran down his chin. Someone had tended his wounds, washing away most of the dirt from his sore face, but still the effect was painful to behold and the tears sprang readily to her eyes. Running to him she threw her arms round his waist, bringing forth a harsh complaint.
‘Oh, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, love.’ She released him quickly.
‘’Tis all right,’ he forgave her as she fussed about him and helped him to a chair. ‘Ye weren’t to know.’
‘What happened, for God’s sake?’ Her worried face searched his.
Patrick related the facts as he remembered them while Thomasin dabbed tenderly at his bloody mouth. ‘I might’ve known!’ she expostulated angrily. ‘Where is the little swine? Let me get me hands on him, I’ll give him what-for, gettin’ you mixed up in his dirty dealin’s.’ She rubbed her back again.
‘Oh no, Tommy,’ he replied bitterly. ‘Ye’d not say that if ye could see what the bastards did to him. Oh, the doctors say he’ll survive, but I’m doubting he’ll be the same man again.’
‘Doctors? He’s in hospital then?’
‘Aye.’ Patrick’s eyes were bright with suppressed rage. ‘I don’t know how he got there though. I remember knocking on somebody’s door for help an’ then I musta fainted, ’cause when I woke up I was at the hospital an’ all, getting these ribs strapped up.’
Thomasin asked about John’s injuries and he told her, sparing her none of the grisly details.
His wife was contrite for her hasty condemnation ofjohn. ‘Oh, the poor little bugger.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Eh, does his family know?’
Patrick moved his head in affirmation. When he had been sent home from hospital his first action had been to call at John’s home, every step of the way trying to think of a way to phrase the bad news. How could you tell a woman that, apart from losing half of his face, her man might never work again? As it transpired, he did not have to. The police had been there before him, having been called to the scene of the fight by the woman on whose door Patrick had chosen to knock for help. They had also wanted to know a few facts about the attack from Patrick, who told them he could not remember anything, for that would mean having to explain about the stolen chickens. Besides, a district such as this had its own law. He would settle the score himself.
John’s wife had been beside herself with grief, though surprisingly her concern was more for the loss of John’s wages than for the man himself.
‘I’ll help ye all I can,’ Patrick had told her, though not a little upset by her apparent lack of concern for her husband’s state of health.
The look which she had shot him had been a mixture of disbelief and contempt. ‘Yer’ll not be in a position to ’elp anybody,’ she flung bitterly. Then taking some of the harshness out of her words had added, ‘But I thank yer for yer concern. Good day.’ She had then turned her back, a gesture of dismissal, and Patrick had let himself out.
Her words had nagged at him on his way home. She was right, how could he hope to help her? Lifting a pick was going to be well nigh impossible for some time. Damn and blast! Fate had dealt another of her cruel blows.
Thomasin’s sudden cry of pain and surprise brought him out of his bitter wanderings. His wife stood clutching her belly, eyes wide open in shock. Leaping up he stifled his own yelp of anguish and went to her side.
‘Is it the baby?’
‘I don’t know… oh, God it must be.’ Erin, awoken by the noise, came to investigate.
‘Erin, get dressed an’ go fetch Aunt Molly,’ commanded Patrick abruptly.
‘What if she’s in bed?’ asked the child fearfully.
‘Drag her out of it – now go!’ The frightened girl dashed upstairs, dressed quickly and ran from the house.
‘Surely it can’t be the baby, ’tis too early.’ Patrick held his wife, feeling useless.
A sudden gush of hot fluid burst from her, soaking her dress. ‘Early or not it’s on its bloody way,’ she gasped, realising now what the backache had been trying to tell her.
She tried to remember how long she had had the ache but failed.
Patrick helped her up the stairs, the pain jarring his side with each step. He tried to make her laugh. ‘God, we’re like a couple o’ bloody cripples.’
She stopped him as he was about to lay her on the bed. ‘Take all these good sheets off, yer’ll find an’ old one in cupboard.’ She arched her back again as he rushed downstairs. ‘Ee, God, I didn’t reckon on this.’
With the moment of solitude returned the nagging doubt of who
had fathered the child, but as the crippling discomfort returned all she wanted was for it to be over, whoever’s it was. ‘Pat, for God’s sake hurry!’
Patrick clattered up the stairs with the sheet which had been turned and restitched many times. Through her pain she noticed his sore, grazed knuckles as his hands clumsily gathered up the best sheets, replaced them with the old, then began to fumble with her dress. With difficulty he finally managed to strip off her wet garments and gently helped her onto the bed where she groaned and turned her head into the pillow, digging her teeth into fusty material. ‘Oh, God, why did I ever get meself into this?’
A noisy chattering told of Molly’s arrival and heavy footfalls brought her up into the bedroom. She took one look at the haggard face and rolled up her sleeves. ‘My, ye’re well on the way.’ Turning to Patrick she said: ‘’Tis bad to be so quick for the first. I’ll go get a little something to help her. You go boil some water – an’ what the divil have ye been up to? Ye look as if ye’ve been in a shindy with ten navvies.’
‘Something like that, ye could say.’ Patrick rushed off to boil a kettle, followed by Molly.
‘Don’t leave me!’ Thomasin raised her frightened face from the bed.
‘Just goin’ to wash me hands, Tommy, don’t fret,’ called Molly.
‘I’ll bet that’s the first time that’s ever been known,’ muttered Thomasin. ‘God, me mother’ll go mad when she knows she missed it. Oooh!’
Molly returned to administer a potion that was supposed to make the woman feel better but didn’t. In a way it made things worse as it took effect. She no longer seemed to inhabit her own body. It was as if she were a spectator, suspended above the heaving creature on the bed, watching and listening as the curses ripped from the grimacing lips, unable to stop them, not even caring to. Quick, had Molly said? It lasted for centuries.
‘Jesus Christ!’ she screamed, her tortured body thrashing wildly.
‘Sure, He’ll not be helpin’ ye, love,’ Molly shouted merrily. ‘He’s a fella like all the rest. Come on now, let’s be after takin’ a look at ye. Ah well, I know ’tis bad but it’ll be over soon. Put your hands on your belly an’ feel that – tight as a drum.’
‘I don’t ’ave to put me hands there, I can already feel it!’ shouted Thomasin. ‘Aw, Molly, ’elp me, anybody ’elp me.’
‘I’m helpin’ ye all I can,’ replied Molly. ‘But ’tis only you can do it. Come on now, there’s work to be done.’
‘Oh, bugger off yer silly old cow,’ screeched Thomasin ungratefully.
‘Ye can call the Pope a randy dog if it’ll help ye,’ said Molly, unconcerned at the abuse. ‘’Tis a good job I left Erin at my place what with all the fuss you’re creatin’.’
Thomasin was about to swear again when something like a belch caught her breath. The pain had altered, instead of ripping her apart it now felt that the very kernel of her being was trying to force its way out of the pain-racked shell.
‘Oh, good,’ said Molly at the obvious change. ‘Ye can start pushin’.’
If Thomasin had thought this indicated an end to her suffering then she was wrong. How long she arched and writhed on the sweat-soaked bed she could not gauge. It just seemed to go on and on and on. All she wanted to do was sleep but the child who struggled for life would give her no peace. The hours seemed to bring no release, just an overwhelming monotony of pushing and straining. Somewhere, through the endless labyrinth of suffering, she heard Molly’s voice urging her to make one more push. She wanted to tell her to go away, leave her alone, but instead of these words came a sharp squeal as the head of the child burst its way from her.
Patrick hung in the doorway. Unable to stay downstairs listening to his wife’s torment any longer he had crept up, disobeying Molly’s orders. Rapt fascination overtook him as he watched the tiny blue face squeeze itself free of the birth canal amid a fluid gurgling and snuffling. Molly manoeuvred its shoulder under the pubic bone, letting the rest of its body follow in a slithery, bloody rush.
Blue became angry lobster-red as the child drew his first breath and let out a squawk, making his mother peer anxiously between her thighs to ask: ‘Is it all right?’
‘Aye, ’tis a peacock of a boy ye have,’ said Molly, cutting the cord and tying it off with great dexterity, advertising the fact that she had done this many times before. ‘Which is more than can be said for him.’ She gave Patrick a withering glance over her shoulder. ‘Could ye not keep your nose out, eh? Well, now ye know what we women go through to pay for your pleasure. While you’re here ye can make yourself useful; hand me that blanket.’
Patrick, still dazed by what he had witnessed, handed her the blanket which she wrapped around the baby.
‘Here, hold this.’ Without warning she thrust the bundle into his arms, telling Thomasin to have patience while she cleaned the mess up, then she would be able to hold the child.
Curbing the rush of apprehension that he had experienced when Molly had burdened him, he gazed down in wonderment at his son, hardly feeling the hot tears that coursed down his cheeks to sting his open wounds. Gently he opened the blanket and began to examine the tiny fingers and toes, then laughed as a tiny fountain spurted over his hand. He was wonderful, wonderful!
‘Oh, peacock did I say – didn’t I ask for it?’ Molly, finishing with Thomasin went for another blanket. After changing the wrapping she transferred the child to Thomasin’s arms. ‘There y’are, what d’ye think to him? Is he not the image of his father?’
Thomasin was suddenly afraid to look. What if it were Roland who stared back at her? What if he did not look like either man, then how would she tell? It had to be faced. She turned her eyes slowly down to discover the truth… and a smile of relief and love flooded her tired face.
* * *
They named him Richard William; the first for Patrick’s dead father, the second after hers. Despite his premature entrance, the baby was extremely lively, if somewhat small, holding onto life with a tenacity that amazed his parents as even full-term babies were lucky to survive such an environment.
‘Look at the little guzzler,’ laughed Thomasin as Richard, feeling the breast against his cheek, opened his mouth and searched for the nipple. Adoration gleamed in Patrick’s eyes as he watched. No artist could capture such a vision on canvas as was before him now. The serene, beautiful mother looked down at the suckling infant, whose greedy pulling brought a sympathetic flow of milk from the other breast. Thomasin picked a strand of her hair from Richard’s face and threw it back over her shoulder in a russet flourish, then smiled up at her husband.
‘What’re you thinking?’ she asked, quietly happy.
Patrick came out of his trance and returned her smile. ‘I’m thinking how beautiful y’are,’ he answered softly. ‘An’ how lucky I am to be part of this. Sure, I could sit here all day an’ watch the pair o’ ye.’
For Patrick, Richard’s arrival could not have been more timely; it helped to heal a little of the pain and gave him more to think about than his friend’s tragedy. Though not all aspects of the situation were so enjoyable. His mother-in-law’s presence in the house had interfered with his involvement with the newborn child.
‘Oh, he’s just like his mother,’ she had exclaimed when she and William had first set eyes on their grandson. ‘Look, William, is he not like Thomasin?’
‘Eh, be right, Mother,’ Thomasin had objected, pulling a brush through her tangled hair. ‘He’s nowt like me, he’s image of his father.’
‘Oh no, dear,’ Hannah had insisted firmly. ‘He’s just like you were when you were a baby – apart from the hair of course. I suppose that could come from your husband.’
‘Well, I think he’s like Pat.’ Thomasin had remained loyal. ‘What d’you think, Dad?’
William had been unhelpful. ‘Nay, they all look same to me – little goblins. I like ’em best when they’re bigger an’ yer can play games wi’ ’em.’
Hannah had seen that she was to get no support
from this quarter and shortly after this had sent William packing with instructions to return for her in the evening. ‘It will be more convenient if I return to my own home at the end of the day instead of sleeping here,’ she had told her daughter. ‘After all I do not wish to impose.’
Thomasin had offered thanks for her mother’s concern, guessing that the real motive for not wanting to sleep here was not out of consideration but because she feared an attack by bed bugs.
Now, Hannah’s voice made Patrick spring up from his comfortable position. ‘God save us she’s here again!’ He lifted the sleeping baby from his wife’s arms and placed him gently into the box that had to serve as Richard’s bed. ‘I’d best be off to work before I get a tongue-lashing.’
Thomasin laughed. ‘I do believe yer afraid of her.’
‘I am.’ Patrick leant over the bed to kiss her goodbye as Hannah came into the bedroom.
‘You’ll be late for work, Mr Feeney,’ she warned sternly, her hands clasped in front of her, ready once more to take charge.
‘Mother,’ sighed Thomasin, ‘don’t yer think yer could at least try an’ call Pat by his first name? Yer can’t go on callin’ him Mr Feeney for the rest o’ yer life.’
Hannah bowed her head. ‘Very well, dear, as you like. Before you go… Patrick,’ the name tasted like vile medicine ‘…I should be obliged if you would put some coal on that fire. My grandson is in danger of being frozen to death.’
Patrick set his mouth and picked up the poker with which he could have quite happily taken Hannah’s neck measurement. He rammed it forcefully into the fire, stirring up red sparks and swearing silently to himself, then placed half a dozen pieces of coal onto the flames.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 22
