‘I could introduce ye to Bertha,’ offered Dickie. ‘T’would make up for your wasted night with her friend.’ ‘Didn’t I tell ye she was all right,’ complained Bones, then deliberated for a while before saying, ‘I could ask the foreman about a job for ye – though ’tis no use ye comin’ today, we’re hellish busy; he’ll not have time to see ye – come on Monday.’
‘Hey look, Bones!’ Dickie digressed. ‘Isn’t that one o’ your cousins, they’re attacking?’ He pointed to a band of grubby, tousle-haired children who hauled between them a near-complete skeleton which they had just disinterred from an ancient graveyard. A helpful dog took possession of a jawful of phalanxes.
‘Look! ye’ll get no help from me if ye continue with these insults,’ snapped Bones.
Dickie, pinging pebbles off the works’ sign, apologised, then made the suggestion that all three of them take a trip to the country tomorrow.
Bones was pensive. ‘I suppose I could ask me dad to pick me wages up an’ tell the master I’m sick – though you’re not to call at our house, the mammy’ll skin me alive if she finds I’ve dodged off from work. There’ll be holy murder when she discovers my wage is short as well. I’ll have to tell her they’ve docked our rate or something.’ Their arrangements completed, the boys parted company, the Feeneys spending the remainder of the afternoon splashing in the open sewer known as the Foss. Hours later, after being chased off by a policeman for their naked cheek, they made their way home, boots laced around neck, damp hair awry. The pavements sizzled beneath their bare padding feet. Sonny’s head hung down to face his toes where the still-moist spaces between them had collected the little puffs of dirt that eddied under his pounding soles. Before reaching home, however, the boys thought it expedient to smarten themselves up. Dickie used his fingers as a comb for his crinkly black hair, employing a shop window as a mirror.
‘My, who’s the handsome-lookin’ fella in the shop?’ he quipped, then: ‘Why, bless me! ’tis me own reflection. God, but you’re a handsome brute.’ He blew a kiss to the female assistant inside.
The woman waved a deprecating hand. ‘Go away!’ she mouthed. Sonny joined his brother to press his face against the glass, flattening his nose and crossing his eyes. The woman pursed her lips as she went about her work, trying to ignore the grimacing expressions, but they would not desist. Finally, she gave an exasperated cry and flounced to the rear of the shop to ask the fishmonger to chase them off. In a flash Dickie had leapt through the doorway and whipped up a piece of yellow fish which slipped and slithered through his fingers as he tried to tuck it down his shirt front.
When the woman returned with reinforcements the boys were gone.
* * *
Edwin Raper sat outside his brother’s butchery soaking up the dregs of the afternoon sun. To say that Raper was fat would be to understate the matter; he was an enormous man whose girth increased with every year. His eyes were pig-like. He had close-cropped gingery hair and skin the colour of boiled bacon – ergo his nickname – ‘Bacon Neck’.
It was doubtful if one could find a single person who would confess to liking Raper; not the Feeney boys certainly, for if he was not shouting insults at them about their Irish ancestry then he was threatening to cut out their tripes. In truth he was harmless – a fat man with a big mouth – and no one took his threats seriously. On the contrary, his obnoxious displays had made him an attractive target for the younger generation’s pranks.
The chair groaned as Raper shuffled his posterior into a more comfortable position and laid his head heavily against the doorpost of the shop. The ensuing vibration stirred up a cloud of bluebottles which buzzed over the blood-clotted joints that hung outside. They soon resettled, rubbing hairy little legs over their grotesque heads. His grubby, blood-caked apron stretched taut across the great mound of his belly. He snuggled his tongue into the roof of his mouth like a great bull chewing the cud. His piggy eyes flickered, then closed. The sausage-like fingers slipped from his chest to dangle somnolently at his side. He snored contentedly – for a while.
Alas, the butcher was suddenly jerked into rude awakening by something cold, wet and smelly wrapping itself around his head. In his panic he almost fell from the chair, his fingers scrabbling wildly at his face. The piece of stinking fish slipped down to his chest to land on his apron and, seizing it, Raper leapt up from the chair, his face boiling with rage.
‘Who done it?’ he bellowed, waving the reeking fish in the air and drawing amused glances from passers-by. ‘I’ll kill ’em! I swear I’ll ’ave their bloody guts on my slab!’ He glared angrily around him trying to locate the direction of the stifled sniggers.
Sonny bobbed up once too often. ‘Oy, come back ’ere!’ Raper ran into the road, hopping from one foot to the other as a hansom cab rumbled towards him and danced agitatedly until it had passed. Dodging the rest of the traffic he stormed across the road to pursue the escaping culprits, thundering after them with the fish still in his hand.
Laughing breathlessly the boys suddenly wheeled into a side street. The sweat trickled down their foreheads and gusts of warmth pumped from the open necks of their shirts. Still running, Sonny turned and thumbed his nose at the lumbering Raper, then he and Dickie swerved yet again into another side street and ran – straight into their mother.
After Thomasin had caught hold of her sons’ shirts and given them a shaking, she folded her hands across her dark green skirt and asked, ‘Now then, would either of yer like to tell me why yer in such a hurry?’ She looked up sharply as Raper shambled stertorously around the corner, almost colliding with the three of them.
‘I’ve got a bone to pick wi’ these two,’ Raper panted and propped himself against the wall to regain his breath, the sweat pouring into his tiny eyes.
‘Don’t tell me they’ve been up to mischief again, Mr Raper,’ said Thomasin calmly, wondering what had sparked off the conflict today.
‘Mischief? I’ll give ’em bloody mischief!’ Raper brandished the fish under her nose, causing her to move her head distastefully. ‘Chucked this in me bloody face, they did. Just havin’ a bloody nap, scared me out o’ me wits. Listen, I’m just about sick of all these bloody filthy Irish tricks.’
Thomasin, well-used to Raper’s bigotry – enough to know not to waste her breath on him – turned to her sons as if to admonish them. ‘That was a silly thing to do,’ she said sternly. Raper nodded his agreement. ‘You know very well it was wrong without me havin’ to tell yer.’ Raper nodded vigorously. ‘Didn’t I say this dinner-time that we’d all have to tighten our belts, an’ what d’you go an’ do? You go an’ waste a nice bit o’ fish by throwin’ it at the likes of him, when you know very well we could’ve eaten it.’
Raper stopped nodding and pointed a finger. ‘Now, look ’ere …’
Thomasin gave the boys a push towards home, then addressed the butcher. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stop an’ have a chat wi’ yer, Mr Raper, I’ve got things to see to.’ She followed her sons, leaving an incensed butcher waving the fish in the air.
‘What am I supposed to do wi’ this?’ he bawled.
Thomasin looked back, then retraced her steps to specify, ‘Well, yer see yer get a pan, an’ then yer fill it wi’ water …’
Raper spat an expletive and marched away, still clutching the fish.
The intransigents looked up apprehensively as Thomasin’s diminutive shadow fell across the doorway, but after being hastily informed that Martin Flaherty was going to get them a job at Victoria Foundry their mother forgot her annoyance.
Shortly, Erin entered carrying a parcel of stale teacakes which she had bought cheaply, intending to toast them for their evening meal. ‘Is this all we’re having?’ Dickie stared down at them. ‘I should’ve kept that mucky bit of fish.’
His mother’s lips twitched. ‘When you start bringin’ money in then we’ll be eatin’ a bit better, but till then I’m afraid His Lordship will ’ave to make do wi’ those –oh, an’ another thing! I shall want you
two lads to help me wi’ stocktakin’ one night next week.’
‘Oh, Ma-am!’ chorused the brothers.
‘Never mind, “oh, Mam!”, yer’ll do as yer told. Me an’ Erin can’t manage all on our own. An’ yer never know, yer might earn yerselves threepence if yer do a good job.’
‘If ye think I’m killin’ meself for threepence then ye’re mistaken,’ answered Dickie rashly.
Thomasin dealt him a stinging blow to the ear. ‘You’ll do it for nowt if I have any more o’ your cheek!’
‘When d’ye think ye’ll have to leave, Mam?’ asked Erin.
‘Well, I should think me job’ll be safe for a couple o’ weeks. After that … we’ll have to wait an’ see.’
Chapter Six
The three boys sauntered beneath the leafy palisade, slitting their eyes as the morning sun glinted intermittently through the treetops. It was so quiet here, far from the bustle of Walmgate with its dray carts and carriages, hansoms and gigs tearing up and down, high-stepping horses kicking up the dust, harness jingling, hooves ringing, and the bawls of draymen and street vendors.
Yet the countryside had noises of its own; gentler, more melodic noises. A hundred birdsongs heralded their intrusion, bursting out from the trees and hedgerows in tuneful waves.
Sonny raised his face to the green canopy and tried to distinguish the different breeds. ‘There’s a yellowhammer!’ he whispered, and pointed to a thorny bush as the song rang out – ‘A little bit of bread and no-o cheese!’ And then another – ‘teacher, teacher!’ ‘That’s a great tit,’ informed Sonny, causing Dickie and Bones to collapse upon each other with hilarity.
Sonny reproved them. ‘Jazers, can ye think o’ nothin’ else? Here we are surrounded by beauty an’ all you can think about is that.’
They left the track and forged a trail through a patch of woodland, thigh-deep in pungent grasses and wild flowers: red and white campions, wood anemones, alive with the drone of honey bees. Insects with long, stick-like legs whirred from the grass under their intrusive feet, whispering against their bare forearms, dancing and floating above their heads. Sonny filled his lungs with the heady scents and paused to wait as his brother twisted a branch from an elder bush.
They strode on, Dickie lashing out at the irritating swarms of insects which hovered at face level. ‘God, these bloody flies are eatin’ me alive.’
‘I think it’s lovely,’ murmured Sonny as he plodded behind the others, stopping occasionally to cup a wild flower to his nose.
‘You would!’ shouted Dickie over his shoulder, and a startled pheasant broke cover with a colourful whirr of wings. ‘Will ye look at that!’ Dickie lowered his voice accordingly. ‘Tomorrow’s dinner handed to us on a plate almost.’
‘An’ how d’ye propose to catch it^5^’ asked Bones. ‘When ye’ve no gun.’
‘Sure, I’ve no need of a gun when I’ve got brains,’ said Dickie scathingly. ‘They’re bloody silly creatures, pheasants. Anyway, didn’t I come prepared?’ He thrust his hand into his pocket and produced a handful of raisins which he had sneaked from Thomasin’s store cupboard. ‘This is how we’re goin’ to catch it.’ He smiled knowingly at Sonny who was immediately transported back to the days when they were little more than babies, sitting upon Uncle John’s knee and listening to his tales. Dear, sly, cunning Uncle John who had one day disappeared and had never been seen again. Sonny recalled the times when he would bring them up here or to Low Moor for walks and try to teach them his poacher’s tricks. The method of catching pheasants for those without benefit of firearm, was to lay a lure of raisins soaked in brandy for the foolish, unsuspecting birds, then when they were drunk enough one snared them, twisted their necks and dropped them neatly into a sack. That was the part which always spoilt it for Sonny, a sensitive soul for all his brawn. But Dickie had no such scruples.
‘How did ye come by the brandy?’ asked Sonny.
‘I didn’t. The cupboard door was unlocked so I drained off a little poteen.’ Dickie grinned and began to lay the trail of raisins among the bark parings and pine cones.
‘Jesus, is it pickled pheasants you’re after?’ breathed Bones. ‘That stuff would burn a hole in a tin bath.’
‘I didn’t think your family knew what baths were, Bones,’ responded Dickie.
They secreted themselves behind a rotting log, lying on their bellies to wait for the pheasant’s return, perfectly quiet. The air was heavy with the persistent whine of gnat and bee-hum. They lay there for some time. Sonny watched the stumbling passage of a family of woodlice over the crest of the log, then turned away in despair as his brother proceeded to squash them one by one. The scent of the crushed pine needles beneath their sprawled bodies began to make him feel lightheaded. He sifted a handful of them through his fingers and said hopefully, ‘He’s not coming.’
‘Is he not?’ murmured his brother, and nodded at a nearby clump of bracken where a beady eye rotated suspiciously.
Their breath suspended they watched the bird place one tentative claw in front of the other. It pecked warily at first then, as the poteen did its work, became bolder, greedily gobbling up the raisins as fast as it could find them. The more he ate the more relaxed his gait became. Dickie hooked his fingers into the rotting bark as the intoxicated bird staggered towards them making drunken stabs at the raisins. Nearer, he staggered, nearer. Sonny bit his lip as his brother crouched ready to strike, his strong, widely-spaced teeth gripping so deeply that they almost drew blood. Go back! he wanted to shout. Go back!
Nearer. Nearer – and then he was caught! Scooped up in a struggling flash of plumage, his neck gripped between Dickie’s large hands and twisted sharply. Twisted, twisted … oh! Sonny thought he was going to be sick, with the beady eye bulging at him, imploring … the grisly snap … and then it was all over. The pheasant, its head lolling uselessly on the rag-like neck, was thrust into Dickie’s shirt front and the boys were once more on their way.
They did not speak for some time, swishing through the long grass, ducking under a low-hanging branch. Dickie felt the still-warm body against his own, the bird’s hard beak tapping at his chest. It was the first time he had killed anything bigger than an insect. His heart was still beating rapidly with the thrill of the hunt. He had liked it; liked the feeling of power in his hands; liked the way his whole body had been infused with a chilling superiority. The bird had offered no resistance, had placidly succumbed to his effortless pressure.
Behind him his brother’s heart was beating also; not with excitement but rather with regret. And yet more worrying than the sad demise of the handsome bird had been the look on his brother’s face as he committed the deed; as if he had enjoyed it. He did enjoy it, thought Sonny, experiencing a sudden chill.
The sun grew brighter as the three boys neared the edge of the wood, and suddenly they were no longer shielded by a verdant canopy but standing on the brink of one of the most wonderful sights that Sonny had ever seen.
The clearing was veiy large, fringed by elder, hawthorn, rowan and silver birch, their contrasting foliage whispering and bending to the breeze; a warm, inviting breeze. Speechlessly the boys stripped off their shirts and absently hooked them over their shoulders as they stepped further into the clearing, gazing admiringly about them – then starting as a cloud of butterflies rose as one from a clump of Ragged Robin, lifting in a multicoloured swoosh! into the balmy air. A galaxy of wings – Red Admiral, Tortoiseshell, Painted Lady, ascending in a deviating flutter, now coming to land, now rising swiftly as the boys disturbed them once again; brushing, petal-like, against cheek and breast.
In the centre of the clearing was a lake, fondled by the zephyr into a gently rippling stretch of deep green satin, and ringed with bullrush, yellow flags and slender golden reeds. Strange great insects performed a ballet above its glassy waters; dragons and damsels in aerial courtship, their lapis lazuli bodies shimmering in the sunlight.
Sonny, with his artist’s eye, lingered at the water’s edge, held speech
less by the beauty, while his two companions whooped and charged around the clearing like barbarians. Sacrilege, thought Sonny and sat down to unbuckle his knapsack. Withdrawing his modest tin paintbox and crumpled pieces of paper he set out to capture the scene, using water from the lake to mix the colours. Why, when they had journeyed up here many times before had they overlooked this beauty spot? Perhaps it had appeared by magic. Years hence the same thought would plague him, for try as he might he never found it again.
After their initial burst of steam the others, too, flopped down at the lakeside, chests heaving. They propped themselves on their elbows to watch the dragonflies’ erratic passage. Sonny, his brush in retirement for the moment, leaned on his knee and thought how reminiscent of his brother these insects were; darting over the pool of life, making frantic grabs at everything within reach. One minute here, next minute gone. A gaudy, random dragonfly.
There were swallows too, skimming the sun-dappled water, scything through the nebulous hordes of midges with knife-like wings, wheeling acrobatically to display the rubies at their throats. Towards midday the breeze dropped and the clearing became a sun-trap. Dickie groaned and turned to look at his brother whose finished painting lay anchored by the paintbox, and at Bones who still lazed in the grass, a straw clenched between his teeth.
Dickie raised a hand to wipe away the sweat that stood in plump, shining beads on his bronzed forehead. ‘Well, I don’t know about your intentions but I know what mine are!’ He jumped up and began to unbutton his trousers.
Sonny opened one eye to squint up at his brother who was now naked and looking as if he was wearing a brown mask and elbow-length gloves with the rest of his body – barely touched by the sun – ridiculously white. ‘I’m with ye!’ He sprang and tore off his own clothes while Bones followed their lead.
Dickie swaddled the pheasant in his shirt and placed it at the foot of a tree; it was beginning to attract the flies. He strutted round like a bantam cock, hands on hips. ‘Jazers, I wish we could walk round like this all the time, ’tis a whole lot cooler.’
For My Brother’s Sins Page 6