At the sight of his mother’s facial collapse, Dickie grabbed the priest’s elbow and steered him firmly to the door. ‘There’s only one bastard around here an’ if he’s not down those stairs in ten seconds I’m gonna give him a helpful shove – an’ don’t tell me I’ll go to Hell ’cause I’m probably going there anyway. Goodnight!’ He shut the door, took a second in which to compose himself as best he could, then turned to face the bed.
Erin found voice to chastise her mother. ‘How could you?’ she hissed in Thomasin’s ear.
‘Enough,’ snapped Thomasin, then forced a smile for her husband as she approached the bed and told him, ‘Look who’s here, Pat.’
Patrick, seemingly unmoved by his wife’s altercation with the priest, made a weak gesture for his elder son to come nearer. Still pallid from the shock, Dickie had to be physically drawn to the bedside by his mother. Even when he was close to and looking down at his father, he still could not credit what was happening.
The old man smiled and held up a trembling finger. ‘Dickie …’
His son, mouth agape, accepted the withered hand between his own big ones. ‘Hello, Dad,’ he managed to stutter cheerfully.
Pat gazed on him for a while, feeling a sense of completion, then spoke in a pain-filled drawl to his wife. ‘Ye look tired, muirnin … go to bed now … an’ the rest of yese. I’m buggered if I want to watch y’all fallin’ asleep.’
Thomasin, guessing that he wished to talk to their elder son alone, began to comply, telling him she would come back soon, but her other son replied, ‘I’m not tired, Dad. I’ll stay while Mother gets some rest.’
Thomasin saw the look on Patrick’s face; he didn’t want to hurt his youngest by telling him to leave. ‘You can come back in a while, Sonny. I think your dad just needs a word with your brother in private.’
Sonny gave a comprehending, ‘Oh …’ and, along with the others, made to retire. Erin shared his disinclination, but finally wrenched herself from her father’s side, taking her leave with a kiss. The past few days had been rich with kisses. Each time she left the room she pressed her lips to his cheek, fearing it would be the last.
Thomasin bent to kiss him, too. ‘Don’t be nattering all night. I’m sure the doctor’d like to get to his own bed, he’s been here for ages.’
Seeing that the physician was about to exit with the rest, Patrick stopped him. ‘Wait, Doc … I’ll just have a word with me son then I’ll take the medicine like a good lad an’ let ye get home.’
Thomasin hovered in the doorway, watching the scene for a second or two, then closed the door. On the landing, she looked at her son’s wife and smoothed a hand over her brow as if in confusion. ‘I’m sorry, Dusty… I haven’t even said hello to you.’ She was still tense over the priest’s deplorable act.
‘Oh my, don’t apologise!’ Dusty’s slanting green eyes displayed compassion. Thomasin stared into them. Even as a girl her daughter-in-law had never been pretty or stylish, with a snub nose, a hot temper and an overwide mouth that was given to issuing orders, but these eyes had compensated for all her faults. This still held true, though after all these years there would be even more faults to hide, thought Thomasin, consciously seeking them. Strange, how they eluded her critical gaze. Thomasin decided that the expertly-cut outfit was probably a lot to do with it. Anyone could look good with that amount of money on their back. She can’t really be that slim, not at her age … or maybe it’s the hair. Thomasin’s eyes rose. The tangled locks had been coiffed by some professional hand into a style which she considered too youthful for one so silver. You liked her once, said a voice in her head. Yes… I did. Thomasin’s eyes became less subjective, and she was forced to concede that the attractiveness was not all camouflage. Still deep in examination, she started on realising that the petite woman was speaking.
‘I feel as if we shouldn’t be here at all …’ Dusty looked ill at ease. Her voice, remarkably, was still quite English. Only with certain words did one catch a trace of American. ‘We had no idea about Mr Feeney.’
Thomasin did not enlarge on Patrick’s illness, just wrapped her shawl around her and said forlornly to the gathering, ‘We’d better wait where it’s warmer,’ and headed the procession downstairs.
Dickie was still gaping down at his father. ‘God… I didn’t know.’ He sank onto a chair, holding Patrick’s hand. ‘Sonny never said anything in his letters …’
‘Don’t blame your brother,’ murmured Pat. ‘He didn’t know either … none of them did till a short while ago.’ Dickie seemed hypnotised by the condition of his father’s hand. One of his thumbs stroked constantly at a bone which jutted through the transparent skin. Many a time he had felt this hand round his backside – how it had stung! – now it barely had the strength to return his grip. He shook his head in disbelief for the third time and opened his mouth to speak, but was pre-empted by his father.
‘Excuse me, son … I need a bottle.’
Dickie’s hand reached out to hover uncertainly over the decanter on the bedside table. When he looked to his father for instruction, the old face was contorted.
‘Oh, God!’ Pat’s body shook with painful laughter. ‘I ask for a bottle an’ everyone automatically thinks I mean whiskey!’ Tears in his eyes, he turned helplessly to the doctor who came over and inserted the correct bottle under the bedclothes. They had wanted to catheterise him but he would not let them. ‘Thanks, Doc …’ The man retreated into the background and Pat looked upon his somewhat embarrassed son. ‘Oh, Dickie … ’tis great to have a laugh with ye again …’ He shook his smiling face, closed his eyes and was silent for a moment.
Dickie looked down at his own hands. One of his fingers wore a gold ring set with a diamond. His thumbnail scratched at it, played it this way and that to catch the light.
‘Can ye take it out for me now, son?’
‘Sure.’ Dickie came to life, lifted the bedclothes and removed the bottle. Never in a million years could he have imagined himself doing this for his father! He sat there for a second, felt the warmth of the urine through the glass, then slipped the receptacle under the bed.
Patrick’s expression changed. ‘Now listen … before anything else is said, I have to get this off me chest, son. ’Tis about Rosie’s killer – don’t interrupt, ’tis important. I can’t tell your mother or Sonny… not now when they’ve got this … bloody ould nuisance to worry about… but they have to know some time. If I tell it to you, then maybe in a month or so…’ In stilted fashion, he told his son about his unexpected meeting in Ireland with his grand-daughter’s murderer. Each sentence became increasingly difficult to form. At the end of his statement he was nearing exhaustion. The crackling in his throat became even more pronounced. Dickie begged him to take it easy and promised to relay the confession to his mother and brother when the time was right.
‘Oh, God,’ slurred Pat, closing his eyes. ‘That’s a relief.’ For a time he remained thus, chest rising and falling noisily. Then, opening his eyes, he said with a faintly mischievous gleam in them, ‘Will ye have a drink with me, son?’
Dickie gave a sideways glance at the doctor who stood some distance away and was pretending not to have heard. Loosing his father’s hand, he rose and took up the glass that had been Nick’s. Placing it alongside the one his father had been using, he filled both with whiskey. A wry smile distorted his mouth. ‘I might’ve expected a smack in the gob, I might even have expected a kick up the arse but I never once expected ye’d be plyin’ me with drink – is it that ye have to get me plastered before ye dole out the come-uppance?’
‘Ye wee scallywag,’ growled Patrick. ‘I could still whip you with both arms tied behind me back.’
‘Ah, go way with ye.’ Dickie pressed one of the glasses into his father’s hand which stayed resting on the bedcovers, and raised his own in salute. ‘Sláinte.’
‘May the road rise up to meet ye.’ Patrick forced his trembling hand to lift the glass but it did not rise two inches before the old
face grimaced with agony. ‘Ah, Jesus …’ and the contents splashed over the bedspread.
The doctor came hurrying over and snatched up the hypodermic. Dickie winced as the needle pierced his father’s flesh and looked away swiftly. Something was thrust at him; it was the empty glass. Still averting his eyes, he fumbled over it and put it on the table along with his own untouched drink. ‘Is he gonna be all right?’ He chanced a squeamish look.
The doctor endowed a sardonic glance whilst removing the needle, but otherwise ignored him, confining his efforts to easing Patrick’s trauma. Dickie looked on helplessly. His father’s face was still deformed with suffering.
The large dose of morphine began to take effect. As Pat’s eyelids drooped, the physician started to pack his instruments away. At a loss, Dickie sat down again and took his father’s hand.
‘Ye know,’ croaked Patrick drowsily, ‘I’ll never understand … how ye could do it to your mother. To me, yes, I was a hard man with ye sometimes … but not to Tommy. Ye get your selfishness from me. Tried all my life to lose it… thought I was being … considerate when I slunk off to Ireland. Didn’t realise it was just another form of self-indulgence … that I was robbing Tommy of last precious moments. Promise me, Richard,’ came the strained plea. ‘Swear to me … ye won’t give your mother any more pain.’
Dickie kneaded his father’s fingers. ‘I promise.’
Pat’s head lolled. ‘Ah, the old glib tongue …’
‘I mean it,’ swore the other man urgently. ‘I never meant to hurt her, or you. It was just…’ He shrugged and looked down at the prominent veins in his father’s hand.
‘Just youth.’ Patrick smiled, eyes flickering. ‘That Dusty tamed ye, has she?’ At his son’s sheepish nod, he added, ‘Ah, I’d like to have a bit o’ crack with her … she’s a good lass, good for you … but I can’t keep these bloody eyes open. Maybe tomorrow … Just sit there an’ tell me all about your life in America … all the years I’ve missed.’
‘I never intended to cause ye so much heartache, ye know,’ said his son and gestured helplessly. ‘Christ …’
‘Ssh, ssh, enough … just tell me about America. Is it a good life ye have there?’
In spite of the moment, Dickie conjured a smile and stroked his father’s claw-like hand. ‘Ah, ’tis a hell of a place. Ye’d never believe the size of it, Dad.’ He launched into a rambling monologue about all the wonders he had found in the United States, telling his father how happy he had been with Dusty, about his house in New York … when the eyes that had been riveted lovingly on his face, closed.
Dickie stopped in mid-sentence and leaned forward.
Pat’s eyelids lifted, drawing a breath of relief from his son. The wizened lips stretched wide and muttered, ‘Ńa bíodh eagla ort – don’t be afraid,’ and motioned for Dickie to carry on speaking, which he did, until he realised that his father was no longer conscious. Abandoning his contrived geniality, he presented a frown to the doctor who was ready to leave.
‘He’ll sleep for a good while now.’ The physician swung his bag from the table top.
Dickie relaxed his taut features and moved his gaze back to his father. ‘Ah, well … I’m not doing much good here. I suppose I might as well go down …’ He pushed back his chair, but a succession of thoughts still anchored him to the bedside.
The doctor was making for the door when he caught the alteration in Patrick’s breathing and came back at once to check on his patient. ‘You’d better fetch your mother.’ His hand lay on Pat’s temple. When there was no movement from Dickie he spun and said sharply, ‘Right now, please!’ Overburdened with all that had happened in the last ten minutes, Dickie was slow in responding to the command. His father gave a long sigh.
The doctor sighed too, and dropped his chin to his chest, losing all urgency. Finally, he straightened and faced Dickie. ‘I’m sorry … he’d waited a long time to see you. Are you going to tell your family or would you like me to?’
The dark eyebrows fused in bewilderment. ‘He’s … ?’ When the doctor nodded, Dickie took a quick step backwards and ground a hand over his mouth. His stunned blue eyes watched a tear trickle down the side of his father’s nose before he said jerkily, ‘No … no, I’ll tell them,’ and backed away to the stairs. The first door he opened produced an empty room; not having visited this house before he was unsure where to find them. However, he was spared long investigation by Sonny who, hearing movements from the hall, came out of the drawing room and summoned his brother inside. At the appearance of her elder son, Thomasin put her hands on the chair arms and heaved herself upwards. ‘Right, if he’s finished with you I’ll go …’
‘He’s gone, Mam,’ said her son.
She sat back and trained questioning eyes on him. The look was mirrored by Erin, Nick and Sonny.
Dickie repeated his statement as if disbelieving it himself. ‘Dad’s gone.’
* * *
Even in the expectation of his death, the shock was no less. After a spontaneous burst of grief, the family congregated for one last time in Patrick’s room. Thomasin stared down at her husband on his deathbed, and yet was seized by a strong desire to look, instead, at the ceiling. No longer was Patrick in that tortured husk; she felt his spirit soaring about the room. On impulse, she crossed to the window and pushed up the sash, murmuring tenderly, ‘There you go, lad.’
Catching her children’s observation, she smiled through her misery. ‘Daft, isn’t it? But living so long with his soft Irish ways … well, as Molly Flaherty would say, “An’ how would his soul be escapin’ if we don’t open the windows for him?”’
Erin began to sob again, comforted by her younger brother. Nick offered a handkerchief, not yet able to accept the reality. Dickie watched them all supporting each other and felt a wider gulf than that which even the Atlantic had put between them. Out of respect, Dusty had stayed downstairs; he felt very much alone.
The doctor had been scribbling on a piece of paper which he now tore off the pad and handed to Thomasin, telling her it bore the details of Patrick’s death. Kindness had steered his pen. There was no mention of the dreaded word – only, Progressive disease of the liver. He enquired about Patrick’s laying out. ‘If you like I could …’
‘No, we’ve detained you long enough, Doctor.’ Unconsciously, Thomasin folded and refolded the piece of paper until it would bend no more. ‘And your job’s to tend the living.’
The man looked somewhat shamed. ‘Actually, I was going to say I could fetch Nurse back.’
‘No, no, we won’t drag her from her bed.’ Thomasin did not want anyone else doing this for Patrick. ‘I’ll see to it. It’s the least I can do for him …’ The doctor gave what he hoped was a comforting smile. Thomasin shook his hand. ‘Thank you for all your kindness. You’ve been a great help to all of us.’
The man nodded a goodnight to the others. Thomasin asked Erin to see him out and then send Vinnie up with water and other essentials. Erin tarried, passing the back of her hand over a bloodshot eye. ‘I’ll come and help ye, Mam. He might be a bit heavy.’
Her mother looked pityingly at the body. ‘There’s hardly any flesh left on the poor lad … eh dear, when I think …’ She shook her head briskly, as much to drive away her pain as to negate Erin’s offer. ‘No, love, he’s my husband, I’ll do it. If I need help I’ll shout. Go on now, all of you and leave me with your father.’ Go, please go, she urged silently. When they did, she added a soft goodnight. ‘I won’t come down again. One of you see to things downstairs for me, will you?’
When alone, she stood there for some time looking about her, then squeezed her eyes shut against her bereavement and chuckled wetly. ‘You haven’t gone, have you, you old varmint? You’re waiting to see how I perform with this … think you’ll have a good laugh at me.’ She broke off as Vinnie crept in with her requirements. Telling the maid to put the bowl on the far bedside table, she watched her tiptoe about the room. ‘I’d appreciate it if that Christmas greenery was dis
posed of before I come down tomorrow, Vinnie,’ she requested in soft tone.
Vinnie looked slightly shocked. ‘Oh but, ma’am, it’s bad luck to take it down before Twelfth Night.’
Thomasin raised a cynical smile and looked upon her dead husband. ‘You’re joking aren’t you, Vinnie?’
A guilty flush prefixed the words. ‘Oh … yes, ma’am, I’m sorry. Me and John’ll get rid of it, of course.’ Vinnie bustled over to the dressing table and flung a cloth over its mirror. Thomasin said she could take the decanter and glasses down with her, too. ‘Yes’m.’ She displayed great care in handling the glasses, not in fear of damaging the expensive crystal, but the greater fear of contamination. Ever since Cook had told her the nature of Mr Feeney’s disease, each trip to the sickroom had posed this terrifying threat. When she closed the door now she would rush down to the kitchen and throw the glasses in the dustbin, as had been the fate of all other crockery upon which the master’s lips had rested. Then she would plunge her hands into near red-hot water and scrub and scrub until her skin was almost raw. Thank God the mistress had not asked her to assist in his laying out. With Thomasin’s thanks she crept from the room.
Thomasin hesitated, then began to roll up her sleeves. ‘Well…’ it came as a shuddering sigh, ‘if you’re not going yet we might as well shut the window else I’ll be freezing to death.’ The sash was hauled down and the curtains closed, each movement performed in a state of automation. She turned back to the bed, twisting her wedding ring round and round; for almost fifty years it had encircled her finger. She looked at the gold band, each scratch upon it suddenly acquiring new significance. Her eyes came up to review the backdrop, the sight of the abandoned rosary beads provoking anger. Snatching them from the bedspread she flung them aimlessly aside. They landed with a clatter against a wooden chair, then slid off. With the anger still thudding in her breast, she peeled the whiskey-stained covers right back over the foot of the bed.
Removing Pat’s nightshirt was more of a struggle than she had anticipated. ‘You old sod, all your life you refuse to wear one of these things and now you won’t part…’ Breathless after the fight, she leaned on the bed column, looking at his skeletal body with its swollen abdomen, remembering how it used to be, thinking too of her own body’s decline, then said, ‘Away then … let’s get started.’
Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 4
