She had been seated in front of the dressing table mirror for the last five minutes, mind full of these thoughts, trying to find enough energy to pin up her hair. ‘Come on, frame yourself, girl.’ She raised her hands, but could not hoist them above her shoulders without crying out in pain. She got mad then. Look at the agony Pat must have been in yet we never heard him cry out once. She tried again, without efficacy. ‘Right, I’ll bloody-well sort you out!’ Raking about in the top drawer, she found a pair of scissors and after much sawing and hacking, the white plait came away in her hand. There was instant regret. She watched her mouth turn down like that of a scolded child. Tears came.
‘Oh, Mam! Whatever have ye done?’ Erin sighed at the forlorn sight.
‘It’s my hair, I can do what I like with it!’ She did not mention the pain. ‘I got sick of having to fasten it up day after day, I decided it might as well come off.’
‘But ye shouldn’t ought to have gone to such extremes! One of us or Vinnie could have done it up for ye.’
I’ve done my own hair for seventy odd years, I’m damned if I’m being treated like a bairn now!’
‘I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. Ladies have their maids, don’t they? Just because you’ve never considered having one doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to change your mind.’
Braving more abuse, her daughter made her sit down and with gentle hands set about repairing the damage.
She felt sorry now that she had treated Erin so. The sight of that chavelled stump must have brought back old nightmares for her daughter. As a twelve year old, Erin had had her lovely hair hacked off by a cruel employer. But Thomasin had never given that a thought. She would have to be nicer when Erin came home from the factory.
The solitude of the drawing room closed in on her, making her want to run. But the ache in her joints shackled her to the chair. Several times she tried to rise, but on each, pain held her in its vice. She cursed her ailing body and thumped at her knee in frustration. You will get up, damn you, you bloody useless old cripple! You’ve got to keep going otherwise you’re done for. Her rise from the chair brought a moment of triumph which was too brief. She paced up and down for a moment, then for no reason other than to escape this room, made for the stairs.
Maundering about the bedchamber, she was inexplicably drawn towards her wardrobe. With aimless fingers, she trailed the row of hanging garments, twice back and forth. Then something took control of her hand. Not quite knowing why she had chosen it, for it was very old, she lifted a dark green dress from its hanger and held it against her. For one strange moment the depression lifted – she felt almost happy. Someone was smoking a pipe upstairs, she would have to remonstrate with them … even so, the smell of pipe tobacco brought comfort, reminded her of Pat, made her feel as if he were holding her. She hugged the dress for a few thoughtful moments, before hooking it back over the rail. Her depression flooded back and she slammed the door of the wardrobe, marching out onto the landing.
Here she bumped into the manservant. ‘John, will you please not smoke your pipe upstairs!’
He looked put out. ‘I haven’t been smoking, ma’am.’
‘Don’t argue! I can smell it. You’re the only one in the house who smokes a pipe. I don’t mind you puffing it downstairs but I won’t have it up here – do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ John watched her stalk away. It didn’t do to contradict the mistress at any time and even less in her present mood. He sniffed and shook his head – not a whiff of smoke. She was going barmy.
The Queen’s death put the dampers on Elizabeth’s coming- of-age party. Nick was especially piqued that the burial would take place on a Saturday and traders had been asked to regard it as a day of mourning. ‘She would choose our busiest day,’ he complained to his grandmother. ‘I don’t see why our takings should suffer just ’cause the old girl’s finally pegged out.’ His grandmother enquired if that was the way he would talk about her when she had gone. ‘Yes, I shall demand they bury you on a Sunday.’ Nick smiled as he said it; being pleased that she had not yet altered her will.
‘You would, too. She’s been our Queen for over sixty years, Nick. If only for that she deserves our respect. One Saturday won’t ruin us … anyway, the store could close every day as far as I’m concerned.’
A month passed. Under guise of mourning, the Edwardian Age came tumbling in like a precocious infant. Thomasin raged at the hypocrisy, her anger magnified by the rheumatism that bored ever deep into her joints. Sleep oft elusive, those winter months spanned centuries, her days spent muffled shroudlike by the fire. All resolution to keep moving seemed to have dried up.
Erin grew increasingly worried about her mother’s mental state. Everyone was still missing Patrick dreadfully of course, but Mother had always been an outgoing sort, now she hardly left the fireplace. She appeared to be limping, too. ‘Are ye not going to your YAS meeting again this week?’ she asked as the two of them sat alone one damp February evening, sipping glasses of sherry.
‘YAYAS,’ mumbled Thomasin, pronouncing it as one word. ‘They’ve changed the name. Every blasted thing’s changing, they can’t leave anything alone. I’m not going. It’s too cold.’ She tugged her shawl more tightly around her.
‘Ye never let the weather put ye off before.’
‘I’ve never been seventy-four before.’
‘If…’
‘Look, Erin, if I want to go out I’ll go, if I want to stay in I’ll bloody well stay in!’ She emptied the glass and slammed it down.
Shocked, her daughter went back to reading her book. ‘All right, all right … though it might have been nice if my brother and his wife had asked you to go to the theatre with them.’
‘They did ask me as a matter of fact. I didn’t want to go. I thought I’d stay in and have some peace but it seems that the only place I’m going to get that is in bed! Goodnight!’
But, lying sleepless in her bed, Thomasin began to see the validity of her daughter’s concern. She must do something, she couldn’t just sit around the house waiting to die … Tomorrow she would have a little ride down to the Parliament Street store. Taking the staff unawares might provide a lift to her spirits. A moment’s calculation told her that it would be time for a stock check shortly; organising that would take her mind off Mr Rufforth. After that she would arrange a board meeting. Yes … that’s what I’ll do … if I wake up tomorrow.
* * *
‘We can’t wait forever,’ complained Dickie. ‘The meal’ll be cold and she probably won’t be eating it, anyway.’ He, Dusty and Erin had been sitting at the table for fifteen minutes and still Thomasin had not come down. Erin had begun to chitter her concern.
‘That’s all you’re worried about, isn’t it?’ she snapped at her brother. ‘Your blasted guts. You couldn’t give a damn that your mother might be lying helpless.’ She squeezed her cheeks between the fingers of one hand.
Dickie laughed. ‘Helpless! Our mother?’
‘She is seventy-four, you know!’
‘She was fine last night when …’
‘When you two swanned off and left her for me to look after, yes I know!’
‘We did ask her to come, Erin,’ said Dusty.
‘I notice ye didn’t ask me, though!’ Erin rubbed her hands over her face. ‘God. D’ye know what I caught her doing the other day? There were all these sacks of clothes and shoes and what have yese piled on the landing. I ask her what they are and she says, “I’m having a sort out so’s none of you have to do it when I die”!’
‘She’s bound to be depressed, Erin,’ ventured her sister- in-law.
‘No, ’tis more than that. Sometimes I catch her frowning as if she’s in pain, but when I ask her she throws a fit. God, I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s … I’m going to give her a knock!’ She sprang up and left the room.
‘I’ve never known anybody like her for worrying.’ Dickie shook his head and reached for a tureen. ‘Ah well, might as wel
l have a mouthful before she comes back to give us heartburn.’
But he had scarcely served himself when Erin came rushing back into the room. ‘She isn’t answering! I’ve knocked dozens of times … oh, Jesus.’
Her mood was infectious. Dickie put down his fork. ‘Did ye go in?’
‘No, I daren’t – oh, Dickie, come up with me.’ She gripped herself in fear.
Both Dickie and his wife rose from the table and accompanied Erin up the staircase. On the way to their mother’s room they encountered the new maid and asked her if she had seen Mrs Feeney this morning. On her negative reply, they proceeded swiftly to Thomasin’s room. Erin knocked again, but still there was no answer.
‘I can’t go in – you go, Dickie.’ She shoved him forward. He looked at his wife, stood there for a second, then grasped the door handle and entered.
Thomasin was in the act of pulling her nightgown over her head and the onlookers were treated to the sight of her stark naked form before she realised she had an audience and let out a shriek. ‘What the bloody hell – will you all get out of my room!’
Dickie backed away rapidly, treading on his sister’s foot and stumbling. ‘Sorry, Mam! Erin thought…’
‘Get out!’ Still naked, a furious Thomasin staggered over to the dressing table looking for something to throw, white breasts swinging round her waist, dimpled haunches quivering.
The three retreated onto the landing with a hasty slam of the door, whereupon Dickie started to laugh. His wife turned her face away lest Erin should complain about her mirth, but she needn’t have worried, for Erin was unable to stop her own laughter and was soon making as hearty a sound as Dickie.
‘I can bloody-well hear you!’ yelled their mother. ‘Just you wait till I get dressed!’
Still spluttering, the three made their way back down to the dining room where their laughter was given free rein. Even when a more presentable Thomasin hobbled in to reprehend them they could not stifle their merriment.
‘I did knock dozens of times, Mam ’ Erin mopped her eyes and tried to look repentant.
‘Aye, I heard you!’ Thomasin gripped the back of a chair to steady herself.
‘Then why didn’t you answer?’ asked her son.
‘Because I’m sick of people checking up on me all the time! Being treated like a child! My bedroom is the only place where I haven’t got some bugger wittering at me and I intend to keep it that way – at least I did until someone decided it should be open to the public!’
‘We were only concerned about ye,’ reproached Dickie. ‘Thought ye were lying dead or something.’
‘Well, I’m not! And I’ll thank you all to stay out of my room until you’re invited! All right?’ Erin and her brother nodded sheepishly. ‘Good!’ Thomasin began to clash tureen lids. ‘Now I’m going to have my breakfast then I’m off down to the store. If nobody minds, that is.’
Nothing more was said on the subject of the invasion, the talk confined to what Dickie and his wife would be doing today, which would include going to see ‘their’ children. With Dusty’s amusing anecdotes about what Freddie said and did, Thomasin gradually cooled down and at the end of the meal said that she was sorry she had been so harsh with them and realised that they were only concerned about her.
‘That’s all right, Mam,’ replied Erin. ‘I’m sorry we embarrassed ye.’ She folded her napkin. ‘Right, I’ll get my coat and away to the factory with me.’
Thomasin rose with difficulty. ‘Aye, I’ll be going too. Have a nice time, you two.’
‘We will,’ answered Dick, going to the door and opening it for his mother. A mischievous glint came to his eye as she passed him. ‘Take care ye don’t slip on that ice now, I’d hate for ye to damage that beautiful body.’
His mother eyed him menacingly, but once the door had closed she imagined what she must have looked like to them and was forced to chuckle. ‘Ah dear, Pat,’ she sighed. ‘That a body once so passionate could now be such a source of ridicule. Oh well, it made our Erin laugh and that can’t be bad. I must say, I feel a wee bit better this morning too.’
Throughout the day her spirits fluctuated. She spent the morning harrying her staff at the Parliament Street store, then telephoned Francis and arranged to have luncheon with him. The company of her old friend was ever precious to her these days; only he could understand the experience of being old, knew her feelings without having to ask. In the course of the afternoon he even managed to restore some of her interest in the business … that is, until she came home and found Mr Rufforth waiting for her in the drawing room.
Vinnie, who had been hovering at the entrance to the kitchen, anxiously awaiting her mistress’ return, whispered the news to her the second she was through the door. ‘Mrs Teale’s in there keeping him occupied, ma’am. Mr and Mrs Richard are hiding upstairs.’
Thomasin sighed and hoped that Vinnie had not been so furtive in Rufforth’s company. Thanking the cook, she steeled herself and went in.
The moment the insurance agent turned to greet her she knew something had happened. His smile was too tight and his eyes were too watchful of her reaction. This isn’t Pat you’re dealing with, she mocked herself, how can he read your mind? Just keep your voice casual. Apart from resorting to torture he can’t prove that Dickie didn’t die in that fire, otherwise there would have been repercussions years ago.
‘Your cheque, Mrs Feeney.’ He smiled as he handed it to her.
That was reassuring; if they had judged her guilty of fraud they would hardly be handing her more money. ‘Thank you, Mr Rufforth.’ She didn’t even look at the amount on the cheque. ‘Have you been offered tea?’
‘No, but that would be most kind.’
Erin tightened her lips. She hadn’t offered tea because that would keep him here and she could not understand why her mother wasn’t trying to get rid of him as fast as she could. Thomasin rang the bell. John appeared and took her order down to the kitchen. While they awaited its arrival, Rufforth initiated the chat.
‘Is your nephew no longer with you, Mrs Feeney?’ He had the fear that his quarry might have escaped back to America whilst the investigators were kicking their heels. It was infuriating – all those hours he had spent up to his neck in dust, ploughing through archives of documents, and when he’d found the one he had been seeking and presented it triumphantly, what had they done? They’d filed it for future investigation. ‘He’s going to get away!’ Rufforth had pleaded. ‘You must act now.’ He had been told that it was out of his hands now, he could get on with his job and leave it to the experts. Experts! Sitting on their backsides while time was ticking away. Their inefficiency had decided Rufforth to do some investigating of his own. He had already made a start by calling on some of the more elderly residents of Monkgate and had been rewarded with a perfect description – if a somewhat younger version – of the man purporting to be Mrs Feeney’s nephew, plus some interesting comments on his behaviour. Please God he was still here. There was a motor car in the drive which had been there on his last visit, but he couldn’t be sure it belonged to the nephew.
Thomasin answered, ‘He’s out sightseeing, I believe,’ and put the cheque into the bureau.
‘Nearby?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He must be sightseeing locally; he hasn’t taken his motor car.’
‘Oh yes, locally ah, here’s the tea.’ Thomasin tried to veer the subject onto the weather whilst pouring from the pot, but Rufforth was not about to let go.
‘Yes, it’s still terribly cold. Your nephew must have a stronger constitution than I have to go tramping round sightseeing. I expect you’ll miss him when he goes back to America? How much longer does he intend to stay?’ Thomasin said that her nephew and his wife were enjoying themselves so much that they had no immediate plans to return.
‘Did I hear Mr Feeney say that both he and his wife had been born in York?’ Rufforth received a nod. ‘Then Mrs Feeney will be enjoying reunions of her own, no doubt.’
‘Sadly not, my …’ Damn! She had nearly said daughter-in-law; best stick to names. ‘Dusty’s father passed on many years ago and she has no close relatives.’
Rufforth smiled. ‘An unusual name for such an attractive lady.’
Thomasin smiled back. ‘Only a nickname.’
‘For a miller’s daughter, perhaps?’ Rufforth was still cheery, but his motive for this line of questioning was very clear to Thomasin now; it was no mere small talk.
‘D’you know,’ she replied with a frown, ‘I’m really not sure how it came about and I’ve no idea of her given name. Isn’t that a dreadful admission? But we’ve always known her as Dusty. More tea, Mr Rufforth?’ She tipped the spout at his cup and managed to deflect all Rufforth’s further enquiries however doggedly he tried.
When he had gone, her body flopped in the chair and she stared at Erin. ‘He knows.’
Erin nodded fearfully. ‘That was pretty obvious. What’re we going to do?’ When her mother failed to provide the answer, she got up and marched from the room, shouting up the stairs, ‘Dickie! Get yourself down here!’
On being told of Rufforth’s inquisition, Dickie looked at his wife. ‘Looks like we’d better skedaddle.’
Thomasin felt a stab of fear and snatched his arm as if to keep him here. ‘There’s no need for that. It isn’t you who’s in bother, it’s me. I made the claim.’
Erin sighed exasperatedly. ‘It’s him who’s brought all the bother though, isn’t it? She glared at Dickie. ‘Didn’t you pay any consideration at all to what would happen if you came back? I mean, you obviously never gave a fig for what it would do to Mam and Dad but surely ye saw the legal implications?’
Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 19
