For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh, quite well,’ he smiled. It was all so polite.

  They stood looking at each other for a while, his face filled with a remembered ache, hers friendly but awkward.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Tommy.’ The face was ugly, but Roland had some inner quality that attracted the females – a quality he had always played upon. She wondered if he still gave rein to the old weakness.

  ‘Good to see you too, Roly … I’m sorry, we’ve blocked your path haven’t we? As yer see we’re in the act of movin’ in.’ She told him about the inheritance. She could see that he wasn’t really listening, but remembering the times they’d spent together. ‘I’m sorry if it’s gonna be a bit awkward,’ she said after she had finished telling him.

  ‘Not for me, it isn’t,’ he answered. ‘But I suspect very awkward for you.’ A glance at the house.

  ‘Aye … he wasn’t best pleased when he knew where we were movin’.’

  ‘I’m a little surprised he consented.’

  ‘He did it ’cause he wants me to be happy.’

  ‘So do I.’ His eyes flickered over her.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then don’t try to see me, Roly.’

  ‘How can I help but see you when we’re to be neighbours?’

  ‘Yer know I didn’t mean in passin’, I meant don’t come to the house.’

  ‘As if I’d be so foolish.’

  ‘I just thought to warn yer. We’re settled now. It would only cause trouble if you were to keep actin’ the good neighbour. I don’t want you here, Roly.’

  ‘Still the same old Tommy. You don’t mince words, do you?’ It was said in cheerful tone, but she had hurt him.

  ‘I’m just warnin’ yer ’cause I don’t want anything else to be minced – namely me.’ She glanced at the door of her house where a dark-faced Patrick was on his way back to the cart. ‘Well, it’s been nice seein’ yer again, Roly,’ she said brightly. ‘I must go now an’ get the house straight. Goodbye now.’

  Roland wanted to take hold of her, to keep her there, but instead he doffed his hat, smiled and said, ‘Goodbye, Thomasin, so nice to have met you. I trust you’ll soon be settled into your new home. You must all come and take tea with us some time.’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she said artificially, then picked up a couple of bags and went into the house.

  Roland was about to move on, but Patrick stopped him. ‘A word in your ear, Cummings,’ he muttered softly, pretending to be involved in the sorting of his possessions. ‘I don’t know what ideas our moving in here has put into that ugly head o’ yours but ye’d be wise to keep them there.’

  ‘You’re a damned fool,’ issued Roland contemptuously and made to walk away.

  Patrick grabbed his arm. ‘An’ so are you if ye think she’ll be comin’ to take tea with yese. Just keep your distance.’

  ‘Hard when one lives in the same road.’ Roland could appear very arrogant when he wanted to. It was unfortunate for him that his face chose this moment to advertise just how much he despised his opponent.

  ‘A long road – an’ I suggest ye don’t try to shorten it.’

  ‘Perhaps Thomasin does not share your views.’

  Both hands reached for him. ‘I’ll break your bloody …’

  ‘Patrick.’ Thomasin stood once again in the doorway, staring hard at both of them. She hadn’t raised her voice but the mere tone of it was enough to stay his arm.

  Face still seething, Patrick strode back into the house. As he brushed past her, his wife gave him a look of loving reproach.

  Seeing that look and the rejecting stare that was in turn directed at him, Roland pocketed his briefly-rekindled hopes, bent his head and wandered off up the street. Yes, he would keep his distance. Since taking silk, Roland had been trying to decide whether to take his talents as a QC away from York and set up chambers in the capital. He was gaining quite a reputation for himself and perhaps there could be even wider possibilities in London.

  That look had just decided him. Thomasin and her Irishman had no further cause to worry.

  Part Two

  1870

  Chapter Fourteen

  Well, it’s finally happened at last, thought Patrick as he perched on the fence and viewed the product of his labours with great satisfaction. After twenty-three years in these alien climes I’ve finally got my piece of land. Two hundred acres to be exact, a couple of miles out of York on the road to Malton. Yet his pleasure was slightly marred by the fact that the land had not been purchased by his own endeavours. He had still to prove his worth to these people. A new set of clothes and a big house could not, for his neighbours, erase his Irishness. He remembered their ill-disguised concern at the thought of an Irish family coming into their midst.

  One good thing, though – that which he had feared most from the move had proved to be without substance. Within days there had been a ‘For Sale’ notice outside the Cummings’ residence. A couple of weeks later a gratified Patrick had watched the removal firm carry his rival’s belongings to another place. Patrick hoped it was far away. There had been no comment between him and Thomasin but he sensed her relaxation at the departure.

  He dropped from the fence and squatted on his heels, enveloped by the smell of rain-dampened earth. He yielded to the impulse and clawed up a handful of the moist soil, pressing it to his face and breathing in the rich pungency of life. His mind was immediately swamped by indelible memories … the sing-song voices of the peat-cutters as they dextrously sliced and stacked the turves, speaking in a language which had not tripped from his own tongue in years; the girls with their skirts tucked up to expose red flannel petticoats, pounding their washing on the banks of the stream; the granite mountain that sheltered his home; the endless swathes of purple heather … and then his memories turned black. Acre upon acre of steaming, putrid earth, ravaged like its people. Death everywhere – corpses piled high, matchstick legs sticking out at grotesque angles …

  ‘Ah see tha’s got mole trouble!’

  The broad accent startled Patrick and he spun round smiling, expecting to see his father-in-law, but instead of William’s jolly countenance was met by a rather miserable, weather-beaten character who leaned on the fence and let his rheumy eyes wander over the horizon.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ Patrick straightened and advanced carefully over his neat rows of infant cabbages.

  The rustic ceased puffing on his pipe and pointed with the long curved stem at the orchard that ran parallel to the cabbage field, which also belonged to the Irishman. ‘Moles. Ah can rid thee of ’em for a fair price.’

  Patrick screwed up his eyes against the sun and surveyed the orchard. All he could see were ranks of young apple trees which he had planted last spring – slender green maidens who, in years to come, would bear the fruit that would line Thomasin’s shelves. Everything seemed as it should be, healthy and flourishing. He frowned at the man. ‘I’m sorry, ye’ve got me puzzled.’

  The man returned his frown. ‘Look, s’no good thinkin’ tha’ll gerrit done cheaper by anybody else. Tha won’t. Anyroad, this is my territory – no bugger else is allowed to mole on my patch.’

  Patrick gave a confused laugh and scratched his head. ‘Look, Mr …’

  ‘Catch.’

  ‘Mr Catch …’

  ‘Not Mr – just Catch,’ provided the stranger. ‘Me name’s Newton Catermole, but folk bein’ what they are, an’ what wi’ my profession bein’ what it is, they changed it to Catchermole – sithee? Then it got shortened to plain Catch.’

  ‘Look, I know ye must think me an eejit,’ said Patrick, endorsing the man’s opinion, ‘but I’ve as much understanding of what you’re talking about as I have of the workings o’ the female mind.’

  The man’s weak blue eyes toured Patrick’s face, then he spat. ‘Thinkin’ o’ catchin’ ’em thasel’ then, esta? Doin’ a poor owd man out of his livin’.’

  ‘Catch what, for God’s sake?’ Patrick
was beginning to be irritated by this conversation.

  ‘The bloody moles for God’s sake!’ shouted the man, stabbing his pipe stem at the orchard.

  ‘An’ would ye kindly explain to me what these moles are when they’re at home? Is it something wrong with the trees you’re tryin’ to tell me?’

  Catch was about to produce another biting retort when he realised from the total absence of duplicity in Patrick’s expression that the Irishman’s confusion was genuine. ‘Well, Ah’ll be … what doesta think all them mounds of earth are, dotted all ower thy orchard – fairy bloody castles?’ He slung his leg over the fence and began to walk towards the orchard, keeling from side to side. He had the handiest legs Patrick had ever seen, encased in leather gaiters.

  The Irishman tagged on behind like a stray dog. ‘Sure, I’ve been wonderin’ what the hell they were! The very morning after I planted them trees I came back to find a dozen o’ them with their roots pushed right out o’ the ground. I thought somebody had a down on me. In fact I’ve sat here many a night waiting for the varmints to show themselves so I could give them a hiding, but never a thing did I see. An’ ye say ’tis these moles that’re responsible? What sort o’ creature would they be, then? Obviously some sort o’ burrowing insect, but they’d have to be pretty big to do this much damage.’

  Catch began to chuckle. Wait till he told the lads down at The Black Bull about the looney who thought moles were insects. He carried a sack over his shoulder and now let it drop to the earth and dipped his horny fingers inside. ‘That there’s what a mole is, lad,’ he explained, offering the tiny velvet corpse to Patrick. ‘Don’t they have ’em where you come from then?’

  The other turned it over on his palm. ‘If they do they’ve been keepin’ them well hidden.’ It was true, there were no moles in Ireland. ‘Sure, I’ve never seen the like of such an oddity in all me life, an’ there you are with a bagful o’ the little demons. Ye wouldn’t think a creature so small as himself could do so much damage, would ye? An’ what might ye be going to do with them now?’

  Catch retrieved the mole, dropped it back to join the others and shouldered the sack. ‘Do, lad? Well, I’m off home to see if there’s any o’ the buggers worth skinnin’, an’ if there is then they’ll go towards makin’ them breeches what I’ve been promisin’ meself.’ He fingered his waistcoat proudly. ‘Natty piece o’ work, eh? Not bad wi’ a needle isn’t my sister. Mindst,’ he shook his sack. ‘I doubt I’ll have enough for a pair o’ breeches in here. May, tha knows.’ He could tell Patrick didn’t understand him. ‘They’ll ’ve moulted! Proper time for skins is just afore Christmas – ’course that’s when tha gets best prices an’ all so tha still doesn’t get tha moleskin breeches. ’Ave to sell ’em while tha can.’

  ‘But ye still catch them all the year round?’

  ‘Oh, aye, more or less. Except for where there’s crops growin’. Ah can fettle that there orchard for thee though.’

  ‘I’d be pleased if ye could. They’re unsightly things. Are them your traps?’ Patrick gestured to the collection of metal that partnered the sack.

  ‘Aye. Ah can’t start right now though, I’ve others to collect. Tomorrow’ll do.’

  Patrick kept his new friend talking for a long time, gleaning as much knowledge of the land as Catch was willing to impart. In the old country Patrick’s crop had been limited to potatoes and he was grateful for any tips the old man might give him. It transpired that Catch was a hedge-layer too, amongst it seemed a hundred other occupations and he told Patrick that he would be willing to undertake anything the Irishman might throw his way. ‘Live nearby, doesta?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I live in York.’ Patrick became alert. ‘An’ I’d best be makin’ my way there. My son’s coming home today. He’s been at college these last three years. His mother an’ me only see him at high days an’ holidays, so I’d like to be home to greet him.’ He headed for the road home. Catch followed.

  ‘One o’ them boardin’ schools, her?’ he grunted. ‘Don’t hold wi’ too much schoolin’ meself. Leavin’ t’masters to do t’work o’ t’father. Ah should think it costs a pretty penny to send him there an’ all.’ The tone of his statement conveyed his view that he had thought this beyond Patrick’s pocket.

  As the light shower ceased and a rainbow arched its way to the heavens, Patrick found himself telling Catch all about Thomasin’s inheritance; how in three short years his wife had transformed a reasonably profit-making shop into a flourishing business.

  It failed to impress the countryman who waddled beside him, traps rattling. ‘Can’t say as how I hold wi’ women in them sort o’ positions,’ he muttered, tugging at the peak of his cap to shield his eyes from the sunshine.

  Truth to tell, neither did Patrick, but he would not go so far as to demean his wife’s accomplishments before a stranger. ‘I think she’s done remarkably well in such a short time,’ he defended. ‘She’s doubled her custom.’

  ‘Nay,’ Catch argued stubbornly. ‘A woman’s only fit for birthin’ a man’s sons an’ fillin’ his belly wi’ good grub, not gallivantin’ off doin’ t’job a fella should be doin’.’

  ‘Ah no, not this fella,’ replied Patrick with a firm shake of his head. ‘I’m not getting meself involved in the running of a business for anybody. Me – I’d rather be out in the open air, doin’ the donkey work than in a stuffy shop, panderin’ to a lot o’ bickerin’ women.’

  ‘Aye well, tha’s said summat sensible at last,’ Catch nodded, then asked how much land Patrick owned, and when told, said, ‘That’s a fair bit for one man to work – not that I haven’t done it meself, mind, but then I’m used to it. Instead o’ that son o’ thine wastin’ his time at school why dun’t tha get him to help thee? How old is he anyroad?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ answered Patrick. ‘But no, if I’d need of help I’ve another son. Me wife’d skelp me for wasting the younger one on the land. Besides, I wasn’t thinkin’ to get it done all at once.’ Catch asked where the other son was. ‘Dickie? Ah well, we decided it might be a good idea to have a travelling grocery to boost the earnings even further. Ye know, going door to door so’s people don’t have to lug all those heavy baskets home. Ye’d be surprised at the trade it’s brought us.’

  ‘Nay, I wouldn’t,’ sniffed Catch. ‘Lazy buggers. They’ll be fittin’ folk wi’ wheels next. All they want to do is sit on their backsides these days an’ let other folk wait on ’em. Why, when I were a lad nearest village were ten mile away an’ before I were barely out o’ frocks I’d ’ave to be up at five, rain or shine and down that road wi’ a basketful of eggs to sell. An’ woe betide me if Ah weren’t home afore Father had his ten-thirty’s. By, Ah can still feel that stick round me legs! Our lass an’ all, poor bairn. Eh, Ah’ve seen her fingers like ten blue sausages swollen up wi’ t’cold, but she still had to do t’milking, froz or no. An’ did she complain? Never! Neither of us’d ever’ve dreamed o’ questionin’ me father’s orders. His word were law. Even me mother bowed an’ scraped when he gave command. ’Course, times’ve changed now. Womenfolk’ve started wearin’ t’breeches an’ youngsters don’t seem to want to do nowt for nobody or have any respect for their parents. Our lass’s boys are a load of idle buggers. Ah’m glad I nivver wed.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ smiled Patrick. ‘Ye can miss a lot by staying single. An’ mine aren’t such bad lads. Dickie’s coping admirably with the grocery round an’ Sonny’s masters speak very highly of him. D’ye know, half the things he says to me now go right over my head.’

  Catch’s normally doleful face cracked again as he and Patrick went their separate ways. It wasn’t very often Catch laughed but by golly! he chuckled now. It wouldn’t take very much to go over the Irishman’s head. Are moles some sort of insect indeed! By, he’d be able to milk a few quarts of ale from his pals tonight with that tale.

  * * *

  When Patrick arrived home his younger son was already there and the hall cluttered with his trunks and cases. ‘Is the
re no one else here to greet ye save me an’ your mother?’ Patrick bear-hugged his son and remarked on his maturing appearance, as he did every time Sonny came home.

  ‘Dickie came in half an hour ago and vanished like a genie,’ donated his wife. ‘I’ve sent Erin round to Mother’s to ask if she and Father would like to come to tea tomorrow, what with Sonny being home; they like to see him.’ She had taken a seat by the fire and was toasting two marshmallows on a fork.

  ‘Oh, Tommy did ye have to!’ Patrick flopped onto the sofa joined by his son.

  ‘I shall inform Mother what a high opinion you have of her.’ Thomasin prodded the browning marshmallows with her fingertips.

  ‘She knows. Listen, what about all of us going down to the King Willie to celebrate Sonny’s homecoming?’

  Thomasin teased the marshmallows from the toasting fork onto a dish. ‘You’ve been out in the sun too long, my lad.’

  ‘An’ I’m desiccated – hence the suggestion. What’s wrong with wanting to go to the pub for a little relaxation? D’ye realise the both of us have been workin’ so hard that we’ve never been near the old place in… God, ’tis almost a year! They’ll think we’ve deserted them.’ At first he and Thomasin had gone back regularly to see how Molly was and to have a chat with friends. On each visit Patrick had slipped Molly a few pounds, though she never seemed to use it for anything other than to drink herself silly. Nor did she have much to show for the original sum they had given her which had not been insubstantial. It appeared she’d given most of it to her married daughters and sons before buying a few items of furniture for herself and drinking the rest. When Pat had scolded her for not investing it more sensibly she had said: ‘Ah, what’s the point? I could be dead tomorrow,’ and had poured another drink to toast his health. Still, she had seemed happy enough and that was what counted. At least she had been a year ago – God, was it that long, Patrick asked himself ashamedly. How time flew. It wasn’t that he was sick of going to see her, just that when he got home after working all that land he was so damned tired he’d just fall asleep in the chair, couldn’t be bothered to shift. Well, he would definitely go tonight and Tommy must come too, as he now told her.