‘Hey,’ he grasped her shoulders and tried to pull her towards him. ‘Don’t cry, it’ll be all right. I’ll get off.’
She uttered a bitter laugh. ‘Isn’t that typical of you, only ever thinking about yourself.’
He misunderstood. ‘If I get off the others are bound to.’
‘What do I care about them!’ She showed instant remorse. ‘Oh, will you listen to me. That’s what comes of living so long with you. Of course I care about you all – but you must see that this ruins our chances of adoption.’
‘Not necessarily … it could help in the long run.’ She asked how the devil he had come to that preposterous conclusion.
‘Dusty, I could easily have run back to America, couldn’t I? But I’ve stayed to face the charges. That must show Belle how responsible I am.’
She granted him this much. ‘But what help will that be if you’re convicted?’
He didn’t have an answer for this, and wondered how long the sentence could be. ‘’Tis all that bastard solicitor’s fault!’ At her incomprehension, he added heatedly, ‘If he hadn’t let Sonny see my will then my brother wouldn’t’ve worked out that I was still alive an’ you an’ me would be sitting nice an’ cosy in New York.’
‘With a dozen beautiful children,’ she replied sourly.
‘Look, if we don’t get these three we’ll get ’em from somewhere.’
‘Dickie, how can you say that? You’ve been behaving as if you’re their father for the last few months, how can you shrug them off so simply? I thought you’d grown close to them – I certainly have, and I won’t give them up.’ She raged at Belle for taking them away.
‘Then we’ll get them,’ he swore to her. ‘One way or another, we’ll get them, darlin’.’
* * *
At Thomasin’s next meeting with her solicitor, she told him that he must ‘Get the very best lawyer available for me and the boys whatever the cost.’
‘That I shall do, of course,’ he replied. ‘But you do understand that it would be advisable for you to have separate counsel.’
‘But why can’t we have the same?’ demanded Thomasin.
‘My dear lady, I would not be averse to acting for your son, John, but from what you have told me of your elder son, I would urge strongly against his inclusion.’
Reluctantly, she agreed to follow his advice. ‘But I have to say now that I won’t have us set against each other and I don’t want Dickie sacrificed just to get me off. You must make that clear to the barrister.’
‘In that case,’ replied her solicitor, ‘on looking at the evidence I feel it only fair to tell you that your son may drag you down with him.’
‘Then we’ll go together,’ replied Thomasin nobly.
Whilst this was being said, Dickie was speaking to his own solicitor in less heroic terms. ‘Lode, shyster, you just make certain no mention is made of that will otherwise we’re both in the shit. ’Cause if I go down, you go down with me.’
14
When Thomasin had sought excuses to keep her son in England she had not envisaged anything so drastic. The trial would take place at the Summer Assizes in July – over three months away. The one comfort was that this gap would at least give their Defence a chance to find their old kitchen staff who might be able to help them.
Unfortunately, they discovered that one of the maids was now dead. Hope hinged on the other, Abigail, who lived in Germany but who had written occasionally with her family news. Her last letter had been two years ago. They must bank on her being at the same address. What could they do in the meantime but wait and pray?
This was one year when Erin welcomed the Budget. Hearing her mother’s grumbles over the increased Income Tax and levy on sugar was preferable to watching her worry over the impending court case. She herself had a separate grievance; when pressed, Belle had come clean about her visit to Brian and said that he did not want a reconciliation. Erin had expressed her wish to crack their two silly heads together, and refused to believe that it was over. Brian would turn up in a couple of weeks.
The remainder of April and beginning of May was taken up by spring-cleaning, during which the four residents went to stay at Scarborough after of course informing the police of their temporary address. Thomasin had a house here which was used to give her employees a chance to recuperate after illness before returning to work. It would stand them in good stead for their coming ordeal. But their holiday had its sad moments. Young Paddy, who had been brought to the seaside as a special treat, spent half the time looking for his grandfather.
At the next family gathering in York, Dickie announced that he had decided to accept his mother’s offer of a senior position with the firm, taking perverse enjoyment in the ill-disguised antipathy from Nick and Francis. It would only be a stop-gap, he hastened to add – not to put them out of their misery, but to prevent his mother from false hope. Temporary or not, Francis and Nick both agreed that in the two remaining months up to the trial it was possible that he could bring the firm to bankruptcy. But what redress did they have when Thomasin had given him carte blanche? Nick was especially irked that the coming trial had hastened the alteration of his grandmother’s will. More infuriating than anything was being in ignorance of its content; knowing her grandson’s penchant for espionage, Thomasin had left the will locked in the solicitor’s safe. Indubitably, his uncle’s name would be on it; the question was, at what price to the other beneficiaries? Nick opted to press on with his detrimental jibes about his uncle, hoping that she would not die before he had swayed her to his way of thinking.
For Dickie this was a gleeful interlude in what was otherwise a disturbing time. Within the month he had succeeded in losing two valued customers, decimating the staff, countermanding Nick’s orders, misplacing accounts and throwing the entire system into disarray – and then cool as you please, he had declared, ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for this after all,’ and had left them to rebuild their shattered industry as best they might.
His wife knew full well the reason behind this disruption: he couldn’t bear his son’s indifference, had wanted to provoke him, and had succeeded. She despaired of his juvenile tricks, preferring to spend as much time with the children as she could, praying that this devotion would pierce Belle’s cold armour. It broke her heart to hear them keep asking when they would be coming to live with her.
Feen was overjoyed that her uncle would be staying on indefinitely – though to be in Leeds when he was in York was as bad as if he were in America. When they were apart she couldn’t concentrate on anything but him, picturing him with Aunt Dusty and hating her for it, mooning over his photograph. The voodoo doll became so laden with pins that by now it resembled a porcupine. But to no avail; her aunt continued to thrive.
Feen drove the image away and dwelled instead upon the coming weekend, when she and her uncle would be together. Nan had arranged a family picnic. A picnic meant the countryside, where there would be plenty of space to wander off together, away from stupid comments and dowdy old wives. Then Feen would find the courage to tell him how she felt. Standing by her dressing table, she gazed at her reflection in its mirror, then slowly leaning forward, pressed her lips to those in the glass, trying to pretend that the coldness was warm flesh. It was a poor substitute. With a sigh, she pushed herself away from the mirror and wandered along the landing, fantasising on their conversations, feeling his warm lips, his arms around her …
Reaching her eldest sister’s bedroom she knocked and went in. Liz and Sophia had been granted the day off work to make ready for their weekend in York, though there appeared to be little activity. Amelia was there too, sprawled over the multi-coloured rug, while Sophia sat at the dressing table, attempting to bleach her freckles. Liz was propped up on the bed, ankles crossed, reading the Girls’ Own Newspaper.
On seeing this, Feen wailed, ‘Haven’t you finished it yet?’
Elizabeth did not take her eyes from the page. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so steamed up,
I’m not taking any longer than usual.’ Feen said she had had the paper for half an hour. ‘I bought it! If you don’t shut up I won’t let you read it at all.’
Feen turned to her other sister. ‘Please can I have my turn before you, Soph?’ The paper was handed down in order of age.
Sophia examined her efforts in the mirror. ‘How much will you pay for the privilege?’
‘Oh, don’t be mean! You know I haven’t any money.’
‘Hard luck then.’ Sophia picked up a comb and dragged it through her frizzy auburn hair.
Feen threw herself on the bed in frustration.
‘Stop bouncing! How d’you expect me to finish it when you keep blurring the words.’ Elizabeth turned a page and read on while Feen sulked in a pile at her feet.
After a while Liz started to giggle. Sophia asked what was so funny. ‘I’m just reading the answers on the letters page. Goodness …’
‘Don’t tell me,’ complained Sophia, dropping the red combings into a bag attached to her dressing table. ‘I like to read them myself.’
‘Oh, just this one, it’s a beauty – listen. It’s addressed to Cleopatra: “We cannot decide if you are wicked or completely mad, although the pseudonym which you have chosen speaks for your egotistical nature. To harbour such indelicate thoughts about your uncle – let alone submit them to paper – is truly disgraceful for one of such tender years. Naturally, it is inconceivable that we answer your query in detail; it is far too disgusting for a refined paper such as this. Suffice it to say that a fourteen year old schoolgirl should be concentrating on her lessons and her handwriting, which in your case is absolutely appalling. You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of your evil thoughts towards your aunt.”’ Elizabeth snorted in merriment. ‘Poor child!’
Feen rose swiftly from the bed and, face averted, made for the door.
‘I’ve nearly finished now, Feen,’ Liz called after her, but the door was slammed.
I wish I were dead. Feen slouched about her room, looking for some means with which to end her agonising humiliation. It had been stupid of her to rush out like that, her sisters would guess that she had written the letter. She heard gales of laughter as the dawning came to Sophia and she shared the joke with Elizabeth. How different would the reaction be, were they to come in here and find her hanging. She visualised herself swinging from the gaslight with its pretty pink globes, or prostrated on the ground thirty feet below her window. Sagging onto the bed, she lifted the lid of her musical box and sang with the plaintive tune. But before the first line emerged, tears were bulging and she was too choked to continue. Oh, Dickie.
Later in the morning, Sophia poked her head round the door to hand over the Girls’ Own. ‘You might at least say thank you!’ she cribbed. Then looked sly. ‘I thought you’d enjoy reading the letters page.’
As soon she had gone, Feen ripped the paper to shreds. Gorged on self-pity, she had not gone down to luncheon. When Amelia came to demand her turn of the paper, she had been met by the yell that, ‘It’s a stupid blasted paper, written by idiotic old people! If you must know I’ve ripped it up.’ Amelia had returned with her oldest sister who said that she would buy another and Feen could pay her back out of her allowance when she received it. If Feen did not comply, then she would tell Mother who would bar her from the family picnic – not to mention what she would do if told about the letter. Faced with the threat of not seeing her uncle, Feen had to give in.
‘Where are we going on this picnic?’ Sonny asked his brother. The two were alone after Sunday lunch, the females having departed.
Dick, eyes closed, mumbled that he didn’t know and didn’t care. ‘By the time the women are ready I’ll have dropped off.’
Sonny snuggled back in his chair. ‘D’you remember that picnic we took with poor old Bones when we met that girl?’
Dickie pursed his mouth, trying to recall it. ‘Yeah … yeah, I think so. Was it in a wood or somethin’?’
His brother smiled. ‘That’s right. There was this track that led off the main footpath and we found this lovely lake. I never did find that place again, you know. I’ve been once or twice since, but no luck.’
‘Ye had no luck on that day either if I remember rightly,’ said his brother with a sleepy grin.
‘No, you little bugger. You and Bones ran off after her and left me to cuddle a twisted ankle.’
‘An’ the next day poor ol’ Bones was dead,’ said Dick.
‘Aye …’ Sonny gave a sad frown.
His brother sat up impulsively. ‘I bet I could find it.’
‘I’m not sure I want to,’ replied Sonny. ‘Places you visited as a child never live up to expectations.’
‘Aw, come on, it might be our last chance before we’re all banged up in the Castle.’
‘That’s reserved for Military nowadays,’ Sonny informed him dryly. ‘The riff-raff go to Wakefield.’ At Dickie’s insistence he capitulated. ‘Oh … all right. But I’m not trailing all over the wood to find it. That’s always considering these bloody women are ever ready.’
The hold-up was due to one of Sonny’s girls. Three of them were suitably dressed, the youngest in white lace dress, white stockings and white doeskin shoes, the elder two in striped shirts with cravats and dark skirts – their period of mourning was over now – but the fourth was confronted as soon as she entered the room where the rest of the family waited.
‘You are not going out dressed like that!’ Josie stared at her daughter who had obviously entered a Spanish period; her hair was draped with a piece of black lace secured by a gardenia above her left ear; from some trunk in the attic she had dragged a couple of red petticoats which she wore over her skirts arranged in tiers in an attempt to look like a Flamenco dancer, and her bosom had increased in size, due to the aid of some rolled-up stockings. ‘And what have you got on your face?’ demanded Josie, bending to glare at the black smudges that marked her daughter’s eyes. ‘You look like a pugilist.’
‘It’s the stuff they use to clean the fireplace,’ answered Feen petulantly. ‘Spanish dancers always have dark eyes.’ Her mother said she was to scrub it off at once. ‘You never complained before,’ objected Feen. After a couple of days the pain of the scathing magazine article had lessened. Why should she take notice of a crabby old editor who had probably never known romance? She was once again set to woo her uncle and now her mother was intent on spoiling it.
‘I don’t mind you dressing up in the house but you are not going out in public like a … just go and scrub it offl’
Feen looked pathetic. ‘I won’t go on the picnic, then.’ Without another word, Josie grabbed her daughter by the scruff of the neck and hauled her off to the bathroom from where emitted screams as the leaden eyes were scrubbed and scoured. After the hold-up the outing proceeded with a red-eyed, red-faced Feen clad in white dress and stockings, sulking all the way to the countryside.
Apart from Sonny’s family, Nick and Win were over with little Johnny who had just taken his first steps. With Belle and her children being invited too, the cars were rather overloaded, and so some of the young adults pedalled behind on bicycles. When the procession of vehicles stopped there followed a walk down a woodland path which seemed never ending.
‘I hope one of you knows where you’re leading us,’ puffed Thomasin, hobbling along with the aid of Erin’s arm, the prodigious clan marching ahead, laden with picnic hampers and rugs. The Salicin was not strong enough to combat the pain of this trek, but she was determined not to give in.
‘I did offer to get you a bathchair, Mam,’ called Dickie from the head of the column. He laughed at her retort and grinned at his brother. ‘I like to make her mad, it keeps her going.’ He assured her it was not much further now, then pointed to a track to his left. ‘Hey, I think this is it, Son, isn’t it?’
‘If it were that easy I would have found it years ago,’ replied Sonny, but turned off the track after his brother.
‘Where’s he leading us?’ asked Erin.
<
br /> ‘God knows,’ replied Sonny. ‘But there should be a lake at the end of this path.’
‘Well, if there’s any wild geese on it,’ grumbled Thomasin, swiping at mosquitoes with her stick and stumbling in the undergrowth, ‘they’ll get damn-well throttled.’
They seemed to be going nowhere, growing hotter and more bad-tempered by the second, when all at once the track opened onto a clearing. Dick stood with his brother to examine it. ‘This can’t be it surely,’ murmured Sonny.
‘Well, if it isn’t it’s damn-well going to be.’ Thomasin poked her sons onwards with her stick. ‘Come on, get that rug spread, Erin.’
Sonny wandered further into the clearing. There was little doubt that this was it, for the layout was familiar. But the place they had visited as children had been enchanted and secret; here was just an ordinary, if quite pretty clearing with a small weed-laden pond. He felt a twinge of annoyance that his brother had helped to wreck a childhood illusion.
However, he was forced to smile as Belle’s children made a beeline for the water and began uprooting reedmace to use as swords. It was obviously as magical to them as it had been once to him.
‘Paddy, come away from the pond!’ called the child’s mother.
‘Want to go pee-wee,’ said one small body, whilst Thomasin was asking, ‘Who’s got my chair? Come on, Sonny, don’t just stand there, I’m ready to drop.’
Her son rushed forward and set up the chair, into which she promptly collapsed. ‘Oh, that’s better.’ After a few deep breaths she recovered somewhat. The rest of the family buzzed about her like workers round their queen, spreading rugs and cloths, opening hampers. ‘It’s not a bad place, is it? When did you say you’d come here, Dickie?’
‘Oh, a long time ago, Mam.’ Dickie took up a boxing stance and faced his nephew who was complaining noisily about being dragged away from the water. ‘Come on, Pad, let’s see if ye can scrap as good as your dad.’ He pranced around on the balls of his feet, feinting and swiping while little Paddy swung out at his legs with bunched fists. Frederick, not to be left out, started punching too.
Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 31
