Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4)

by Sheelagh Kelly

  She folded her arms under her breast. ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘I see.’ Dickie smiled knowingly. ‘Now the religious ceremony’s over, the ritual slaughter begins. I wondered when ye’d get down to it.’

  ‘Yes, well some of us do have respect for our dead father,’ she responded, before launching straight into her planned speech. ‘You come back here expecting us all to welcome ye with open arms – well, let me tell you that this one!’ – she stabbed her chest – ‘this one is never going to forgive ye for what ye’ve done to our family. You killed him! Ye know that.’ Before he could ask how she had worked that out, she told him. ‘The times he an’ Mother forgave ye, took ye back. When I think of the way they mourned you after that fire, called you a bloody hero! My God! And they each blamed themselves for your death. Would ye credit that? I had to watch my parents grow further and further apart because of you! Mam spent every hour at her shop ’cause she couldn’t bear the thought of being at home with him because he reminded her so much of you – though God knows the resemblance is only skin deep!’

  ‘Why, Erin,’ said her brother affably, ‘I didn’t realise I’d upset ye quite so much. You’ll be giving me a refund next.’ At her frown of incomprehension, he told her, ‘The money I left ye in my will, remember? Ye won’t be wanting it now if I’m so repulsive to ye.’ Gritting her teeth, Erin sped from the room. ‘Er … don’t forget the twenty-six years’ interest!’ he called merrily.

  She was back in no time at all to fling a cheque at him. ‘There! You’re right, I want nothing from you!’

  Dickie smiled pleasantly and looked at the angry scrawl on the cheque. ‘I can’t quite make this out. Pay A. Bastard … ’

  ‘Ye’ve no conscience at all, have ye?’ yelled Erin. ‘You slither in after twenty-six years an’ expect everybody to throw their arms around you! Well, I know your game …’

  ‘Oh, do ye?’ Dickie pocketed the cheque and folded another article of clothing into the case.

  ‘Yes, I bloody-well do! I’ve realised what all this is about; all ye’ve come here for is to scout for some children because your wife can’t have any.’

  ‘Hogwash!’ he sneered. ‘If I wanted children I didn’t need to come thousands o’ miles, I could’ve got them in America.’

  Erin mirrored his scorn. ‘I don’t doubt you’ve sired any amount, but not on your wife. Why else would she be visiting Belle’s children unless she was after adopting one?’

  Dick grabbed another shirt. ‘Hang it all! She’s had to have something to do while I’ve been in Ireland.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that! Well, let me tell you that if I have my say ye won’t be getting your children from Belle or anybody else, because you’re not fit to be a father!’

  In the brief raging pause, her brother said in defence, ‘Look, Erin, I can understand ye feeling that way about me, but taking it out on Dusty …’

  ‘I have no cause to feel sympathy for Dusty! She’s as much to blame as you are. She could’ve written to Mother an’ Father at any time to say you were alive but she didn’t, so don’t either of ye expect me to feel sorry for yese, ye’ve got everything ye deserve.’

  Dickie ceased trying to be reasonable. ‘You ought to get married again, our lass. Being deprived of a man’s turned you into a right bitch.’

  ‘And you’re a … shithouse!’ she yelled before storming out.

  Dickie stared at the door for a second, then, in angry fashion, resumed his packing. Who the devil was she to tell him he wasn’t fit to be a parent? He was as good as anybody else, and if he wanted to adopt those children then he sure as hell would!

  * * *

  They travelled to Leeds in Dickie’s car as, prior to their trip to Ireland, Sonny had come to York by train. The younger brother was given control of the steering wheel. Despite this occupation, he could not help noticing how unusually subdued Dickie was. After a few miles of silence, he just had to comment on it. ‘I noticed our sister followed you when you went to pack.’

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Dickie, staring out at the winter fields. ‘She’s had her little word with me.’ His brother said he hoped it was a forgiving one. ‘Has “shithouse” become a term of endearment in my absence?’

  His wife looked highly disapproving. ‘Erin wouldn’t be so vulgar.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she? If we’re allowed to stay there long enough ye’ll hear better words than that. She might look like a lady but somebody forgot to inform her gob. That bloody sister of ours, Son … she’s gonna try an’ put the kibosh on our adoption plans.’

  Dusty sat upright, gripping the back of the driver’s seat. ‘You didn’t say anything when I came in!’ He had simply given her two minutes to throw some clothes into a bag and whisked her into the car.

  ‘That’s because I don’t intend for it to make any difference,’ he said blithely. ‘It’s not Lady Effingham who has the say.’

  Dusty brushed the reassurance aside. ‘Just tell me what was said, if you please!’ When Dickie conveyed the brief details of the exchange, she groaned and covered her mouth. Her brother-in-law tried to offer some comfort, saying that Belle wouldn’t be swayed by what her mother said, she would make up her own mind. Behind the worried green eyes, Dusty’s mind fumbled for a solution. ‘Maybe if I speak to Erin …’

  ‘Don’t,’ advised her husband.

  Dusty bounced up and down with the motion of the car over the rough road. ‘I’ve got to repair the damage you’ve …’

  ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘Why? Come on, Dickie, you haven’t told me everything, have you?’ Even under her glare, he refused to enlarge, but she guessed. ‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘She blames me as well.’

  ‘There’s no reason for you to take any notice o’ what she thinks, Dust.’

  ‘She still thinks it though, doesn’t she?’ Dusty looked at the back of her brother-in-law’s head and asked softly, ‘Do you blame me, Sonny, for not letting you know Dick and I were together?’

  ‘’Course not.’ Sonny looked to right and left at the junction, then pulled across the road. ‘I blame that wretch sitting beside you.’ His tone conveyed that it was not a genuine accusation.

  Dickie took her gloved hand. ‘Don’t worry, darlin’. Son’ll put in a good word for us with Belle, won’t ye, Son?’

  Sonny didn’t answer. How could he honestly tell his niece that Dick would make a good father? He had no idea of the kind of living that his brother was making for himself in America, nor of his motives for wanting the children – was it just to please his wife? He had said himself that he felt nothing for them. Would Dick be as irresponsible to them as he had been towards the rest of his family?

  He changed the subject. ‘We’ll cheer you up when we get to Leeds, Dusty,’ he said brightly over his shoulder. ‘Those girls of ours’ll keep you occupied.’

  * * *

  Sonny’s house was actually situated outside the borough of Leeds at Roundhay, away from the smoking chimneys of mill and factory. In this elevated position its eight gables were visible for some time before they reached it. It had been built for its previous owner in the early 1870s, making it a mere youngster beside Thomasin’s Georgian residence. Even so, it lacked some of Peasholme’s more modern facilities. It was smaller too, but here the disparity ceased for, being away from the city, almost every window displayed a section of rolling Yorkshire countryside.

  The interior, as might be expected, was furnished with materials designed by the owner. The walls, too, held examples of Sonny’s expertise – not simply the paintings but the wallpaper. Most of the furniture was modern and the visitors were surprised to learn that Josie was the originator of this; to look at her one would never dream she had such progressive taste.

  They did have a marvellous time in Leeds. Weaned on Yorkshire hospitality, Josie was a splendid hostess and it was plain to see the root of her corpulence when dinner was served: barely an inch of table had been wasted, with enormous vessels of soup, steame
d turbot, honeyroast ham, several types of fowl, huge and elaborately-sculptured pies, stacks of vegetables and a variety of rich desserts. Dick fell into raptures with each mouthful and swore that he would seduce Josie’s cook home to America with him.

  Overnight, snow fell and by morning there were several inches to provide much hearty occupation. The entire family joined in the fun, though Dickie only lasted an hour, which was his usual limit for concentrating on any one thing. Banging his hands together to knock the compressed snow from his gloves, he announced that he was frozen and asked if anyone was joining him for coffee. His wife hurled a snowball and called him a sissy. At which, he scooped up a handful of snow and pursued her shrieking around the garden until he caught her and rubbed it all over her face. Amelia thought it hilarious to see two old people behaving in such a fashion. The sight provoked thought from her father, too: Dick and his wife were like a pair of young lovers, whereas he and Josie had grown too comfortable.

  ‘Isn’t any of yese coming to keep me company?’ beseeched Dickie, backing towards the house.

  ‘I’ll come!’ Feen, who had been hovering at her uncle’s flank ever since his arrival stumbled through the snow, her face gleaming with cold and adoration.

  ‘There y’are,’ Dickie called to his wife. ‘I don’t need the likes o’ you any more when I’ve got this scrumptious damsel.’ He wrapped an arm around Feen’s shoulders and led her up to the house.

  ‘Hang on!’ shouted Josie. ‘I think I’ve had enough too. Come on, John.’ When Sonny showed reluctance to follow she hissed through her smile, ‘We’re not leaving him alone with Feen, now come on.’

  Sonny shook his head at the silly notion, but nevertheless he left the revellers to accompany her. Robbed of the opportunity to be alone with her uncle, Feen’s smile waned to disappointment, compensated only by the large hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Eh, knock that snow off your boots!’ Josie pulled her brother-in-law back as he was about to march straight in.

  He complied in exaggerated manner. ‘D’ye want I should walk on me hands?’

  Josie gave him a push, then laughed as he pretended to go flying. ‘Just take your boots off at the door, please.’

  ‘Give us a hand, Feen, darlin’.’ Dickie raised a dripping boot on which Feen gladly hauled.

  In stockinged feet, all padded from the kitchen entrance to find indoor footwear. ‘Feen, your dress is soaked,’ observed her mother. ‘Go and change it.’

  The girl bounded off and the adults retired to the drawing room. Once provided with cups of coffee by the butler, all three stood smiling at the window overlooking the garden, watching the others have the time of their lives, until the draught from the glass drove them back to the fire. Dickie settled his full length on the sofa and picked up a newspaper, balancing the cup and saucer on his chest while he rustled through the pages. Sonny smiled at his wife. ‘Make yourself at home, Dick.’

  ‘I’m just seeing if there’s anything on at the theatre.’

  ‘Don’t waste your precious eyesight,’ Sonny told him, ‘it’s all arranged. I telephoned the store and asked Nick to book us some seats at the Grand. I believe it’s a farce, so it shouldn’t stretch your intelligence.’

  Dickie folded the paper into a manageable position and lifted the cup and saucer from his chest to take a drink. Feen, in a change of clothes, returned and came to sit on the arm of the sofa where her uncle lay.

  ‘It’s not Sunday, is it?’ Josie looked her daughter up and down.

  ‘Mother, you’re always telling me I’m untidy,’ argued Feen, and brushed at her best dress in embarrassment at being shown up in front of her uncle.

  Josie sniffed the air suspiciously, then asked her husband, ‘Have you washed your feet lately?’

  ‘It’s him!’ An indignant Sonny stabbed a finger at his brother.

  ‘Never,’ said Dick vehemently. ‘You can’t smell them, can you, Feen?’ She shook her head. After browsing over a few pages he grinned and said, ‘Eh, you kept quiet about this, didn’t ye?’ Sonny enquired what it was and his brother waved the paper at him. ‘This painting of yours up for auction at Sotheby’s – fetched seven hundred an’ fifty quid.’

  Sonny snatched the newspaper. ‘I never saw anything…’ His eyes pored over the page.

  ‘Well, I can’t admit to having acquired a knowledge of the art world while I’ve been in America, it’s just that my eyes naturally gravitate towards large sums of money. When’s the shareout gonna be, then?’

  Sonny was smiling; he had found the article. ‘Sorry, it isn’t mine – at least I don’t own it any more. I sold it to a man called Lewis in the Seventies for ten guineas.’

  Dick was scathing. ‘You silly sod.’ His sister-in-law buried her chin into her neck to mark her disapproval. Feen blushed and pretended not to have heard.

  ‘I thought it was a fortune then.’ Sonny’s smile diluted as he read the next line. ‘Oh, it’s been auctioned as part of Lewis’ estate. Poor man … I didn’t know. I haven’t seen him in ages.’ He handed the paper to his wife for her to read.

  Dickie was eyeing the walls which held a large collection of his brother’s work. ‘I wouldn’t mind having one o’ them if ye’ve any going spare.’

  ‘Surely,’ came the generous offer. ‘Which would you like?’

  Dickie shrugged. ‘Any’ll do.’

  Sonny barked a laugh and shook his head in Josie’s direction. His brother asked what was so funny. ‘Don’t you ever think in anything other than material terms, Feeney?’

  ‘I don’t see what’s wrong in that. I’m proud of you doing so well for yourself. Wake me up when it’s time to eat.’ Dickie closed his eyes, crossed his ankles and went to sleep.

  * * *

  ‘Trying to figure out how much that one would bring?’ Sonny had sneaked up on his brother who, on his way down to tea, had dallied to examine the huge family portrait which hung at the top of the first flight of stairs.

  For once Dickie didn’t seem in jocular mood. His eyes on the picture, he said dolefully, ‘It kinda pulled me up, seeing all the family there … an’ me not on it.’

  ‘You are on it.’ Sonny pointed out the picture within a picture; a portrait of Dickie hanging on the wall behind the group of people.

  ‘Aye, I noticed that… but it’s a picture of a dead man, stuck away behind the others.’

  Sonny knew what his brother meant. When he had created the others’ portraits there had been something, someone, missing from the group. He could hardly paint his brother in as if Dickie were still alive, so he had added the framed portrait to the backdrop, painting Dickie from memory and old photographs. His eyes wandered over the other characters. Two of those were dead now: Rosie and his father. After a little more thought, he said to his brother, ‘I could always paint you in.’ At Dickie’s surprise, he added, ‘You don’t think I managed to paint the entire family at one sitting, d’you? I did them all separately.’ He remembered the trouble he’d had in getting the ten year old Rosie to sit still. ‘It’ll be simple enough to squeeze you on. I’ll have it taken down tomorrow. When I’ve prepared the canvas you can sit pretty for me.’ Adding another body would put the picture totally out of balance, but his brother’s pleasure made up for any technical shortcoming.

  ‘As a matter of interest,’ said Dickie, ‘how much would ye charge for a family group like that?’

  ‘To you … five hundred.’

  ‘You’re jokin’!’

  ‘That’s a ten percent discount for relatives.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Dickie was amazed. ‘That’s what artists are charging these days?’

  ‘Only the famous ones like me.’ Sonny grinned. ‘I have to make the most of my talents. What with concentrating on design I don’t have much time for portraiture these days.’

  Dickie looked interested. ‘But you were being serious when ye said you’re famous?’

  ‘A few people might have heard of me, yes,’ said his brother modestly. In fact, he
was highly acclaimed, both here and on the Continent – though it rankled that The Royal Academy had not yet seen fit to make him a member. Sonny believed that this oversight stemmed from sheer snobbery at his humble beginnings; it could certainly not be lack of talent. He spotted Paddy coming down the stairs and shouted to him, ‘Hold onto the banister!’ The child showed impatience, but reached dutifully for the support and came down to meet the men. ‘Honestly, the times I’ve told him,’ breathed Sonny to his brother. ‘He’ll be coming down head first one of these days.’

  Dickie made a grab for the boy and swung him off the stairs, laughing. ‘We have to show our manhood, don’t we, Paddy? Can’t be hanging onto the banisters for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Eh, don’t you be teaching him your bad habits,’ warned Sonny as his brother galloped down the staircase, jiggling the child up and down.

  ‘Tell your father he’s an old fusspot,’ said Dick, and laughed when Paddy followed his instruction. ‘Me an’ you are going to be great pals, aren’t we, Pad? Will we go out for a snowfight before tea?’

  ‘Oy, no!’ Sonny intercepted the cry of agreement from his son. ‘Josie’ll go mad, she’s just got him dry – oh, and I have to tell you to curb your language if you’d be so kind.’

  Dickie groaned. ‘Bloody women! Looks like we’ll have to find something else to do, Paddy. What d’ye fancy?’ They had reached the hall.

  ‘Draw me a picture,’ said his nephew.

  Sonny laughed at the resultant expression and said he would fetch some paper. In the minutes that preceded tea, Dickie set about imitating his brother’s skills, with not too great success. Paddy, sitting on his lap, studied the finished drawing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is it!’ Dickie voiced his affront. ‘Don’t ye know a cow when ye see one?’

  ‘Daddy doesn’t draw cows like that.’ Paddy frowned at the cow’s underbelly. ‘Where’re its dumplings?’

  Dickie tutted at the ripple of amusement from the others. ‘It’s a bullock.’