For My Brother’s Sins

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

  ‘Mr Feeney says you’re not at home, Miss Erin,’ contradicted Amy.

  ‘But you can see I am, Amy,’ replied Erin forcefully. ‘And why did ye go to my father if it was me the gentleman came to see?’

  ‘’Cause you know it’s me what’d get the stick if I let him in,’ retorted the maid. ‘If he says you’re not to ’ave followers then who am I to argue? Now you clear off an’ leave this girl alone,’ she ordered the young man.

  Erin, suffering from the double embarrassment of being treated like a child by her father and being spoken to in such a tone by the maid, gave an exclamation and promptly fled up the stairs to her room where she burst into tears. Oh, the humiliation of it all!

  Meanwhile, the conversation in the drawing room was still about her marital state. ‘Mark my words, I’m right!’ Thomasin was saying. ‘Look, the next time one calls, instead of booting him out, why don’t you invite him in for tea? Get to know him.’

  He raised a bad tempered face from the page. ‘I don’t need to know them, they’re all the same – rakes.’

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ issued his wife exasperatedly. ‘Why should you think of them all in that light?’

  ‘Because who but a rake would admit to following a respectable girl home?’

  ‘Well I ask you! How else is he going to meet her? Would you prefer that he approached her in the street? He couldn’t’ve been that bad if he sought your permission to walk her out You never gave him a chance.’

  ‘Look, Thomasin, we’ve been through this a dozen times. I will not give my permission for her to go walking out with someone I don’t know.’

  ‘God help us!’ Thomasin fought with her temper. Calmer, she said, ‘Look, Pat, you know how shy she is, and between that and your intractability she’s going to end up on the shelf if we don’t do something about it.’

  ‘I have this feeling you’re going to suggest something.’

  ‘You say you won’t allow her to walk out with men you don’t know. Right, well – let’s start by listing the ones you do know.’ There was silence. ‘Exactly!’ she threw at him. ‘So just where does that leave Erin?’

  He sighed. ‘Someone’ll come along eventually.’

  ‘Aye, he’ll probably have silver hair an’ be on walking sticks by the time you’ve decided to let her out of your sight. Come on now, talk sensibly about this. There must be a nice young man somewhere.’

  ‘An’ where do ye suggest we find him? Our neighbours aren’t going to let their little darlings mix with us, are they?’

  She waved dismissively. ‘We don’t need them. I have a wide circle of business acquaintances, most of whom have families. Would you object if I invited one of their sons for tea?’

  ‘Erin might.’

  ‘Leave Erin out of this. It’s nothing to do with her.’ She laughed then and so did Patrick. ‘Oh, we’ll have to help her along, Pat. She’s ripe for marriage is the lass – you should see how she handles the bairns that come into the shop. A natural mother if ever I saw one. Come on, what d’you think to my suggestion?’

  He drew thoughtfully on his pipe, fighting himself. ‘I’d want to be here when he called. We wouldn’t leave them on their own.’

  ‘I wasn’t implying we would. I thought you could start by stringing him up to that curtainrail by his earlobes, then pull out all his fingernails one by one till he promised he wasn’t going to besmirch your daughter’s honour.’

  ‘Behave,’ he puffed, ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Well, think a bit faster.’

  Finally he said, ‘All right, invite your man – but have a care, Tommy, I’d not see her hurt.’

  ‘And I would?’

  ‘No, no, but ye might get carried away in your enthusiasm. Ye get these ideas into your head …’

  The conversation came to an end as Amy appeared with the tea. She placed a stand, on which hung a small silver kettle, at Thomasin’s right elbow, and laid the tray containing teapot, cream jug, sugar bowl and a plate each of macaroons and bread and butter on an occasional table. ‘Will that be all?’ She looked at Thomasin with barely-veiled contempt. Jumped up nothing! she was thinking. There she is acting the lady when she’s no better than me. That was quite apparent from the way, when Amy had commenced her duties, the mistress had always referred to luncheon as dinner and had also shown great ignorance over the times of afternoon tea and supper. She had tried to cover her slips but Amy had seen them, oh yes. Even if she had not learnt it from the servants of neighbouring households it would have been crystal clear – the mistress was just a nobody who had been left a fortune by some fancy-man and now thought she could walk all over her own class. And it wasn’t as if she knew how to handle all her wealth, otherwise she would have employed a cook at least. But no, the mean bitch, she had to leave all that to Amy. Oh, she had been ever so fair when Amy had first started, saying, ‘Leave that to me, Amy, I’ll do it,’ or, ‘Miss Erin will see to supper tonight, Amy.’ Well, that hadn’t lasted long, had it? And now here was poor Amy doing the bloody lot. And to rub it all in she was looked down on by everyone else’s staff because she worked for an Irishman, a nowt.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Amy?’ The comment was iced with officiousness.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied the maid, knowing full well what was implied, then dropped her eyes from Thomasin’s penetrating stare and added a sulky, ‘Ma’am.’ The mistress always got the better of her, but one of these days Amy would have the last word. She did not see why she should add this deference to one of her own class. Just to show she had not been completely cowed, Amy allowed her eyes to rest insolently on her master for a few seconds before curtseying and leaving the room.

  ‘She’s a sly-looking piece,’ muttered Thomasin as she handed a cup of tea and a plate to her husband. ‘I shall certainly have to review her employment. I wouldn’t’ve hired her in the first place if there’d been any other applicants. She’s far too cocky.’

  ‘Why, because she’s set her cap at me?’ grinned her husband, and reached for a macaroon.

  ‘Oh, you did notice, then? And why, might I ask, didn’t you reprimand her?’ Thomasin selected a slice of bread and butter.

  Patrick sank back into his chair and laughed. ‘An’ what should I say? Will ye please stop lookin’ at me as though ye’d like to ravish me?’

  ‘You could make it clear that you don’t approve, instead of treating it like a joke,’ reproved his wife.

  ‘Now that’s a shame – ’cause I rather like it. ’Tis very flattering, ye know, for an ould fella like me to draw such youthful attention.’ He gave an expletive as his efforts to bite into the macaroon were repulsed. ‘What the hell is this she’s giving us? I almost broke me teeth on it. It’s like a lump o’ rock.’

  ‘It was her afternoon off yesterday,’ provided his wife dryly. ‘She probably used it to go chiselling fossils on the east coast – it saves on the baking. Well, can you tell the difference?’ she asked at his look of disdain.

  He shook his head. ‘I think ye could be right. Either that or she’s getting a percentage from the tooth-puller. My God, I’m sure I’ve damaged something.’ He threw the uneaten cake onto the fire where it soon resembled just another piece of coal. ‘I think ye were right in wanting to be rid of her,’ he said, rubbing his jaw. ‘She’s no great shakes as a cook, is she?’ He dangled a piece of wafer-thin bread and butter between thumb and forefinger. ‘An’ will ye look at this? ’Tis like eatin’ bits o’ lace.’

  ‘That is what my mother would term genteel refectionary,’ answered Thomasin. ‘You can’t be expecting doorsteps now, a man of your standing. Still, I agree with you about her being a poor cook. And it’s not only her culinary art that’s suspect neither.’

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. ‘Ye think she’s on the hey-diddle-diddle?’ She nodded. ‘But if that’s so why is she still working for us?’

  ‘Because, my dear, she doesn’t look upon what she’s doing as thievery – selling odds and en
ds at the back door to supplement her wages – it’s considered perks of her trade. She’d look at me daft if I were to dismiss her on those grounds.’

  ‘I never thought I’d hear the day when anyone put one over on my wife an’ got away with it.’

  ‘And you won’t.’ She set her mouth. ‘Why do you think I pay her such a low wage? I worked out beforehand just what she was likely to pilfer from me each week and docked her wages accordingly. She gets three shillings per month less than I’d pay to someone honest. A little integrity would’ve bought her a rise after a few months, but I’m afraid that is not one of Amy’s qualities. Things even themselves out quite nicely all said and done. What she thinks she’s fiddling from me is really her due.’

  ‘You’re a bit of a slyboots yourself,’ chuckled Patrick. He reached for two more pieces of bread and butter and stuck them together. ‘It’ll be a very clever person who gets the better of my wife.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The person who had accredited himself with that title was, as they spoke, cleaning out the stables. Things had not worked out exactly as Dickie had forseen. The riches he had anticipated when his mother inherited the business had not materialised. Three years on and he was still in the same position in which Thomasin had cast him; a glorified barrowboy, with an allowance of a few shillings per week. To Thomasin, who had always had to keep a strict check on the purse-strings – disregarding her own brief spate of flamboyance – it had seemed grossly extravagant to pay him more when he had little expenditure. After all, Dickie, his brother and sister would each receive a share in the legacy when their parents expired, and though she did not necessarily agree with the adage of money being the root of all evil – it had, after all, brought her great pleasure – in Dickie’s hands it might bring an element of truth to the saying.

  Dickie found it impossible not to equate his mother’s caution with parsimony. In his view, it was just her way of keeping him tied to her apron-strings. So, he had been forced to resort to Amy’s underhand tactics to make up for his mother’s stinginess. The extra sixpence that his customers thought they were paying as a delivery charge was in fact going into young Feeney’s coffers, secreted behind a loose brick in the stable wall. Once his nest-egg was large enough, this bird would spread his wings and fly.

  ‘Get over, Polly!’ He slapped the mare’s chestnut rump, pushing her over to the far side of the stable in order to rake up the droppings. It was a job he detested, gathering manure for his father’s land. The only reason he was doing it now, and so late, was that his father had paid a visit to the stable a short time after lunch and had discovered the horse almost knee-deep in soiled bedding. He had been furious, saying that he would return in an hour expecting to see the job completed.

  True to his word Patrick strode in now as Dickie shovelled another pile of manure into the barrow. ‘What, not finished yet? What the devil have ye been playing at, boy? Ye’ve had ample time to clean twenty stables out.’ His pale-blue eyes visited every corner of the stable.

  Dickie countered his father’s annoyance by suggesting he might get the job done quicker by a stable lad. Surely they could afford one? This in turn was met by his father’s derision.

  ‘Of course we can afford one! But I’ll be damned if I’m employing someone else when I’ve got a healthy son to do it.’ Patrick kicked viciously at the evil-smelling straw. ‘How d’ye expect your horse to do her work if she’s got diseased hooves from the filth you’re too lazy to shift? I pay out a hefty sum each week to keep this animal – I suppose ye have fed her, by the way?’

  ‘Of course I have!’ objected his son. ‘What d’ye take me for? I just forgot to muck out that’s all, what with having to go to Mass.’

  ‘Is it blaming your Maker y’are then for the horse’s predicament?’ snapped Patrick.

  ‘No more I am. But I’ve that many things to see to, I only have time to do one or the other. If ye think the horse is more important then perhaps next Sunday ye should go to Mass without me. I can’t see the point in it anyway.’ He threw another shovelful onto the barrow and paused to straighten his back.

  ‘Oh, no, my lad!’ Patrick took a step forward. ‘Ye needn’t think you’re using the horse to escape your other duties. If ye’ve not sufficient time then ye can rise an hour earlier, for both are equally important. Ye need to go to Mass for your spiritual well-being, for ’tis obvious that you’re in grave danger o’ becoming one o’ these folk who couldn’t give a damn about anybody, man nor beast. And ye need the horse because without her ye couldn’t do your job, and where would ye be then? Certainly not sponging from my pocket. That horse obeys every command ye throw at her, pulls that heavy cart all over town without a word of protest. She deserves more reward than you’re intent on giving her.’

  ‘Rather like someone else I could name,’ muttered Dickie sullenly, his bending back towards Patrick.

  Patrick grasped his shoulder and turned him around. ‘And what meaning am I to put on that? Come on, out with it! If ye’ve any complaints I’ll hear them now.’

  Dickie rested the spade at his side and leaned on it. ‘Well, what sort o’ reward do I get, I’d like to know?’ he demanded petulantly. ‘Sure, there’s not only the horse that slogs all over town, ye know. ’Tis no picnic for me neither.’

  ‘Ye get paid for it don’t ye – ’tis more than the horse gets.’

  ‘Hah! A few measly bob. I’ll hardly get rich on that, will I?’

  ‘Rich is it? An’ what might ye be needing a fortune for, might I be knowing? Don’t your mother an’ me feed an’ clothe ye? Ye’ve no rent to pay, no creditors. I think the money ye receive is sufficient for a lad your age.’

  ‘’Tis all very well for you to talk when you’re not exactly going without. Anyway, how would you know what I need?’

  ‘Sure, I have been seventeen meself once ye know.’ Patrick relaxed his severe frown as he drew on his memories. ‘If I remember rightly the only things I was interested in at your age were a regular supply of whiskey an’ pretty women. The money you get paid is well able to keep ye in drink for more than a week if ye choose to squander it that way. An’ ye don’t need to spend any on women …’ He caught the change of expression on Dickie’s face and said sharply, ‘You’re not trying to tell me that I’m paying good money for the upkeep of a brothel? For if ever I thought ye were frequenting those kinda places I’d hold back every penny. I’m not saying this to spite ye, son, but for your own welfare. Ye see, those women are riddled with terrible diseases … I don’t know if you’re understanding my meaning …’ He looked awkward. ‘Catch a dose o’ that an’ you’re in deep water. Will ye tell me honestly that you’re not spending your money that way?’

  Dickie manufactured a look of puzzled innocence, finding it hard to keep a straight face at his father’s unworldliness. ‘What way is that, Dad?’

  Patrick had the uneasy feeling that beneath that bland exterior his son was mocking him, yet decided to accept that bemused frown as answer. ‘Never mind. I’d not put ideas into your head that aren’t already there.’ He smiled and patted Dickie’s shoulder. ‘I know how hard it is for a young fella, son; I’ve been there meself. But ye must try an’ wait for marriage if ye can – God! that sounds hypocritical coming from me. I’d not have ye believin’ I’m a saint, but … well, a man needs a wife if he’s to do himself justice an’ not fall into unsavoury ways. You’re almost grown; ye’ll likely be thinking about it yourself soon.’ He turned away from those inscrutable eyes. Why did he feel as if he were talking to a stranger and not his own flesh and blood? Why could he never feel the comfort with Dickie that he did with his younger son? No, he corrected himself, that was no longer true – he didn’t even feel comfortable with Sonny any more since he had gone to that college. His sons were strangers to him. He was pensively silent for a while, then asked, ‘While we’re being open with each other, are there any more complaints? I’d not like to be at the centre of this feeling of exploitation. Ye see, your mothe
r thinks – an’ I tend to agree with her – that it’d be foolish to supply ye with a lot of money when none of ye are used to handling it. Apart from anything else she thinks it might spoil ye.’

  Dickie scuffed his boot against the edge of the idle spade. Spoil me indeed!

  ‘Still upset at having to do a bit o’ dirty work, are we?’ Patrick sensed the reason behind the sullen countenance. ‘Ye talk about being rich – how d’ye expect to get rich without dirtying your hands, tell me? Is it that ye think it’s beneath your dignity to do such a menial task? Afraid that it might sully your peacock image?’ At first it had been a bit of a joke when Dickie went out to work dressed as for a party. Now it was not so amusing.

  ‘All right! If ye’ll allow me to give a straight answer without clouting me I’ll tell ye. I do think it’s beneath me,’ declared his son. ‘I thought we were supposed to have gone up in the ranks. I’ll wager there’s not many young gentlemen that’re expected to do the work of a labourer.’

  This remark angered his father even more greatly than the one about the lack of wages. He launched into a vociferous diatribe about how he had come to this land penniless and starving and had been derided and spat upon by his so-called betters. The acquisition of mere money did not give anyone the right to think a job beneath him. ‘Ye know what your trouble is, son? Ye’ve never been hungry – I mean really hungry. Ye see your meal upon the table an’ never spare one second’s thought as to how it got there.’

  Dickie had heard it all before, had been weaned on tales of the Great Hunger, but instead of instilling in him any sort of sympathy or compassion it had had the adverse effect. Dickie thought his father was a fool. If it had not been for his mother’s friend they would most likely have been in the decrepit little house for the rest of their lives, with Father getting the egg, Father getting the meat from the stew, Father getting this that and the other, quite content to see his children go without because that was the way of things around there. Mother, now, had obviously known there was a bob or two to be made from the old man and had worked on him. She at least had her head screwed on right, if one overlooked her tight-fistedness. Father had no spirit about him, apart from when he was spouting the tedious old story about what it felt like to be starving.