A Long Way from Heaven

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

  ‘Well, yer didn’t expect him to stand on his hands an’ sing hallelujah, did yer?’ said Thomasin at Patrick’s downcast face.

  ‘There’s no call to be facetious,’ he answered glumly. ‘Liam’s been good to me over the years. I don’t like to think of our friendship coming to such an end. Sure, I never thought he’d take it so hard. He didn’t seem too concerned at me marrying a Protestant, and knowing how I felt about the church didn’t stop him visiting my house before.’

  ‘I think it was really me what upset the pittle-pot,’ said Thomasin. ‘But would he honestly have thought any better o’ me if I’d said I’d ’ave Dickie baptised a Catholic, knowin’ all the time I didn’t believe a word o’ what I were promisin’?’

  Patrick did not know what to believe any more. He sighed and took Erin onto his lap, changing the subject by telling her a tale. At its climax he said, ‘’Tis time ye went to bed, girleen.’

  ‘Aw, please let me stay up till Uncle John gets home,’ pleaded his daughter.

  Thomasin sided with Patrick. ‘No, it’s late enough. Uncle John might not be back until late. Off yer go, like a good lass.’

  Erin lingered sulkily against her father’s chest and rubbed his chin beseechingly. ‘I don’t have to, do I, Daddy?’ Even after all this time she still resented Thomasin’s orders.

  ‘Now ye heard what your mammy said,’ Patrick spoke unthinkingly.

  The child lost her wheedling smile and jumped from his knee sharply, stalking up the stairs without a word of goodnight.

  ‘I wish yer wouldn’t do that,’ said Thomasin, listening to the bedroom door slam.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Refer to me as “mammy”. Yer know she doesn’t like it.’ Patrick rattled the poker around the coals. ‘Look, it’s been years since her mammy died. I’m getting a bit sick and tired of all these tantrums. ’Tis about time she buckled down to the idea that you’re her mammy now.’

  ‘I’ve told yer before, she’ll accept me in her own good time,’ replied Thomasin, folding up the rug and rubbing her aching shoulders. ‘Anyway, I’m not bothered if she doesn’t want to call me Mammy.’

  ‘Don’t try to cod me,’ exclaimed Patrick. ‘I’m your husband, remember?’ I can see how it hurts ye. Sure, I thought things were getting better between the two o’ ye.’

  ‘They are,’ answered his wife. ‘An’ they’ll continue to get better if yer leave things to run their course instead of trying to speed them up. Now then, I’ve summat else I want to discuss. Where’s this friend o’ yours gonna sleep when he deigns to come home? An’ he needn’t think I’m waitin’ up for him all night either.’

  ‘Nobody’s askin’ yer to!’ John clattered into the room, shaking the rain from his hair, and slung two rabbits on the table. ‘There y’are, don’t say I never bring y’owt.’

  ‘We were just decidin’ where you’re going to sleep,’ Thomasin told him. ‘An’ I ’ope you’ve left them blasted ferrets in t’yard?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare do otherwise,’ said John, rinsing the mud from his hands. ‘Don’t bother about me, I’ll bed down anywhere.’

  ‘I dare say yer will,’ replied Thomasin. ‘But I’m not havin’ t’ouse cluttered up wi’ bodies all over t’place. If yer gonna be part o’ this family yer can get yerself out tomorra an’ buy a bed. An’ I mean buy, not steal. Wi’ all your talents I dare say yer’ll get the money somewhere.’

  ‘Part o’ family, eh?’ grinned John, rubbing his hands in front of the fire. ‘By, she’s a good’n your missus, Pat. Is there any chance of owt to eat afore I go to bed, Tommy?’

  ‘There’s bread an’ drippin’, take it or leave it.’

  ‘That’ll do champion, thank yer,’ said John.

  ‘An’ as soon as yer’ve eaten it,’ ordered Thomasin, ‘yer can brush off all that mud. I’m not washin’ two sets o’ clothes thank yer very much.’

  John elbowed Patrick and made himself small. ‘Yes, Mam.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  John’s presence provided Patrick with male support on the nights when they stayed too long at The Bay Horse. To the children he became a much-loved uncle, an ever-present playmate, which was strange because one look at his ravaged face could terrify most adults into speechlessness. Initially, Thomasin had treated John merely as a fulcrum for her discontent, her quick temper adopting an unsteady balance upon his shoulders. But his capacity for turning his hand to most tasks and the regular provision of rabbits which eked out the housekeeping money soon established him in her eyes as a valuable member of the family.

  The balmy spring blended into a summer of sun and surprises. Such as the day when Patrick had suddenly announced that he was taking the family to the seaside. After many months of poring over advertisements in the newspapers, extolling the virtues of Scarborough, he had finally saved enough money for his dream to become reality.

  What a marvellous day that had been, crammed with smells, tastes and sensations such as Thomasin had never before experienced. The captivating aroma of engine smoke which curled under their nostrils the moment they entered the busy station in Tanner Row. The gleaming engine with its lustrous, brass domes that had let off a sudden burst of steam making them all jump and squeal, then laugh at their own fright. The promenade with fine ladies sauntering along on the arms of prosperous gentlemen, with dresses of organdie, satin and crepe de chine. The beach which sported a crowd of holidaymakers, ladies and children on horseback, flys, landaus, gigs, all manner of vehicles churning tracks in the sand. Weary donkeys bearing panniers of screaming infants, vendors lugging baskets overladen with cockles, periwinkles, crabs. The sand in the sandwiches, the bathing machines that lined the water’s edge with their bevy of voluminously clad bathers.

  And the sea. Oh, the sea! Stretching out before them, a great blue infinity sparkling in the early afternoon sun, as if someone had unrolled a vast length of deep blue silk and in its folds bobbed a flotilla of gleaming craft. The graceful sweep of its ebb tide rippled in white, foamy wavelets to meet the golden sands, like the scalloped lace on a lady’s petticoats.

  Then all too quickly it had been over. All that remained to them was to trudge reluctantly back to the station to fight their way through the immense crowds and onto the train, drunk with ozone, the tight, tingling feel of sunburnt skin, hair sticky with sea-salt, to be transported tired, but happy, homewards bound.

  Such days were sadly infrequent for Patrick, who spent the majority of the sticky, summer months mixing mortar, digging ditches, demolishing houses. Not for him the leisurely country pursuits of John who whiled away the sultry hours scavenging the country lanes with only his ferrets and the birds for company, gathering wild strawberries and brambles for Thomasin to put in a pie. John watched his friend’s struggles to provide his wife with a higher standard of living. He saw a change in the Irishman who often had little energy for anything other than sleep when he had eaten his evening meal, leaving John to go unaccompanied to the ale-house and Thomasin with no one to talk to. The man was taking on far too much.

  Outside the city walls green turned to russet as the long hot summer finally burnt itself out. Cool breezes began systematically to strip the trees of their leaves and an occasional frost hung on the morning air. It was hard to visualise the passing of summer in their squalid microcosm. No trees lined their streets to give a gentle hint of the onset of winter and the cold weather sprang upon them without warning. Soon another Christmas loomed into view. For the Feeneys it would be a great deal more festive than the last. Patrick’s overtime earnings and the money John had made from selling scrap made valuable contributions to their home comforts.

  St Stephen’s Day arrived, the day of Dickie’s first birthday. He was to have a party and the tiny dwelling was filled with merry laughter until Hannah’s arrival rather dampened the proceedings. Hannah, to her disgust, had discovered that Thomasin had not been churched after Richard’s birth and for some time the Fentons’ home had been forbidden territory. As long
as her father paid his weekly visits Thomasin cared not for her mother’s pious debarment.

  The Flahertys were not to attend this party – not because of superior beliefs but because they had not been told of its occurrence. Hannah had graciously repealed her judgement for the Yuletide period and with her mother present at the gathering Thomasin deemed it wise to keep mum to her Irish friends. Already Hannah’s arrival had subdued things but her husband could be relied upon to relieve the gloom.

  William tossed his grandson up in the air, laughing at his squeals. ‘Happy Birthday, Dickie! Eh, look what I’ve got ’ere!’ He held out his hand to Hannah who handed him a brown paper parcel. ‘Ooh, what’s this, eh? Come on, let’s open it, shall us?’ William sat the baby on his knee, struggling to open the package with his free hand. ‘By, look at that! A whatjercallit!’ He pulled forth a shiny, tin object which, when he had turned it the right way up, emerged as a soldier beating a drum.

  William located the key on the soldier’s back and wound it up. Immediately the soldier rat-tatted a tinny tune on the drum. ‘Isn’t that grand?’

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ said Thomasin without conviction. ‘I’ll enjoy listenin’ to that racket all day.’

  Dickie showed his appreciation by picking up the soldier and beating time on his grandfather’s knee.

  ‘Not like that, silly!’ William took the toy from Dickie, then gave it back quickly as the baby howled a noisy protest.

  Erin stood nearby, her eyes big and round, never leaving the clockwork soldier. William noticed her apprehension. ‘Eh, Hannah, get the rest o’ them whatsits out, will tha? Poor bairn here thinks she’s not gerrin owt.’

  Hannah distributed the rest of the presents, a blouse for Thomasin, some tobacco for Patrick, which had been William’s idea not his wife’s, and disappointingly for Erin, who eyed the tin soldier enviously, two flannel petticoats.

  Thanking her parents for their gifts, Thomasin started to lay the table for tea, saying to Patrick, ‘I wonder where John’s got to. He’s been out ages.’

  ‘John?’ enquired Hannah, at exactly the same time as the said person entered bearing a long, thin parcel.

  ‘That’s me name!’ John pulled off his cap and grinned demoniacally. ‘I thought me ears were burnin’ when I was comin’ down t’lane. Been talkin’ about me, ’ave yer?’

  Hannah was scarcely able to suppress a cry of alarm as John approached her, cap in hand, and Thomasin made hasty introductions.

  ‘Mother, this is John, Pat’s friend, yer might remember him from t’weddin’.’

  Hannah grimaced. Would they ever let her forget that debacle?

  ‘Well, anyway,’ added her daughter, ‘he’s lost his wife an’ …’

  Hannah’s face softened. ‘Oh, dear, I am…’

  John interrupted. ‘No, love, Tommy doesn’t mean lost as in dead, she means lost as in buggered off.’

  ‘Oh!’ Hannah put a hand to her throat at the familiarity of the man.

  ‘Well, I could’ve phrased it a little better,’ said Thomasin, ‘but that’s the long and short of it. John’s wife’s left him an’ he’s come to live with us.’

  Hannah was struck dumb and unable to tear her eyes away from the terribly scarred face with its black eyepatch. The man looked an out and out rogue. What on earth was Thomasin thinking of? As if it was not humiliating enough to have one’s daughter living among such people she had to start giving sanctuary to lame dogs and scoundrels.

  John still held out his hand in friendship but now that Hannah had made it apparent that she found him unsavoury he transferred it to William.

  ‘Hello, Billy, good to see yer again. When are we gonna ’ave another night like we had down at Spread Eagle? By God, didn’t we sup some stuff.’

  ‘Er hello, John,’ replied William, anxiously eyeing Hannah.

  ‘You seem to be well acquainted with this person,’ hissed Hannah suspiciously. ‘And been drinking with him by the sound of it.’

  ‘Aye, well he were ’ere last time I called yer see,’ blustered William awkwardly. ‘We mighta gone to t’thingummyjig, I can’t really recall.’

  Hannah buttoned her lips and glared at him while John retreated to the kitchen to wash his hands.

  ‘Sorry about me mother,’ said Thomasin.

  ‘S’all right,’ replied John indifferently. ‘Yer get used to people lookin’ at yer like that.’

  ‘Do yer?’ asked Thomasin seriously. ‘Do yer really?’

  He dried his hands and gave a caustic laugh. ‘No, I’m lyin’ again. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to lookin’ like some sorta monster.’

  ‘Aw, yer don’t look like a monster, John.’ Thomasin laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t I? Would you fancy me?’ asked John, then as she looked away uncomfortably. ‘No. There’s not a woman that would. That’s what makes it so damned hard, Tommy.’ He balled his fists and shook them angrily. ‘They think that because I look like this I’m not human any more, that I don’t have feelings like any normal man. Even the dollymops won’t gimme time o’ day. Eh, I shouldn’t be talkin’ to yer like this.’ He picked up a comb and ran it through his brown curls. ‘Better make meself presentable for t’party.’

  ‘I don’t mind, John,’ she said kindly. ‘If it helps to get it off yer chest yer can talk about it as much as yer like.’

  ‘As long as it only is talk, eh?’ he grinned.

  ‘Eh, I should be very careful,’ she laughed.

  ‘Yer a queer’n, Tommy.’ He tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the comb. ‘Sometimes yer never off me back an’ then others yer seem… Oh, I don’t know… different anyway. I feel as though I could open me heart to yer when yer like this.’

  ‘Aye, I’m nobbut queer,’ admitted Thomasin, arranging tiny cakes on a stand. ‘Now enough o’ this maudlin talk o’ yours. Grab a couple o’ plates an’ follow me.’ Her great belly moved before her. She had fallen almost immediately after Dickie’s birth. A pause as she poked the long package John had brought in with him. ‘What’s this yer’ve brought wi’ yer?’

  ‘Eh, don’t be kickin’ it about, that’s my birthday present to Dickie!’

  ‘Oh, beg pardon.’

  When they returned to the living room Hannah was in the process of issuing Patrick with another piece of her mind. ‘Just when are you going to pull yourself together?’ she asked bitingly. ‘I do grant that you have made some efforts to improve your standard of living; this carpet, for instance, would do credit to a much wealthier household.’ Thomasin nudged John who was responsible for this luxury. ‘But if you can afford to spend that on a carpet surely the money would be put to better use in saving for a larger house.’

  Thomasin intervened before the angry flush on her husband’s face manifested itself into a deadlier altercation. ‘Ey, what’s brought this on, Mother? Honestly, I can’t leave the room for five minutes but yer on yer soap box again.’

  ‘I was simply pointing out,’ said Hannah, ‘that there is more to life than two up and two down and the longer you stay here the harder it will be for you to pull yourselves from the quagmire.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ replied her daughter casually, ‘I was under the impression that you lived in a two up an’ two down yerself.’

  Hannah was not to be swayed. ‘Quite correct – which is the reason I want more for my daughters. I realise what it is like to have a husband with no ambition. One has to have a certain push if one is to get anywhere in life. I do not want you to suffer the same dreary existence as myself.’

  ‘Dun’t it make thee feel good to know tha’s appreciated?’ said William lightly, dandling his grandson on his knee.

  John, who had been listening with interest to the dialogue, finally unearthed the true reason for Patrick’s compulsion to work. It was to prove this woman wrong, to show her that he could give her daughter as good a life as anyone could, to prove to her, and to himself, that he was a man.

  Patrick finally spoke. ‘Forgiv
e me if I’m wrong, but I thought this was to be a birthday party. All I’ve heard so far is people tearing strips off each other. Hannah, I’ll make a deal with ye. I promise not to offend ye with me uncouth manners if you promise not to say another word about me bettering meself. Now is it a deal?’

  Hannah snorted. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure. I only intended my remarks to be helpful.’

  ‘You can make yerself more helpful by fetchin’ them cups an’ saucers from kitchen,’ commanded Thomasin. ‘Now then, how many of us are there? One, two… wait a minute, where’s Erin?’

  Patrick fingered his new waistcoat. ‘Ah, she was asking if she could invite Bridie to the party, so I told her it would be all right. Was I wrong?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ replied his wife. ‘As long as she doesn’t bump into Molly. I think it’d be a bit of a squash with all her brood in here an’ all. Oh s’truth, look at that!’ She pointed to the present which John had brought and which Dickie had now opened. ‘What yer gone an’ brought him a sword for? He’s bad enough without a weapon in his hands.’

  ‘I thought it were rather good,’ said John admiring his handiwork. ‘He can’t do much harm as it’s only wood.’ He drew in his breath as Dickie tested the sword on Uncle John’s shins. ‘Ah well, perhaps it was a mistake,’ he decided, rubbing his bruised leg.

  ‘I hope that child isn’t long in fetching Bridie,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m ravenous.’

  ‘We’ll give her a couple o’ minutes,’ replied Thomasin. ‘It’s likely poor old Bridie that’s holding her up.’

  * * *

  Erin skipped gaily into the alleyway that led to Britannia Yard, tripping a path through the rotting debris. She was about to tap at Bridie’s door when someone crept up behind her, making her jump with his sneering question.