A Long Way from Heaven

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

  ‘None o’ my doing if he doesn’t want to see nobody,’ replied the gaoler, jangling the keys at his belt, eyeing Thomasin with interest and questioning the sanity of one who did not want to see such a fine example of womanhood.

  ‘Doesn’t want to see anybody?’ said Thomasin.

  ‘That’s what he sez.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t include his wife in that,’ she argued, putting on her best wheedling voice for the gaoler. ‘Come on, mister, you’d want to see your wife if you were locked up in ’ere, wouldn’t yer?’

  ‘No,’ he answered lightly. ‘Truth to tell, I’d be glad to be out of her way. But then my wife doesn’t look anything like you, great fat lump o’ pork she is.’ He crooked a spindly finger. ‘Away then, if yer want to see him.’

  She hastily followed him through the cold stone corridors filled with obnoxious gases. The gaoler finally arrived outside a cell and ran his key over the grilled window on the inner wall. ‘Hey, Feeney, yer’ve gorra visitor!’

  There was a furtive rustling from a dim corner and an angry voice growled, ‘I thought I told ye I didn’t want any visitors?’

  Thomasin thrust her face to the grill and peered into the dingy enclosure. ‘Patrick, it’s me.’

  Her only welcome was a groan which embodied everything Patrick was feeling. ‘Go away, Tommy, I’ll not have ye see me like this. Gaoler, take pity on me.’

  ‘It’s pity yer need right enough if yer don’t want to see a tasty dish like her,’ muttered the gaoler. ‘You must have a slate loose.’

  ‘Please, Patrick,’ she gripped the bars and tried to penetrate his hideaway. ‘You must talk to me.’

  There was no answer and she kept repeating her demand. ‘For Christ’s sake talk to her,’ ordered one of his four cellmates, holding his head. ‘It’s bad enough in here without nattering women.’

  Patrick ignored him, but nevertheless responded to her pleas. ‘Why must I?’ he asked dully. ‘For you to tell me you were right an’ I was wrong? Don’t I have enough to bear without your recriminations?’

  ‘D’yer think I care who was right, yer stubborn fool?’ she cried. ‘I only want to see yer ’cause yer my husband an’ I miss yer.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to see you. Take her away, gaoler, for God’s sake.’

  The man turned to Thomasin. ‘Looks like your old man is off his head, me bonny – sometimes happens in here. How about you coming an’ taking sup wi’ me? If he doesn’t want yer there’s one here who’s more than willin’.’

  It was the best thing he could have said. In a split second Patrick scattered his bed of rushes, trampled his cellmates and was at the window with his arm reaching through the grille to grasp the gaoler round the neck. ‘Have ye ever heard the sound a broken neck makes?’ he snarled into the struggling man’s ear.

  ‘Patrick, oh, Pat,’ cried Thomasin, disregarding the beleagured gaoler to seize her husband’s arm. ‘Look at yer. What they been doing at yer? Oh, poor lad.’

  ‘He’ll be in a damned sight worse position if yer don’t persuade him to let me go,’ choked the gaoler, his face turning red from the pressure on his Adam’s apple.

  Thomasin coaxed her husband to let go.

  ‘You think yerself lucky I’m a patient man,’ the gaoler informed Patrick bad-temperedly. ‘I could have you out of here an’ danglin’ on the end of a string for attempted murder of a prison official as quick as that!’ He tried to snap his fingers but the sweat of fear had made them sticky and they slipped against each other without a sound. ‘It’s only because I take account o’ the fact that you’re not right in the head that I don’t. Five minutes,’ he warned Thomasin and retreated to the far end of the stone corridor.

  Patrick tried to withdraw his arm from the grille but she gripped it tightly. ‘Yer needn’t think yer wrigglin’ out o’ seein’ me now – an’ what’s all this about not wantin’ visitors? I never heard owt so daft.’

  ‘Is it daft I am not to want to be humbled further by my family an’ friends seeing me in this position?’ he asked with bitterness, then despair. ‘Oh, Tommy, why did ye come? We both know there’s no possibility of raising the money to get me out o’ here, so ye might as well go home an’ forget about me.’

  ‘Like you seem to’ve done about me?’ she enquired sternly. ‘Buried yourself under a pile o’ straw, turned yer back on everything an’ everybody, thinkin’ if you kid yerself into believing that yer’ve nobody relying on yer that we’ll all go away? Well, here’s one as won’t.’ She tapped her chest. ‘An’ no amount o’ rejection on your part is gonna make me.’

  He rammed both arms through the bars and pulled her clumsily to him, imagining he could feel her warm body against his instead of iron and stone. ‘Oh, Tommy, Tommy, what are we going to do?’ His anguished face had begun to lose its healthy tan. ‘Is our marriage destined to be limited to a few snatched kisses through these damnable bars? ’Cause I couldn’t bear it, seeing ye but not being able to love ye.’

  ‘Better that than the way you tried to make it. Turning yer back on everything we ever had.’

  He lifted a dirty hand to stroke her hair and hesitantly forced out a sentence that had taken so much courage to compose and that she knew he did not mean for one second. ‘I wouldn’t blame ye if ye wanted to forget about me. You’re still a young woman, Tommy. What use to you is a husband that can offer ye nothing but his name? I’d understand if ye met someone else.’

  ‘An’ that was a sample o’ your understanding, was it?’ she asked dryly, with a sideways glance at the gaoler.

  He found no humour in her implication. ‘I mean it, Thomasin.’

  She was suddenly angry. ‘Patrick Feeney, I can’t ever have meant much to you if yer ready to palm me off on somebody else the minute yer in difficulties. Let me make it perfectly plain: you are not going to be rid of me – ever. As for finding a new husband, well, Mr Feeney, I already have a husband, thank you very much, an’ though he might not think he’s worth the price of last week’s newspaper I think differently. An’ despite your predictions you are going to get out of this place because I am going to get you out — savvy? Whatever it takes, whether you like it or not. Now then, seeing as we’ve got that little matter out o’ the way, yer can supply me with a list of your requirements. They can’t be feedin’ yer much in here by the look o’ yer, an’ I’ll bring you ’em tomorra.’ Her grey eyes never wavered in their determination, defying him to argue again.

  ‘Tommy,’ – there was a shadow of the old Patrick in his smile – ‘how could I ever have thought you’d take this lying down?’

  ‘There’s only one thing I take lying down, Patrick Feeney,’ she said, trying to coax laughter, ’an’ when you get out of ’ere that’ll be the first thing you get.’

  * * *

  Thomasin’s pledge of freedom was rather easier to give than to accomplish. Though her parents had donated everything they could spare and friends had rallied round with minute, but nevertheless welcome, contributions, the effect on the debt was but a nibble. Father Kelly joined the campaign, choosing not to mention to Thomasin just how much soul-searching he had undergone to provide his donation. His leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare and Greek mythology were very precious to him, but he had parcelled up his beloved tomes and had set off to look for a buyer. Thomasin teased the lid from the cocoa tin – the one reminder of things past – and counted out the money. There must be a quicker way of raising the cash. She had toyed with the possibility of putting Erin into service but was reluctant to do this until she found a suitable household, and besides, a few shillings per week could not help much.

  On her last visit to the prison Thomasin had recognised that Patrick’s spirits would not stand much more of being cooped up like an animal, that to free him she would have to employ more drastic methods than she had already tried. Patrick, she knew, would rather die than have her do what she was about to, but the thought of this dreadful partition augmented her resolve – after all, Patrick need neve
r know.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  ‘If it please m’Lud, would it be possible to call a short adjournment?’ Roland Cummings addressed the judge. ‘There has come to my notice further evidence which may prove crucial to my client’s defence. I should be most grateful for the opportunity to converse with him.’

  The judge readily agreed. His ageing joints had been troubling him unmercifully all morning and he was thankful for a chance to escape. It was nearly lunchtime anyway. He banged the gavel. ‘Court adjourned until ten o’clock precisely tomorrow morning!’ He was damned if he was sitting on this hard seat this afternoon.

  ‘Court rise!’

  Roland raised his eyes to study the ornate ceiling as the judge left the court, following the lines of the elaborate frieze encrusted with torch standards and festoons, rising to a circle of urns and honeysuckle. It was a fine room by any standards, the ribbed dome, at which he now stared, supported by eight unfluted columns, each decorated with gilded capitals, the walls lined with oak panelling. His gaze dropped abruptly as the judge disappeared and, gathering his brief, he reached over to exchange a few words with his client before the man was led away to the cells. Having told the man he would return to the prison this afternoon to discuss things in more detail he gave in to the pangs of hunger and, after removing his wig and robes, slipped out of the building to seek a tea shop.

  Passing Clifford’s Tower he felt the invariable shudder of unease. He could never explain this reaction, but somehow he always had the impression that something terrible had taken place at this spot. Perhaps it was only in his mind. Whatever, he was always relieved when it was out of sight, though even with the high outer wall of the castle between them the ‘Mince Pie’s’ forbidding presence made itself felt. He had just emerged from the massive gatehouse into Tower Street, eager to be out of its grip, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Fancy a good time, sir?’

  The familiar voice made him spin round in surprise. ‘Thomasin, my dear, how lovely to see you!’ She grinned as, with obvious pleasure, he grasped her hand to kiss it. ‘My, you look wonderful!’ His eyes roved the green silk dress that had been brought out of storage for this occasion, recognising it immediately. ‘Oh… such a delightful coincidence.’

  She allowed him to keep her hand. ‘Well, not exactly coincidence, Roly.’

  Alertness and a shade more surprise. ‘You were waiting for me?’

  She nodded; then the vision of Patrick on the other side of this buttressed gritstone wall produced an expression of detachment.

  His pleasure at seeing her after such a long absence caused him to misinterpret the situation. ‘The Irishman… it’s over?’ His old prediction – that by marrying the Irishman she would add twenty years to her true age – had not been accurate. What lines she had accumulated made her all the more attractive in his eyes. Only the hand he clasped bore signs of the life she had chosen.

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ she said hurriedly, noting the flicker of disappointment that met her correction. ‘He’s in yon place.’ She gestured at the prison wall.

  ‘As a prisoner?’

  ‘Well, no, he only went in to complain about the smell.’

  He guessed now the reason she was here, resented it slightly even though it was lovely to see her. ‘And you want me to get him out?’

  She sensed his feelings. ‘I know it’s askin’ a lot…’

  He straightened and said smartly: ‘Come, we cannot discuss your imbroglio here; we’ll go somewhere private.’ Tucking her hand under his arm he set off in the opposite direction to that which he had intended.

  She might have guessed where the somewhere private might be. The house in Hull Road was just as she had left it. Roland unlocked the door and ushered her into the hallway. Had there been anyone since her, she wondered, then mocked herself for a fool. Of course there had, he was flesh and blood like her. On the way here, at Roland’s request, they had stopped to purchase bread, butter and cooked ham. Throwing her shawl over the coatstand she took these into the kitchen and set out two plates whilst also making a pot of tea. It was all rather eerie, everything in the same place, as if time had travelled backwards.

  Whilst they ate – Roland heartily, Thomasin barely at all – she told him everything; how she had raised a lot towards the debt but there was still a great deal outstanding.

  The last of the bread disappeared into Roland’s mouth. ‘Has his case been tried?’

  ‘He’s been up before the beak but it’s been adjourned.’

  ‘And how many grounds of opposition can we expect?’ He saw that she didn’t understand and rephrased it. ‘Creditors, how many?’

  ‘Well… I’m not sure. He owes most of it to the builders’ merchant… an’ we couldn’t pay the rent. ’Course, I don’t suppose that matters now we’ve been chucked out.’

  ‘God, the man wants horse-whipping!’ He slammed the arm of his chair and rose to patrol the carpet. ‘If you had listened to me there would have been none of this.’

  But a look at her face calmed him. ‘Oh well, I suppose I’ll defend the blasted fool for your sake – but don’t hold out too much hope. What date is the next hearing?’

  ‘I don’t know… but that doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean I wanted you to defend him, Roly. I was hopin’ we could ’ave the matter settled before the case comes up – that could be months if there’s another adjournment.’

  He was only too aware of the workings of the legal system. ‘So, what you are really asking, Tommy – correct me if I am wrong — is for me to pay off your husband’s creditors so at the next hearing the case will most likely be dismissed.’ His tone had again become rather peevish. At her affirmation he came to stand by her chair. ‘And am I also right in thinking that you hoped this might just sway me?’ His fingers picked at a frill on the green dress.

  She could have choked herself for not handling this better; it must look so obvious to him now. ‘I thought it might remind yer what good friends we used to be…’

  ‘Used to be?’

  ‘Still are, I ’ope. Look, Roly, I wouldn’t ask yer for this if I weren’t desperate.’ She gave a sharp laugh. ‘I did consider goin’ on the streets first…’

  ‘Until you thought of good old Roland. How charming to know where one stands in your affections, Thomasin.’

  ‘I phrased that rather badly.’ Panic was beginning to stir; Roland was her last hope of raising the money in one swoop. She reached up, entreating. ‘What I meant was, I didn’t want it to look like I was just usin’ yer.’

  ‘But you are.’

  Her hand fell. ‘Yes.’

  He threw aside his childish pique then, to sit on the arm of her chair and clutch her to him, kissing her compassionately. ‘Oh, Tommy, it’s simply my jealousy speaking again. I do remember the good times we had – more frequently than you, I’d hazard. It makes me so angry to think what that fellow’s put you through. I’ve missed you terribly, you know.’ He tilted her chin with a long finger so that she was looking into his face. ‘I thought for a moment when I saw you waiting for me… but it has just turned out to be another of your business propositions, hasn’t it?’

  An apologetic nod.

  ‘Might it be too ambitious to hope that this could be conducted on a similar basis to our other ventures?’

  The longing on his face had spoken long before his words; had been half expected. She wondered, then, why she should feel disappointed in him. ‘I’m hardly in a position to barter, am I?’

  He knew from the way she said it, from her play of feature what she was hoping for; knew that out of affection for their past sorties he should offer her the money she so desperately needed and not exact reward; but he couldn’t; he wanted her.

  Thomasin watched the opposing expressions flicker over Roland’s unattractive features, where desire over-reached courtesy, and knew that her hopes of him were ill-founded. She could have said no, could have held her distance and drawn on the sympathy she knew was t
here, but fearing that this might cost her Patrick’s freedom, and telling herself it was only just exchange, she gave him what he sought.

  There was no hesitation. Roland, being the weak-willed character he was, took her with the old familiar gusto. That she wanted only his money seemed no hindrance and he was actually surprised when his normal expertise failed to rouse her.

  He paused and looked down into her troubled face. ‘It’s no use, is it?’

  She found it strange that he even had to ask and said so. ‘What we had was good fun, Roly, I’d be the first to say so, but that’s all over now. I belong to someone else, someone who, if I don’t get that money, is going to spend a long time in prison. Yer must understand that he’s the only reason I’m doin’ this; there’s no “old time’s sake” about it. I’m sorry to be so frank, but I must ’ave that cash.’

  Far from sapping his potency the thought of taking something to which he had no entitlement excited him further and he plunged furiously into her again and again, while the unresponsive body beneath tried to detach her mind, feeling oh, so wretched.

  It was over. Roland gave a last, satisfied shudder and was still. Seconds passed before he raised his face from the pillow and dared to look at her.

  ‘Tommy, what a weak, selfish boor I am. Can you ever forgive me?’

  ‘I seem to remember askin’ the same thing o’ you once,’ she replied calmly. ‘How could I refuse?’

  ‘I don’t know what came over me.’ He rolled off her, then answered himself. ‘Yes, I do. It’s because I knew there’d never be another chance, because you’re so dear to me I couldn’t bear to pass up the opportunity… how disgusting I must seem to you.’ She moved her head forgivingly. ‘Oh, Tommy, how I envy that husband of yours.’

  The mention of Patrick brought back the rush of guilt and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the vision of his dejected figure in the prison cell, as if he could read her sin.