Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4)

by Sheelagh Kelly

  It grew lighter. Ignorant of the time, but knowing that her uncle was late, Feen continued to walk the bored horses around the house, searching each window. There was another flash of movement. Her mother was signalling for her to come indoors. Feen tried not to catch her eye but failed and, close to tears, gave her pony a sharp kick in the ribs, steering him back to the warm box.

  As she had dreaded, there was a full dining room when she entered. Whether or not the assembly included her uncle, she did not know, for she had neither the courage nor the inclination to lift her eyes from the floor, such was the depth of her misery.

  ‘I shall have to have words with your uncle when he comes in,’ said her mother through taut lips – obviously Dick was not present, then. ‘Keeping you out like this – you should be changed and ready for lessons. Sit down and get your breakfast.’ Josie had not been a supporter of the riding expedition, but her husband had made it clear just what a goose he thought her. ‘Did you enjoy your ride? Where did you go?’ Feen mumbled something. ‘Speak up, dear.’

  ‘I didn’t go anywhere,’ said Feen, still not lifting her eyes.

  Dusty explained to her sister-in-law. ‘I’m afraid Dickie overslept. It’s one of his faults.’

  One of many, thought Josie, but felt relief rather than annoyance. At that point Dick sauntered in, ‘Sorry I’m late, folks,’ and went to help himself from the tureens on the sideboard with never a look in Feen’s direction.

  ‘Please may I be excused?’ the girl asked her mother.

  Sensing the desperation in her voice and the threat of tears, Josie permitted this and Feen was swift in leaving.

  ‘That was unforgivable, Richard,’ accused his wife. ‘Not only do you break your promise to Feen but you forget you’ve ever made it.’

  After much brain-racking, Dick slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh Christ … where is she? I’ll have to go and make amends.’ Ignoring advice to the contrary he went after his niece. ‘Feen!’ She had reached the bend in the stairs. Not wanting him to see her tearful face she stood with her back to him. He came bounding past the housemaid who was polishing the mahogany balustrade, planted himself in front of his niece to stop her going any further and took hold of her with gentle hands. ‘My dear girl, I ought to be whipped. How can I ever make it up to ye?’

  ‘It’s quite all right …’ She tried not to look at him but he bent his head down to hers and tilted her chin with a finger.

  ‘No, it’s not. I ought to be boiled in oil for missing our rendezvous. And me so looking forward to it. It’s not much of an excuse, but ye see I didn’t get to sleep till very late last night. It’s your grandfather, ye know, I can’t sleep for thinking about him sometimes. I guess you’re the same.’ She nodded. ‘Aye … we all miss him – but it’s no excuse for my sleeping in. I said I’d come with ye an’ I shoulda been there. I shall have to be punished and you’ll be the one to dole it out. What’ll it be? Hot irons? The rack? I’m at your sweet mercy, Feen.’

  Feen smiled into her breast and said there was no need for anything so drastic. Almost upon them, the maid was forced to keep polishing the same stretch. Over Feen’s bent head Dickie looked her up and down, then winked, adding more vim to her elbow. The air was heavy with beeswax. ‘Am I forgiven then?’ For the first time she met his pleading eyes and the disappointment was flushed away. She smiled and nodded, drawing a sigh of vast relief. ‘Ah, you’re a wonderful girl! Give me a kiss so’s I know ye truly mean it.’ He held out his cheek to receive her shy lips. Then Feen slipped past him saying she must go and change for her lessons. ‘Hey, hang on! Will ye be allowed to go out riding after these lessons?’ With eager face she said that she might. ‘I’ll check with your father. He wants to show me around his mill this morning, but this afternoon we’ll go for that gallop. OK?’

  His twinkling eyes followed her dash up the remainder of the stairs. When she was gone he grinned at the housemaid, wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead, said, ‘Phew!’ then leaned on the section of balustrade that she was waiting to polish. ‘And what’s your name, then?’

  * * *

  With Feen trying her best to concentrate on her Latin, the rest of Monday morning was devoted to a guided tour of the millworkers’ cottages and then the mill itself. For his brother’s sake Dickie tried to show some interest, but finally the boredom began to creep into his face.

  ‘… and I’m thinking of setting up a library for the workers,’ Sonny’s tongue appeared to be competing with the clacking looms. ‘I think it’s important to keep the mind occupied – don’t you, Kelly?’ He addressed one of the workers.

  ‘Oh, aye, sir!’ Kelly nodded respectfully and smiled. ‘Very important.’

  The party strolled on. However, Dickie went back to wink at a female who had caught his eye and in so doing overheard Kelly say, ‘Bloody library – I ask you! What we need is proper shithouses, not reading books. I’m scared to death every time I go in ours in case t’roof falls in on me. He hasn’t spent a farthin’ on our house in years. Talk about Titus Salt? Titus arseholes!’

  Dick found this much to his sense of humour and wasted no time in repeating it to his brother. ‘You don’t want to have so many hangers-on, Son,’ he added at luncheon. ‘They’ll take ye for everything ye’ve got and still call you a skinflint.’

  Sonny had begun to read the newspaper which he’d only had time to scan that morning. At Dickie’s words he threw it down and without reply marched from the room. Dickie looked bemusedly at his sister-in-law who, after a moment, picked up the paper and ran her eyes over the print. Her face darkened and she, too, threw it down in disgust. ‘Isn’t it marvellous how a few lines can ruin an entire day. He’ll be locked away till bedtime now.’

  Dickie read the paragraph in which a critic spoke of last Friday’s sale of Sonny’s painting, saying that it was doubtful whether J. P. Feeney’s more recent efforts would fetch such a sum in thirty years’ time. ‘“His latest style consists of lashing as much paint onto the canvas as one might use for a battleship and would compare with the first efforts of an infant. Where is the shape and form of his earlier works? One cannot tell now where his subject begins and ends…”’ Dickie stopped reading and gave the paper a derisive tap. ‘But he doesn’t take any notice of these blokes, does he? I’d’ve thought the money his pictures bring speaks for itself.’ Ignoring Josie’s opinion that it wouldn’t do any good, he said he would go and talk to his brother.

  It was unnecessary to search far; Dickie had only to follow the sound of crashing. He came to the room where the noise was loudest and tapped on it. Sonny spared him two words. Tapping again, he was asked if he hadn’t heard. ‘I heard the last word right, but I wasn’t sure of the first. I didn’t think you’d use such a word to your brother.’ There was no responsive laughter. Dickie shrugged and went to rejoin the others.

  As Sonny’s wife had prophesied, he remained closeted for the rest of the afternoon, making it impossible for him to grant Feen leave to go riding. With Josie gone shopping accompanied by her sister-in-law, Feen was most concerned that once again her dreams were to be dashed. But Uncle Dickie laughed away any problem and said that she had been granted permission to go riding this morning, hadn’t she? And was it her fault that her silly old uncle had overslept? Telling her to climb into her riding togs, he went over to the stable and when she came out of the house he was mounted.

  Josie was furious when she came home to the news that her daughter had disobeyed instructions to finish the embroidery she had started last year. There were many chilling looks when the exhilarated pair finally arrived home. Feen was banished to her room and told not to emerge before breakfast – at which time her mother expected to see the embroidery completed – and Dickie was totally ostracised from the female conversation. After many attempts to ingratiate had been rebuffed, not just by Josie but also his wife, Dickie grabbed his small nephew’s hand and loped off to another room, where he spent some time playing rough and tumble before collapsing in exh
austion on the sofa. ‘Right, Pad, ye’ve worn your old uncle out, I think I’ll take a nap. Run along now.’ He closed his eyes. .

  But Paddy, overexcited with the game, climbed onto the man’s chest and bounced up and down shouting and whooping. Dick grew annoyed under the assault. After several attempts had failed to calm the boy, he swung his legs down, sat Paddy on his knee and said he would teach him a song. The ditty was repeated until Paddy was word-perfect. ‘Now, d’ye think ye can remember all the words? Good, well you go and sing it for your mammy and show her how clever you are.’ The boy scampered off, leaving Dick to close his eyes in peace.

  Paddy took the stage before his mother and aunt and performed the song: ‘It’s only me from over the sea said Ballocky Bill the sailor …’

  Dickie heard the howl for which he had been waiting. Saved from further interruptions, he grinned and went to sleep.

  * * *

  Thomasin’s behaviour after her sons had left caused Erin to change her plans about going back to the factory the following day. It wasn’t fair of the boys to go swanning off leaving their mother to her grief; someone should be here to comfort her. Giving the weather as an excuse, she sat with Thomasin round the fire, leafing through albums of old photographs, browsing through memories, though sometimes she had the feeling that her mother didn’t know she was here.

  The snow barely lasted the weekend. With the rise in temperature great chunks of it began to slither down the roof and fall onto the garden with a thud.

  Thomasin jumped as yet another section fell. ‘God, there can’t be much more to come down, surely? It’s been at it since dawn. I bet the river’s right up.’ After a quick thaw like this the river could not cope with all the water that teemed down from the Dales. ‘You might be canoeing to work tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah well, I don’t suppose the factory’ll close down if I leave it another day or two,’ returned Erin.

  ‘You’re staying at home for me, aren’t you?’ said her mother. There was denial, but it did no good. ‘Yes you are! I’ve told you I’ll be perfectly all right, now tomorrow you can get yourself off.’

  They were briefly interrupted by the arrival of Nick. ‘Just called to see how you are, Nan.’ He came to the fire, saying hello to his aunt.

  Thomasin said she was fine. ‘She’s not fine,’ contradicted Erin. ‘She needs cheering up.’

  ‘We can find plenty of work for you to do, Nan.’ Her grandson turned his back to the fireplace to warm his cold rear.

  Thomasin shrugged apathetically. ‘What’s the point of working yourself into the ground when all you’ve got to look forward to is death.’

  Erin felt like weeping. ‘Mam, don’t get too depressed. Ye’ll see Dad again one day, ye know.’

  This was met by cynicism. ‘I wish I had your faith, love. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Huh! can’t get it out of my blasted mind. I mean, when you go to Heaven, always assuming there is such a place, are you still able to see what’s going on down here? See every hurt inflicted on your children, your grandchildren? If so, then how can it be Heaven? Tell me that one if you can.’

  Erin couldn’t, and Thomasin felt sorry she had asked. ‘Nay, don’t let me get you down too. You go back to work if it’ll do you good.’

  Erin did not argue – it would benefit her to get out of the house – but said that she would probably only work until lunchtime if the river looked likely to burst its banks and cut off her route home.

  Thomasin formed a smile for her grandson and looked up at him, but Nick’s eyes were meandering about the room. Why, oh why did she always get the impression that Nick was taking an inventory whenever he came to visit? The thought gave tongue to a pressing issue. ‘I shall have to get round to altering my will sometime, what with Dickie being alive and Pat leaving all his assets for me to sort out.’

  Nick paid instant attention.

  ‘You’re going to include Dickie?’ Erin gaped. ‘Well, I think you’re wrong.’

  ‘Oh, well … we’ll see.’ Apathy returned. ‘I can’t seem to think straight just now.’ She asked Nick, ‘Have you seen much of your uncle while he’s been in Leeds?’

  ‘Very little. He came to the theatre with us one night.’ Her grandson’s mind was anchored to the will. Why should Dickie share the inheritance after all the pain he had caused? He sought to blacken the man’s hopes. ‘I fear he’s been wreaking havoc at Roundhay. Mother looked very harassed when last I saw her.’

  The ploy failed. ‘It doesn’t take much to harass your mother,’ said Thomasin, before asking him to ring for some tea.

  * * *

  It was odd being in the house alone. Oh, there were the servants, but Thomasin only ever saw them when she ordered a pot of tea – which she did quite frequently just to have another human being in the room. Then there was the pain. She hadn’t told anyone about it, nor had she consulted the doctor, but she would have to for it was worsening. It had woken her a couple of mornings ago, a nagging ache in her knees. Now it had spread to other joints. Every step had become excruciating. To take her mind off it, she decided to sort through Pat’s clothes; this was painful in itself, but was better done now and not left. Once the clothes were on their way to the Salvation Army, she sought out some other occupation to distract her mind, but finding neither the energy nor the enthusiasm, she limped back to her fireside chair.

  She was rather glad when Erin decided to come home for lunch and remained there for the rest of the day, and even more glad when that same evening, Dickie telephoned to say he and Dusty would be returning earlier than anticipated, tomorrow afternoon, Tuesday. At least their battling would take her mind off her pain.

  * * *

  It was while she and Erin were awaiting his homecoming that someone else visited. Peter Rufforth, her insurance agent, called to collect Patrick’s death certificate in order to fulfil the duties of the life assurance policy she had taken out on her husband.

  ‘Mrs Feeney.’ He clasped her hands, face suitably composed. ‘May I offer my deepest sympathies on Mr Feeney’s passing.’ He had been told of Pat’s death by the manservant when he had called a week ago to collect the monthly premium and this was the first time he had seen Thomasin to offer his condolences. ‘I didn’t wish to trouble you earlier, but neither did I want to prevent you from claiming what’s rightfully yours.’ When Thomasin looked puzzled, he said, ‘The policy on Mr Feeney … I wouldn’t want you to think I was being negligent in putting your claim forward.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I’d forgotten all about it, Mr Rufforth.’ Thomasin gestured at a chair then accosted Vinnie before she closed the door, asking for a pot of tea.

  Vinnie tutted mentally about the amount of tea she had had to brew lately. However, she had found a girl who was starting tomorrow so there would be no more traipsing up and down with tea after today. As she was about to close the door someone came in by the front entrance and she turned back to inform Thomasin, ‘Mr and Mrs Richard are here, ma’am,’ before going to help remove their coats.

  ‘Oh, good, thank you, Vinnie,’ called Thomasin from the bureau where she was in the act of getting Pat’s death certificate for the insurance agent. She stared at it for the umpteenth time, this piece of paper that told her Pat was dead, then handed it to him. ‘There you are, Mr Rufforth.’ He thanked her and tucked it into his pocket. ‘It shouldn’t take too long to come through.’

  ‘There’s no rush.’ Thomasin folded her spectacles and eased herself back into the chair.

  Rufforth, who had remained standing out of courtesy, now sat down too and rubbed both hands over the shiny knees of his brown trousers. This short, slightly-built man had been calling here for a quarter of a century and Thomasin had seen his hair retreat from his brow year by year until now it was a mere fringe around the back of his skull, though he could not be much more than forty-five; what remained of it was light brown, as was his sparse moustache. He had a weak mouth and a receding chin which at the moment was partially hidden by
his scarf, though his obsequious manner was very evident; this aside, Thomasin found him not unpleasant.

  ‘I’d like to be the one to bring you the money but I’ll be moving to another district very soon,’ Rufforth told her. She said what a shame this was. ‘Oh no, not really,’ he looked brighter. ‘It’s promotion. I’m going to miss my old customers, though.’ He looked to the door as Dickie and his wife entered.

  ‘Ah, let me introduce my…’ My God! Thomasin couldn’t stop an involuntary hand from clutching at her chest. Here was her son who was meant to be dead – in the same room as the insurance agent who had handled the policy on his death! With all the other upsets it had never occurred to her that she could be in drastic trouble over this.

  With her reaction and the pallor of her face, Erin had leapt to her mother’s chair. ‘Mam, what is it?’

  Thomasin stared at her dumbly, then at the insurance agent who had also come to her aid, and then at Dickie. She fought to recover. ‘Nothing. It’s all right. I just got a … touch of indigestion or something.’ She realised with another twinge that this was the excuse which Pat had always used to explain away his bursts of pain, and she sought to reassure Erin. ‘I mean real indigestion. I’m quite all right, it’s gone now.’ She played for time by examining her spectacles to see if her panicked grip had damaged them; then somehow forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rufforth, I was just about to introduce my nephew and his wife, Mr and Mrs Feeney.’

  Dickie’s mouth fell open when he saw that her hand was directed at him. He looked at Erin who was equally perplexed, but nevertheless he reached out and shook the man’s extended hand.

  ‘They’re here on a visit from America,’ said Thomasin, hoping he wouldn’t hear the panic in her voice. ‘Not a very auspicious time for them to choose for a holiday, I’m afraid.’