A Long Way from Heaven

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

  ‘Not “we”, John,’ replied Patrick. ‘You — an’ ye’d best get it out o’ sight now before somebody starts askin’ questions.’ He flopped back into a chair and picked up yesterday’s newspaper which had been passed on by William.

  Thomasin left John to dispose of the handcart and joined Pat.

  ‘Eh, I’m that relieved we’re gonna ’ave some money coming in again.’

  Patrick allowed himself a smile, though he questioned the efficacy of his brain. ‘I don’t expect it’ll be much at first ’cause there’s no point in running before we can walk. Best if we start by doing small jobs, nothin’ too complicated, repairs an’ alterations. Then when people get to know us maybe we can begin to be a little ambitious.’

  She returned his smile. ‘I don’t feel too bad about the baby now, ’cause yer’ll be earnin’ a lot more than if you were workin’ for Baxter.’ She sat opposite him and gazed into the fire, dreaming of what Patrick’s new venture might bring them.

  Patrick turned over a page of the newspaper and let out a cry of delight, startling her. ‘Listen to this: On the tenth of September, eighteen hundred and fifty-eight, at the Festival Concert Rooms will be held a reading of “A Christmas Carol” by its celebrated author Mister Charles Dickens.’ He scanned the advertisement then let out a groan of disappointment. ‘Oh, no, the cheapest tickets are a shilling; we can’t afford it.’

  Thomasin, realising how important this was to her husband, said, ‘Yer in work again, remember? Or nearly. I daresay it won’t break us?’

  He was aching to go but, ‘It seems so extravagant when we’ve hardly been able to find money for food lately.’

  ‘There’s a few bob left in tin. I dare say yer pal will keep supplyin’ t’bunnies so we’ll not starve.’

  ‘An’ you’ll come with me?’

  ‘Happen I will – we’ll take Erin too. It’ll make a nice evening out.’

  Alas, when Patrick visited the music shop in Davygate to purchase the tickets there were none left. ‘But perhaps,’ the assistant told him, ‘there may be a few on sale at the actual venue.’

  ‘Aw, never mind, love,’ Thomasin comforted his despondent admission. ‘We’ll still go. Even if we can’t buy tickets yer might at least be able to see him arrive.’

  Patrick cheered up. It would indeed be an honour just to see the man.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  By the day of the Dickens reading Patrick was feeling pretty pleased with himself. John, with his silvery tongue, had convinced their clients that he and Pat were the best men for the job and the growing demand for their work gave them little time for leisure. Still, he would not miss the chance of seeing his favourite author if he could help it. Leaving the younger children in the care of their adoptive uncle he, Thomasin and Erin set out for the Festival Concert Rooms.

  Thankfully the weather was mild as, to Patrick’s deep chagrin, all the spare tickets had been snapped up. Thomasin said she and the child would wait with him for a glimpse of his hero. As the family settled on a bench close to the entrance, hordes of richly-trammelled gentlefolk began to arrive, mingling involuntarily with their poorer counterparts. Apparently Dickens had insisted on the tickets being reasonably priced so that the lower classes too would have a chance to hear his work.

  Erin had brought along her harp which Patrick had seen as a good idea; if they were to have a long wait it would occupy fidgety hands. He noticed his wife shiver and pull her shawl more tightly round her. The weather had altered with a September contrariness; one moment gentle sunshine, the next a chilly breeze.

  ‘Sure, ye can always go home,’ he told her. ‘I don’t mind waiting on me own.’

  ‘We’ve waited this long, we might as well stay a few minutes longer,’ she answered. ‘He can’t be long now. Besides I’m rather curious to see a man whose books can still my husband’s tongue for more than five minutes.’

  Erin flexed her fingers and began to play as the queue outside the Rooms grew longer. Several heads turned to discover the source of the delightful sound, smiling in appreciation. One gentleman who had just alighted from a stately-looking carriage and whose conscience had obviously been pricked by the impoverished group held out a coin to Erin.

  Patrick stopped Erin’s hand from reaching out. ‘Thank ye, but we’re not beggars. My daughter is merely playin’ for her own amusement. Anyone who cares to listen is welcome to do so with pleasure, but we seek no payment.’

  The man raised his eyebrows admiringly. Such pride was rare amongst the peasant classes. He surveyed the man’s ragged appearance, then looked back at the arrogant face. Although dressed in rags the man obviously regarded himself as an equal; the absence of the word ‘sir’ had not gone unregistered. He studied the child whose brilliant eyes brimmed with a wealth of knowledge – so young, he thought, yet the eyes could be those of an old woman. He then turned his attention to Thomasin, who stared back unabashed at his scrutiny. Now there was a tasty morsel: with a more flattering wardrobe she could keep pace with the best of the fillies.

  He spoke at last. ‘You have an extremely talented daughter,’ he told Patrick thoughtfully. ‘I am sure that her accomplishment deserves a wider audience. What are your thoughts on allowing her to play at the Hall one evening?’

  ‘What hall would that be?’ enquired Patrick suspiciously. The man laughed, greatly amused that the other was ignorant of his. identity. ‘Why, Dunworthe Hall. The name is Herleigh by the way – and yours?’ Patrick told him. ‘I shall be giving a musical evening on Tuesday next and should be delighted to have your daughter entertain us.’

  Patrick nodded slowly as he encountered Erin’s eager face. ‘If Erin wants to go I guess it’ll be fine by me. Can ye tell us how to get there?’

  The man appeared more amused than ever, then pointed. ‘Ask my coachman, he will tell you. I look forward to hearing your daughter’s talents on Tuesday eve.’ So saying, he entered the building.

  ‘Well, would yer credit that?’ spluttered Thomasin. ‘I suppose you know who that was?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Hurley or something or other.’

  ‘It’s only Lord Herleigh, yer big daft lummox. Yer weren’t very polite to him, were yer?’ She mimicked his statement: ‘“My daughter is merely playing for her own amusement.” By!’

  Patrick defended his behaviour. ‘Just ’cause he’s a lord is that any reason I should kiss his arse?’

  ‘Nobody asked yer to, did they? But yer never even called him sir.’

  Patrick tutted. ‘For God’s sake, why did he have to pick on us? What’re we gonna wear for this do?’

  ‘Nay, don’t ask me, I never got an invite.’ Thomasin turned up her nose, faking offence.

  Patrick put an arm round her. ‘Ye know, ’twould be better for you to take Erin yourself. Ye’d enjoy it much more than I will.’

  ‘I hope yer not expectin’ me to feel sorry for yer?’

  He laughed. ‘Maybe you’re right. It might be rather interestin’ at that.’

  So knocked sideways was he by the man’s identity that Patrick, in his conversation with Thomasin, failed to notice the dark, bearded figure entering the building surrounded by chattering admirers. Only when the doors had closed did he realise that the man whom he had come to see had eluded him. Unable to catch a word of the reading through the door or even at a window, and seeing his pregnant wife stretch her aching back, Patrick decided to take them home. Although he had missed Dickens the evening had not been a complete waste of time, for despite his nonchalant acceptance of the invitation to Dunworthe Hall Patrick was quite looking forward to the musical evening – and who knew what might come of it?

  He delved into his pocket for pipe and tobacco pouch; it was good to be able to afford a smoke again. He approached a tobacco store on whose doorpost was fixed a metal horse’s head. Bending over it he touched his pipe to the gas jet that flared from its nostrils then put an arm round his wife and steered her home.

  * * *

  Thoma
sin awoke next morning regretting her outing. There was a dull ache in the small of her back due to all that hanging around, she told herself as she waved her husband and John off to work – I should take things a little easier. After all, there’s none of us getting any younger. She smiled at the thought of Patrick with greying hair and stooped posture, then rubbed her back thoughtfully where the pain lingered in a persistent warning. Ignoring it she turned to the pile of crockery in the sink.

  ‘Ah well, this won’t buy the baby a new bonnet. Erin love, fetch rest o’ them pots, will yer?’ She went to the yard to fill a bucket with water.

  In her daydreaming the bucket overflowed and splashed onto her boots. She jumped back then picked up the heavy container to carry it indoors. Erin heard her harsh cry of pain and came running out into the yard, eyes wide with bewilderment as she witnessed Thomasin’s agony.

  ‘Mammy, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Ooh, God, Erin!’ The pain was excruciating and Thomasin clutched first at her back then at her belly. ‘Go get somebody quick. It’s the babby.’

  ‘Take me arm, Mam,’ ordered Erin and helped her stepmother into the house where Thomasin crumpled to the floor.

  Sonny, who had followed them in from the yard started wailing. ‘Mammy!’

  Dickie stood nearby, staring at his stricken mother. ‘Can I have something to eat, Mam?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Dickie!’ stormed Erin. ‘Can’t ye see Mammy’s poorly?’ She bundled the two of them into a chair. ‘Now sit there an’ don’t move. I’m off to Aunt Molly’s, she’ll know what to do.’ She bent over Thomasin’s convulsive form. ‘I’ll not be long, Mam,’ then dashed off to Britannia Yard, forgetting the apprehension she usually experienced here, and assailed Molly with a garbled account of what had happened.

  Molly listened calmly to the eleven year old’s frightened pleas. ‘Right, pet. I’ll be over right away. Just let me find Norah to look after me little ones. Brendan!’ she called to one of three tiny children who played on the floor, ‘Stop doin’ that to your brother.’ She turned casually to Erin. ‘Ah, ’tis a pity your mammy didn’t see fit to have a bigger family. They’re a joy are the little ones, a pure joy – Brendan, I’ll not tell ye again, d’ye want a whoppin’ when your daddy gets in?’

  Erin tugged at her sleeve imploringly. ‘Oh, please, Aunt Molly, come quickly! She’s awful bad.’

  ‘All right, all right, don’t be gettin’ all aereorated.’ Molly followed her out of Britannia Yard and into Walmgate. ‘Not so fast, pet, me poor old legs cannot keep up with ye.’ She was certain that Erin was kicking up a fuss over nothing and that when they arrived Thomasin would likely have got over her twinge.

  But the moment Molly set eyes on Thomasin she realised that things were not as they should be: the pain was so bad that she had lost consciousness. Further indication of the seriousness of Thomasin’s condition was the red stain spreading slowly through the coarse material of her skirt. Molly threw a worried glance at Erin and began to roll up her sleeves.

  ‘Go for the doctor, pet, your mammy’s not well at all. I’ll look after her while ye go. Hurry now, there’s a good colleen.’ Erin fled into the yard. ‘An’ see if ye can find your daddy when ye’ve been to the doctor’s!’ shouted Molly.

  Patrick was enjoying one of John’s jokes when Erin finally came upon him in Barleycorn Yard. His smile disappeared as his daughter came rushing breathlessly up to him and, clutching a hand over the stitch in her side, delivered her bad news. ‘Oh, Daddy, Daddy, come home! ’Tis Mammy… the baby.’

  Leaving Erin trailing far behind, a distraught Patrick galloped towards his home. When he arrived Molly waylaid him before he could rush up the stairs.

  ‘The doctor’s with her, Pat, I should wait till he comes down.’

  When the doctor eventually reappeared some good while later, looking tired and rumpled, Patrick, in his anxiety, took hold of him roughly. ‘Well, man, how is she?’

  The doctor, patiently unloosing Patrick’s grip on his arm, told him the worst: Thomasin had lost the baby. No, there had been no fall or shock, the premature labour had been inexplicable and final. His wife had lost a fearful amount of blood and it had been touch and go but she would probably survive now.

  ‘Final,’ mouthed Patrick. ‘You said final?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ the doctor informed him as kindly as possible.

  ‘But I greatly doubt that your wife will ever conceive again; her internal organs have suffered badly from this ordeal.’

  Patrick was aghast. My God, it was his fault. If he hadn’t kept her hanging around waiting for Dickens last evening this would never have happened.

  ‘Well, wherever the fault lies,’ replied the doctor to Patrick’s self-reproach, ‘she is not to be moved. Any upheaval could restart the bleeding. Do you understand?’ He spoke, as if to a child, into Patrick’s ashen face. ‘The slightest movement could be her death warrant.’

  The last words brought Patrick from his stupor. ‘She could die?’

  ‘Have you not been listening to a word I have said?’ reproved the doctor. ‘Yes, die! So heed my words and under no circumstances is she to be allowed to leave her bed. She is to receive constant nursing and plenty of nourishment to build her up. I have instructed the nurse who accompanied me to take charge of your wife’s welfare for the next few days. I shall call upon you again tomorrow.’ He was in the motions of donning his coat when his eyes fell on Molly, on the scrawny neck seamed with grime, the dirt-laden fingernails. Belonging to the new school of thought, he decided to utter a further word of caution. ‘And if you value your wife’s health, Mr Feeney, you would be wise to restrict visitors to the immediate family. Any infection brought into the sickroom, however unwittingly, would undoubtedly kill her.’

  As soon as he had left Patrick shot upstairs to invade the sickroom. The nurse looked up sharply and put a finger to her lips, then left the bedside and whispered to him, ‘Your wife is sleeping at present. I shouldn’t disturb her, she’s very weak.’

  He stared down at the pale face that blended with the white bed linen. Her brilliant hair was strewn over the pillow in damp wisps. Her lashes were dark against the deathly skin and, sensing his presence, fluttered open.

  ‘I didn’t mean to wake ye.’ He moved closer to take hold of her limp hand. She did not speak, her half-closed lids tried to force themselves open but were too weak and sleep claimed her again.

  ‘Tommy?’ The panic rose as, for one terrifying moment he thought that his nightmare with Mary was to be repeated. But no, he could still feel the slight rise and fall of her breast. He slumped over her, scooping her hands between his and clutching them to his chest. A thousand thoughts swirled within his despair: it was his fault, all of it. If he hadn’t selfishly insisted on taking his marital rights she would not be lying here now. But oh, how could he stay away from her when he loved her so much? She was like a sickness within him, ever present, always demanding. If anything should happen to her… he could not go through it all again – Please, God, he suddenly found himself praying, please, I’ll give You my sons, I’ll do anything You ask an’ I’ll not deny You again but please, please, don’t take this one, too.

  He felt a hand on his arm and raised desolate eyes. ‘You’d better go now,’ instructed the nurse. ‘She’s very ill and needs rest. I’ll be sure to call you when she awakes.’ Patrick remained at the bedside, unwilling to leave her, afraid that if he left she would die.

  Then he brushed his lips to the waxen cheek and went reluctantly downstairs where he found John talking to Molly and Erin trying to comfort the boys.

  ‘How is she?’ Both John and Molly asked simultaneously.

  He dropped his chin to his chest and slumped into a chair. ‘She looks terrible, terrible. I was afraid to leave her in case she… but the nurse says I’ll be better off leavin’ her to get some rest.’

  ‘Huh, nurse,’ sniffed Molly. ‘Sure, I can’t see why ye have to have a nurse when ye know there’s one here who’s
willing to take care o’ Tommy; payin’ out all that good money just to have some old busybody pushing ye around. Will I go up an’ tell her she’s not wanted?’

  ‘No, no, thank ye for your offer, Molly,’ replied Patrick. ‘But you have your own family to see to, an’ ye heard what the doctor said. She has to have somebody with her all the time for the next day or two at least. I think ’tis best if the nurse stays – she seems very competent.’

  ‘Ah, she might seem that way while you’re here to keep an eye on her,’ said Molly. ‘But as soon as you’re off to work it’ll be out with the gin bottle an’ not a thought for poor, darlin’ Tommy. She needs someone who cares for her. D’ye want I should come an’ keep an eye on her for ye?’

  ‘Thanks, Molly,’ he answered gratefully. ‘But I shan’t be needin’ your surveillance for I’ll not be going to work till Tommy gets well.’ He looked at John. ‘Sorry to impose like this but can ye manage for a while on your own?’

  ‘Aye, ’course,’ vouched John. ‘But don’t yer think yer’d be better off workin’? There’s nowt yer can do ’ere but sit around an’ mope all day an’ that’s gonna do yer no good, is it?’

  ‘She’s my wife, John. If anything’s going to happen to her I want to be here.’

  ‘Enough o’ that sort o’ talk,’ exclaimed Molly. ‘Tommy’ll be as fit as a lop in no time. All she needs is a good rest an’ a drop o’ good broth to build her up. Now, are ye sure ye don’t want me to get rid o’ that nurse for ye? I still say you’re wastin’ your money.’

  Patrick was kind but firm. ‘You’re a good friend, Molly, an’ it would be taking advantage of ye to expect ye to look after Tommy with your own to see to. Don’t worry about me wasting my money. Sure, I can afford it now.’ He looked at Erin who sat next to Dickie and held Sonny on her lap. ‘Erin’ll help with the cookin’, won’t ye, darlin’?’

  She nodded and formed a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll take care of us all.’