Dusty tried to prevent her eyes from ogling the abandoned plates of bacon and eggs, saliva flooding her mouth. She was famished, but dared not unleash her appetite for fear of being labelled unfeeling. With no meal being offered last night – which was understandable in the circumstances – the few mouthfuls she had permitted herself had made little impact on her grumbling innards. She struggled for words, shunting a cruet around the white cloth. After being so skilfully coiffeured yesterday in London, her silver hair was now back to its untidy style with pins protruding everywhere; she was not very adept at this task herself. ‘I wonder,’ she began, ‘would it be in order to ask one of your maids to brush my hair up for me? It won’t take long, just…’
Erin cut in waspishly. ‘Why didn’t you bring your own maid with you?’
‘Well, you’re right I should have done, but I knew there’d be someone on the ship who I could hire for the voyage and I thought when I got here …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Erin, quite blatantly not sorry at all, ‘but we don’t have a lady’s maid. Mother and I do our own hair. There’s only Vinnie and I’m sure she’s got quite enough to do.’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ came Dusty’s quick reply. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you only had the one girl…’
Thomasin spoke softly. ‘If it’s just a matter of sticking a few hairpins in, I’m sure Vinnie can manage that.’
‘No, Erin’s quite right,’ said her daughter-in-law hastily.
‘And I can imagine that it might be a bit of an imposition, having us staying here at all what with everything happening.’ Her fingers toyed with the silver. ‘You’ll have enough with Sonny’s family coming over to stay. Dickie and I can go find a hotel.’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it, Dusty.’ Thomasin seemed transfixed by the woman’s fidgeting hand. ‘We’ve always managed to put our family up, we’ll manage again.’
Dusty forced her hands to settle into her lap and said beseechingly, ‘Isn’t there anything we can do? Anything at all?’
‘No, thank you, dear.’ Thomasin’s voice was hollow. ‘It’s all being taken care of.’ She noticed then how uncomfortable her son and his wife looked. ‘And there’s no reason for you to stay in moping either; you’re on holiday. Go for a drive or something. Erin’ll keep me company.’
Dusty looked enquiringly at her sister-in-law, who said in airy manner, ‘Oh, don’t spoil your holiday, go out and enjoy yourselves.’
‘Well … if you’re sure.’ Dusty felt the nudge of her husband’s foot again and retaliated by stamping on it. ‘We might go for a ride round town, just to reacquaint ourselves. We nearly got lost last night, with it being dark.’
Erin gave no response, and Thomasin had become distrait once more. ‘As you like, dear. We usually have lunch about one …’
Dickie rose. ‘Oh, don’t put the cook to any …’
‘Trouble on our account,’ finished Dusty, rising with him. Thomasin had noticed this trait earlier; her daughter-in-law had a habit of completing Dickie’s sentences. ‘We’ll find a restaurant.’
‘I don’t feel much like eating anyway,’ added Dick.
‘I suppose Father should be flattered.’ It was Erin again. ‘I’ve never known anything put you off your food before.’
Recognising that all this sarcasm was Erin’s way of limbering up for a big row, Dickie planned to accelerate proceedings. But his intended attack was foiled by Dusty who steered him out. Once in the hall, she scolded, ‘You’re not going to make yourself any more popular by arguing with her!’
Chastened, he slipped an arm round her waist, fingers stroking. ‘I know … I can understand the way she feels, I just don’t think I want to put up with it for much longer.’ His eyes drifted up the stairs to where his father’s body lay. ‘I still can’t believe it, Dust. I expected him to be the one to deal out the pezzling …’
Dusty put her hand over his. He had kept her awake most of last night talking about his father. She glanced across the panelled hall where the door to the kitchen had opened, enframing the maid. Vinnie, too, was in mourning dress, but unlike her mistress she had put on weight since its last wearing; the fastenings on the black paramatta fought to constrain two very round breasts. She bobbed in deference as she passed on her way to the bedrooms.
Dickie’s eyes remained on the staircase, but instinct told Dusty that his thoughts were not solely confined to Patrick’s body now. She felt a whiff of disgust and tugged his arm, bringing his surprised face down to hers. My God, he doesn’t even realise when he’s doing it, despaired his wife. She broke free and, with a futile shove at her hairpins, snapped, ‘Come on, get your coat!’
After some ponderance at the car, they decided to go on foot; they were tired, but the cold damp wind might help to revive them and besides, with the streets full of traffic it would be difficult to negotiate the car if they were unsure of their bearings. The greasy pavements were strewn with bits of paper, wet leaves and strands of pine dropped from someone’s Christmas tree on their way home. A dainty-fingered urchin picked horse dung from the cobbles as if it were precious treasure. Folk rushed past, heads down against the wind, lifting them only to shout a ‘Happy New Year!’ to an acquaintance. Carts and carriages vied for leeway, their occupants shouting, swearing, singing, unaware of the Feeneys’ loss. Uncanny, how the streets on which both had grown up now seemed unfamiliar. Blank spaces marked the demolition of church and public house alike. Only the odd landmark caused them to exclaim, ‘Oh, I know where we are now!’ and laugh fondly at each other.
At the top of Coppergate, however, they became lost. Dickie frowned and looked first to his right then his left as carriages and the odd motor car whizzed by, their wheels blurred by muddy spray. ‘I don’t remember this, d’you?’
His wife was equally mystified. ‘No… they’re all modern-looking buildings down there.’ She huddled into the velvet collar of her grey threequarter-length coat, feeling on a par with the weather, then glanced at the nameplate of another street which branched off to her left. ‘Oh, that’s Castlegate, look. What they’ve done is knock all those Water Lanes down – well, the best part of them, anyway – and cut a new road through. D’you remember? They used to lead down to the river.’
At first Dickie chewed on a gloved knuckle, unable to visualise the slums as they had been … then a smile began to spread over his face.
Dusty knew that look well and observed cryptically, ‘I see you do remember.’
His features became saturnine and he announced with great drama, ‘It was down one o’ those very lanes that a woman robbed me of my virtue.’ He threw back his head and laughed at the face she made, then pulled her into his side. ‘No need for jealousy, my wee Primrose.’ This was his wife’s real name. ‘It was over thirty years ago. Ah, what a sweet innocent I was then. I can recall it as if it were yesterday … ah dear, what it was to be fourteen. I really thought I was it.’
‘Some things never change,’ observed his wife dryly.
Dickie was still reminiscing with a dreamy grin, his thumb unconsciously stretching the black band that restricted his arm. ‘Ye know, I remember just about everything about that house …’ Coming back to the present he clicked his tongue. ‘Sad to say it looks like it’s been swept away on the tide of progress.’
The slanting green eyes were mocking. ‘What a shame, we could’ve erected a brass plaque saying, Here began Richard William Feeney’s life of debauchery.’
‘Aw, now now, Primmy.’ He used this diminutive when he wanted to tease. A gloved finger harpooned his stomach, drawing a gasp, and she uttered the hope that she was not to be regaled with all his old conquests at every turn of the way. ‘Christ no, I can’t even remember the second time.’ He jerked his head to avoid a cuff and added charmingly, ‘Unlike the romantic trysts I spent with my precious wife, of which I can recall every moment.’
‘Louse,’ said his wife under her breath, but it was good to see Dick laughing after the sorrow of last night. He ha
d begun to move in his habitual jaunty gait, face creased in smiles. Erin, of course, would take this as a sign of indifference to his father’s death – in fact everyone viewed him as a bluff sort who hadn’t a care in the world – but Dusty knew him better than anyone and did not need to see blood as evidence of his hurting.
After travelling another fifty yards along the unfamiliar Clifford Street, Dusty paused by the imposing gritstone wall of York Castle and remarked. ‘Well, that’s still here.’
‘Mm.’ Dickie nodded half-interestedly and tilted the brim of his hat against the drizzle.
‘You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?’
For some reason she sounded angry, bringing his face down to say that of course he did. ‘Then why were you looking at the Castle? I was referring to the café where we used to meet.’
‘I know you were.’ A practised liar, his blue eyes never flickered. ‘I was just remembering when Dad was locked up in there, that’s all.’ He nodded at the towering, soot-engrained buttresses.
It had the effect of diverting her annoyance. ‘Your father was in prison? I never knew that.’
‘It’s not the sort o’ thing a prosperous fella likes to remember.’ While he told her about it, Dickie pretended to be deep in the past, but in truth his eyes were searching for the café which he was supposed to remember. Dammit, there were two of them – which one was it? ‘Course, us kids didn’t know at the time, we just thought he’d gone away …’ Whilst still talking, he cast his mind back twenty-six years to the weeks before he and Dusty had set sail for America. He could remember very well what had happened between them, but he was damned if he could recall a common or garden tea house – but she was expecting him to. Oh bloody hell … he would just have to take pot luck. ‘Anyway,’ he concluded, ‘it’s hardly the time to be talking about the old fella’s shortcomings with him barely cold, is it? You were saying about our café – would ye like to go an’ have a cup o’ coffee?’
Dusty studied him shrewdly. ‘That’d be nice. I’d prefer tea though – and something to eat; I’m starving.’
Make it the right one, prayed Dickie as he and his wife waited for a horse tram to rumble past, then picked their way across the dung-spattered cobbles to the café. Much to his relief, there was no angry report as he opened the door for her and followed her inside.
While he flirted with the waitress and passed on their order, Dusty gazed from the window. Don’t be stupid, she told herself, it’s only a damned café. How could he be expected to remember when the street’s been altered so much? He remembered the other place though, didn’t he? Again, she derided herself – how can you possibly be jealous of something that happened years before he met you? Because I am! I bloody well am and I could kill her whoever she was.
The waitress had finally wrenched herself away to fetch their tea. Dickie reached across the tablecloth for his wife’s hand. ‘The very last time we sat here I asked you to marry me.’ He sat to attention and looked pained. ‘Well, what are you looking so surprised about? I said I remembered, didn’t I?’ She had to smile at his posturing. ‘Dusty,’ his eyes and voice were reproachful, ‘how could you ever think I’d forget a thing like that? I seem to recall that I also told you how much I loved ye.’ He kissed her hand warmly. ‘An’ I still do.’
What does it matter if he doesn’t remember the place, Dusty asked herself, returning his fond smile and patting his hand. ‘And I still love you,’ she told him.
Then the tea came.
* * *
Sonny telephoned his mother on his arrival in Leeds to relay the undertaker’s plans. He himself returned in the afternoon with his wife, daughters and four year old son, Paddy. As promised he carried a black suit for his brother, into which Dickie was now changing. He brought, also, the news that they probably wouldn’t see Nick before the funeral on Friday, or Thursday afternoon at the earliest. ‘I don’t think Win’s feeling too good really, and anyhow Nick’s got the store to look after.’
‘That bloody store, your father would have said,’ smiled Thomasin, who had not visited nor even mentioned any one of her chain of shops since coming back from Ireland; not purely out of concern for Pat, but also because for once in her life she bore no inclination to drown her grief in work. She was seventy-four years old; until last week this had had no bearing on her ability, but with Pat’s death she suddenly felt her age. Before going to Ireland to find him she had upgraded one of the long-serving assistants to manager of the York store; Francis had informed her that the man was coping well.
She looked round expectantly. ‘Where’s Josie and Carrot-top then?’ Only Sonny and the girls had entered the drawing room where a moment ago they had undergone a wet reception from their grandmother and Aunt Erin, before being introduced to their aunt from America.
Her son smiled. ‘She’s just smartening Paddy up, they want to make a grand entrance. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.’
‘What have you told him about his grandad?’ asked Thomasin, prodding her eye corners with a handkerchief. She knew the girls were greatly upset by Patrick’s death, but with their ages ranging from eleven to twenty they were all able to cope with their grief. Paddy was only four – could barely understand.
Sonny cleared his throat and made a little sound. The onlookers could not tell if it was meant to convey sorrow or amusement. ‘How do you tell a four year old about death? I said that Grandad wouldn’t be here this time because Jesus had taken him to live in Heaven. He asked where Heaven was and I said it was a long way away. He said, “Is it near Scarborough?”’ There was a soft collective chuckle; Paddy had never stopped talking about Scarborough since being taken there for a day last September. ‘I said it was a bit further than that. He said, “Is there a seaside at Heaven?” Well, what can you say to that? I told him there probably was.’ Sonny inhaled deeply. ‘He then asked, when is Grandad coming back? I said, “Grandad won’t be coming back because he has to stay with Jesus.” Well, you know what a terror he is. He kept asking if he could go and see Grandad in Heaven.’
‘Has it really sunk in then, d’ye think?’ asked Erin softly.
‘Oh, I think so.’ Her brother grinned though his eyes brimmed with moisture. ‘He said, “When I see that blinkin’ Jesus I’m going to smack him for taking my grandad.”’
There was tearful laughter. At this point the door opened to admit Dickie, Josie and a tiny red-haired boy. Thomasin shoved her handkerchief away quickly and opened her arms. ‘Aw, he’s been breeched!’ True enough, the little boy’s dresses had been discarded; the legs that ran towards her were encased in white woollen trousers. Thomasin hooked her hands under her grandson’s armpits to lift him onto her lap and kissed him heartily. ‘Let’s have a good look at you – by, a proper lad! What did you get for your birthday?’
‘A wugby ball,’ beamed Paddy. His father often took him to rugby matches.
His grandmother laughed. ‘A wugby ball, eh? I bet that wasn’t your mother’s idea – hello, Jos. I see you’ve already bumped into our black sheep. Has he changed much?’
Josie was cast from the homely mould. Once, her spouse’s description of her as Rubenesque might have been permissible, but now with two decades of marital contentment pumping her girth it could only be classed as loyalty. Her one saving grace was that the eighteen stones were evenly distributed, from her frog-like chin and great bosoms to the little blebs of fat that pouched from either side of her wedding ring. But if Josie’s attributes were not to be seen in any mirror, they were constantly on display: generosity, patience and motherliness – none of them exciting to a man like Dickie, nevertheless he twined his arm round her corseted waist and squeezed, beating her to an answer. ‘This glorious piece o’ womanhood looks even better than I remember. I could take a bite out of her right now if it wasn’t nearly teatime.’
Josie pushed him off with a blush and a recriminating laugh. They had barely known each other before he had gone to America and here he was taking libertie
s! ‘He hasn’t changed at all,’ she told her mother-in-law in mock severity.
Dickie fell away as if wounded and turned his attention to his nieces, dealing each a slice of his special kind of flattery. The two elder girls, Elizabeth and Sophia, were twenty and nineteen but could have been taken for twins. They were of a similar build to their mother, though matronly rather than obese, their whaleboned breasts protruding like corbels. Both had wavy, pale auburn hair, white skin that had a tendency to freckle in summer, round faces – Elizabeth’s slightly jollier – and grey eyes. On being asked if they were ladies of leisure, they told their uncle that, being modern girls, they worked at their father’s mill.
‘God love us,’ scoffed Dickie. ‘All that brass an’ he’s got his own daughters picking wool.’
Elizabeth laughed along with her father. ‘Not quite. I work in the design office and Sophia’s in accounts.’
‘How come ye’ve such posh voices?’ asked Dickie.
‘Oh, that’s to be credited to their governess,’ Josie replied with a significant glance at her daughters. ‘They’re always pulling me up over words.’
Elizabeth and Sophia looked suitably abashed. Their mother had been something of a hindrance to them, especially when friends came to the house. Aside from her accent, the content of her speech could also be very obtuse. Sophia in particular felt crippled at having her for a parent and was sure that only by reason of their father’s celebrity as an artist were they saved from total ridicule.
‘And is either of ye spoken for?’ Dickie was asking. When both shook their frizzy heads – again, silently attributing the lack of partners to some fault of their mother – he looked aggrieved. ‘Ah dear, the men round Leeds must be very backward. I shall have to give them a few lessons on how to court a lady.’ Sonny was much amused at the chat – his brother was never happier than when surrounded by women. Dickie turned to the next daughter. ‘Has your father got you slaving for him an’ all – what’s your name, by the way?’
Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 6
