‘Where is my son?’ asked Patrick again, his eyes still on the infant.
‘The divil knows. He could be dead for all we care,’ said Garret, joining them in the surprisingly roomy wagon, followed by Sonny. ‘Ah, we did have it in mind to bring him here, but we finally decided against it.’ He proceeded to tell Patrick the sparse details. He and his brother, Garret said, had been very fond of their sister. So when she had told them of her predicament and that she wanted to marry the buffer who had seduced her they had discounted the fact that he was not of their tribe – and that neither would Lucy be if she married him – and had set out after him to put matters to rights.
Dickie’s reluctance had proved a bit of a handicap, he said, and he and Con had had to get a bit mean. ‘That was when we realised what a mistake we’d be makin’ in allowin’ our sister to give up her way o’ life for such a creature. Ah, he was a good-lookin’ animal I’ll agree, but a gutless specimen all the same, pissed hisself before we touched him. So, we found it more to our advantage to leave him where he’d fallen.’
Patrick felt the hair on his body stand to attention and he took a step forward. But Garret held up a seasoned palm to ward off the assault.
‘Oh, ye needn’t worry about his health – though I dare say I would if he was related to me – we didn’t harm a hair on his pretty head. One look at them knives was enough for that young bucko.’
‘Tell me,’ growled Patrick.
‘He fainted,’ came the grinning answer.
* * *
Patrick felt a deep sense of shame under the tinker’s supercilious grin. He was in a quandary of what to believe. If he took the tinker’s word then his son had opted for the coward’s way out. If he chose not to believe Fallon … that meant they had killed him. He was unsure which was worse.
‘And your sister?’ he said, after a long silence.
‘Dead,’ replied Garret. ‘She died giving life to your son’s bastard. Her screams come back to haunt me every night.’
I’d like to make amends for my son’s callousness,’ said Patrick. There was little else he could say.
‘We don’t want none o’ your sympathy,’ said Dympna. ‘Just hop it.’
He wanted to comply, but was faced with another problem. The rag-wrapped infant in the tinker woman’s arms was his grandchild and in no way could he allow it to remain with them. ‘I want the child,’ he told her. ‘’Tis my grandchild an’ I want it.’
‘Take it,’ said Garret casually, but his mother retreated, clutching the child to her sagging bosom. ‘Ye’ll take me first!’
‘Ma, aren’t ye always goin’ on about how ye can’t stand the sight of it?’
She turned on Garret. ‘Nor can I! It kilt my Lucy. But give it up an’ I lose half me income. Use your brain, son.’
Garret now understood the reason for her show of maternity; people were more likely to part with their money at the sight of a hungry baby – especially when, given a nip, the child would cry most convincingly.
‘What does she mean, lose half her income?’ enquired Patrick. Garret told him. Feeney was incensed. ‘You’re using my grandchild for begging?’
‘’Tis mine too,’ retorted Dympna. ‘I’ve more right to it than you, an’ I can do with it what I want.’
‘I won’t permit this!’
‘I don’t see as ye’ve any choice,’ said Garret lazily. ‘It seems the mammy has her mind made up.’
‘I’ll pay ye for it,’ said Patrick impulsively, reaching into his pocket. ‘I’ll give ye all the money I have on me – nearly twenty pounds.’
Garret whistled, and would have held out his hand but Dympna slapped it down. ‘’Tis not enough. The child’ll bring me a good two years’ income yet. I’ll not let it go for a measly twenty pounds.’
Patrick sounded out his son. ‘Do you have anything, Sonny?’
The other tested his pockets. ‘About four guineas, and a few pence.’
‘That’s nearly twenty-five pounds I’m offerin’,’ said Patrick, referring himself to Garret who seemed more approachable. ‘Please, the child means nothing to you. Let me have it.’
‘Still not enough.’ Dympna shook her head emphatically.
‘I can bring ye more later,’ he pleaded. ‘If ye let me have the wean.’
She snickered unpleasantly. ‘I can just see ye comin’ back wid more money once ye get your hands on the child. Oh, yes!’ She hushed the infant who was still mewing.
‘Dammit! I won’t allow my grandchild to live like this. You’re treating it no better than an animal. I’ll wager ye treat your horses better.’ He made to take the baby from her but she clutched it roughly, squeezing from it a frightened wail.
Garret now stepped between the intruder and his mother, his stance threatening. ‘I think ye’d be wise to pocket your money an’ be on your way.’
‘Need any help, Gary?’ The daylight was temporarily extinguished by Conor Fallon’s meaty frame. Patrick felt the chill of reincarnation; the younger Fallon was a replica of his murdered father.
‘Everything’s fine, Con. The man here wants to buy the babe an’ Mother has a fondness for it all of a sudden, ’tis all.’
‘Look, you’re sensible men, I’m sure.’ Patrick made one last attempt. ‘’Tis an awful lotta money – ye’d surely not throw it away so lightly?’
Garret reached casually into his pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes, splicing Patrick with scornful black eyes. ‘See that?’ He waved the collection of fivers under Patrick’s nose. ‘That’s good tinker money, that is. We don’t need no buffer thinkin’ he’s doin’ us a favour.’ He spat.
Patrick’s anger soared. ‘You bloody wretches! Ye’ve money like that an’ you’re using the child for mere coppers?’
‘We’ve not always the horses to sell,’ replied the man defensively.
‘An’ why shouldn’t we take what’s going?’ demanded Dympna.
‘’Cause ’tis a filthy way to make a living that’s why!’ Patrick gave them a long, hard look, a muscle twitching perilously in his jaw, then, angrily pocketing the money, he shoved his way past Conor and ran down the caravan steps, closely flanked by Sonny.
‘What do we do now?’ posed his son, pacing alongside Patrick. ‘Go home?’
‘Sure, ye don’t think I’m giving up that easy, d’ye?’ said his father. ‘That’s my grandchild they have there. I don’t intend to leave without it.’
Later at the inn they discussed the child over a meal and a pair of frothing tankards. Patrick dipped a chunk of crusty bread into his soup and opened his mouth. ‘We’ve got to create a plan to lure them tinkers away from the caravan,’ he said, munching. ‘If we’ve only the old woman to deal with, it’ll be a lot easier.’
‘You do realise that this could be construed as kidnapping?’ returned Sonny, stirring a spoon through his thick broth.
‘I see it as rescuing a member of my family,’ said Patrick. ‘There’s no judge’d blame me for taking that child away from such a life.’
‘Supposing,’ said Sonny, ‘that we succeed in getting the babe. What do you propose to do with it?’
Patrick replied with a vacuous stare. ‘Why, take it home.’
‘And who is to look after it? Mother’s out at the store all day, Josie won’t have time to tend to the house and a baby as well. That leaves me and Peggy. I trust you aren’t suggesting that I be saddled with another of my brother’s bastards?’
‘That’s a rotten thing to say, Sonny,’ accused his father quietly.
‘But true nevertheless. Isn’t it enough that I’ve agreed to bring up one of his offshoots without landing me with another?’ Sonny drank angrily from his tankard.
‘We could hire a nurse,’ his father propounded. ‘Or maybe Erin an’ Sam would care for it. Erin loves children.’ He spooned up the last drop of soup, wiped the bowl with a morsel of bread and leaned back against the wall. ‘Course, ’tis all mere notion at the moment. We have to get the wean back yet.’
Patrick had overlooked the trick a summer’s night had of catching one napping; the climate now would have done justice to Christmas Eve. Despite his coat he shivered as he lay on his belly behind a grassy hillock, looking down on the Fallons’ wagon. There was still a number of caravans about, roosting by the sparkling river, their bowed roofs outlined against an indigo sky. Providently, the Fallons’ home was stationed a short distance from the rest; their task would be easier if they did not have to deal with a whole brigade of travelling folk.
Beside him, Sonny, his chin resting on a moss-covered stone, wondered what had persuaded him to be party to this madness. Mother was hardly going to offer salutations when they brought another of his brother’s by-blows into her house.
Together they watched the wild activity that was taking place in the gypsy encampment. There were many people silhouetted by the light of the numerous small campfires, singing, dancing. Patrick wondered if the Fallon brothers were among them. He tapped Sonny’s arm.
‘Come on, we’ll get a bit closer so we can see what we’re up against.’
They slithered and clawed their way nearer until the faces – eerily intimidating in the fireglow – were clearly discernible. The Fallons were not here; obviously not the social type.
‘We must draw them out o’ that caravan,’ breathed Patrick. ‘Listen – if you saw your neighbour’s house on fire would ye rush to help put it out?’
‘I would,’ murmured his son. ‘But then, I can’t say how these folk would react.’
‘I’d say they’d react the same way any man would,’ replied Patrick. ‘They’re a closely-knit people. Look, see that campfire with no one near it? D’ye think ye could sneak down an’ grab a piece of it? We’ll have to fire one or two so’s they’ve plenty to think about.’
‘We can’t go setting fires indiscriminately!’ hissed Sonny, beginning to think his father had lost his reason. ‘There may be people in them – children!’
‘I’m not that daft. We’ll take a look inside them first, make sure they’re empty. Come on!’ And he was off before Sonny could voice any more objections.
There was the familiar quickening of the heart, the blood-tingling invigoration, the sensation of a deadly spider creeping over one’s skin. They crawled furtively down towards the fire. Patrick flattened himself to the ground as a gypsy appeared to look right at them, then, slowly unfurling himself, he stretched out a hand to the fire and tugged at a piece of kindling.
Equipped with burning brands father and son trod stealthily between the wagons, avoiding the leaping lights from the campfires and, after peering into each, finally selected those far removed from the ones containing slumbering children. They rammed home the flaming torches then broke away, long legs jetting them at the nearest hedgerow where they hurled their bodies under its cover to wait for their deed to be noticed.
It did not take long. The caravans made fine tinder, crackling, sparking and lighting up the whole area. A company of travellers started to run towards them, communicating the danger in their ancient tongue. Patrick’s eyes, uninterested in the frantic gestures of the gypsies, remained fixed on the Fallons’ caravan, urging them to come out.
A face appeared over the half-door, drawn by the smell of blistering paint and the commotion of his fellow travellers. Garret Fallon flung himself down the steps, shouting to his brother. Both ran to volunteer as links in the human chain to the river.
Now was the time. Patrick and his son set off at a crouching run and reached the Fallons’ wagon in seconds. They burst straight in. Dympna sprang up as Patrick accosted her. ‘I want the child! Where is it?’ He looked about him feverishly. There was no sign of the infant.
She leapt at him and raked his face with her nails, drawing blood. He drew in a pained breath and threw her onto a bunk. ‘Y’old bitch! Where’s my grandchild?’
‘Ye’ll not have it – I’ve kilt it!’ she screamed, and launched herself at him again.
Sonny was furiously lifting cushions, tossing them to right and left in his search for the child. ‘It’s here!’ A tiny whimper had directed him to a cupboard. He tore open the doors and there it was, almost stifled under a pile of crocheted blankets, its green limbs trying to fight them off.
‘Grab it an’ let’s go!’ cried Patrick, fending off the woman who was hurling everything she could lay her hands on.
‘We’ll never make it, Dad,’ replied Sonny, hoisting the basket. ‘As soon as we leave she’ll alert the others.’
‘Then we’ll have to take her too! You take the babby – an’ hush it up, will ye?’ Patrick bundled the struggling, kicking woman down the caravan steps while Sonny rocked the basket frantically. Outside, he took in the action with a nervous glance. The travellers still formed a human chain from the river, slopping buckets of water between them to be tossed at the fiercely burning wagons. Dympna dug her heels into the ground to hamper their escape.
‘I’ll let ye have it if I have to, woman,’ grunted her captor. ‘Now walk!’
Sonny was the first to reach the gig, parked under cover of a group of trees, well away from the encampment. He dumped the Moses basket and its complaining contents safely inside, then grasped the reins and jumped on board. ‘Hurry, Dad!’ He looked back down the slope at the medley of colours; raging flame had changed the colour of the sky to a bruised plum, clouds of pink and orange smoke splayed across its pained backcloth.
The woman still struggled and kicked. ‘I’m going to let ye go now,’ gasped Patrick. ‘’Tis no good screaming; they’ll not hear ye from up here.’ He clamped his teeth over a howl as the hand that he had been too slow in removing from her mouth took a nasty nip. Pushing her from him he clambered up beside his son. She flew at the carriage, scrawny arms flapping under the shawl like an evil black crow. Patrick prised her hands loose from the shiny paintwork and shoved her to the ground; she deserved no courtesy, this one. Sonny whipped up the horse then they were off.
Dympna jumped up and stumbled after them, screaming and cursing. ‘Ye filthy, stinkin’ varmints! Ye’ll be sorry ye ever set eyes on the Fallons. May the Divil take your louse-ridden hide. A curse on ye! D’ye hear me?’
She fell further and further behind as the gig outdistanced her and sank, gasping, to the stony ground. ‘A curse on all your kin!’ Her voice cracked, but still had enough impact to make Patrick shiver as the carriage bobbed over the brow of the hill.
‘What pap,’ muttered Sonny, slapping the reins on the horse’s rump.
His father, brought up on Celtic superstition, said nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Six
There were more than a few raised eyebrows when they reached home. It was Sunday and their arrival coincided with the usual stately exodus to church.
‘Good day to ye, ma’am!’ Patrick gave his son a sly wink as he raised his hat to one of his more snobbish neighbours. ‘’Tis a wondrous mornin’ ye have for your worship.’
The woman treated him to an abrasive glare before ascending into her landau. Really! this was too much. She had believed the notorious Feeneys could not lower the tone of the neighbourhood any more than they had with their incoming but one look at father and son this morning told her differently. They were as bold as brass, the pair of them, like two brawny Irish labourers in their crumpled shirtsleeves, with a week’s growth of beard on their chins and dirt-smudged faces. If that man expected her to return his greeting he had another think coming. She ordered the coachman to drive off.
Patrick blithely ignored the disapproving expressions and, instructing his son to stable the horse, picked up the Moses basket and kicked at the front door. ‘Hullo! Anybody about?’ He kicked again, then cocked an impish face at the neighbours who had paused to gape openly.
There came the sound of hurrying footsteps and the door was finally opened by Josie who stood there nonplussed for quite a span. ‘Why, Mr Feeney – I didn’t recognise you, sir! Whatever’s happened to your face? Have you been involved in an accid
ent?’ One side of his face was divided by three angry weals where Dympna had gored him, and around the hand she had bitten he had knotted a bloodstained handkerchief.
‘That’s the way to win friends, Josie. Come on, are ye going to keep me standin’ on me own doorstep or will ye give us a hand? I feel like I’m in a circus with that lot gawkin’ at me.’ She opened the door wider for him to enter and he struggled past her with the basket. ‘Where’s me wife?’
Her eyes were glued to the Moses basket, but Patrick’s height made it impossible for her to see the contents. ‘She’s just got back from church, sir. She’s in the drawing room with Mr and Mrs Fenton and Mr and Mrs Teale.’ She stood on tiptoe, trying to see into the basket.
Patrick’s spirits flagged when he heard of his mother-in-law’s presence. ‘An’ here’s me thinking I’d left trouble behind me. Jazers, ’tis a mite early for them to be callin’ isn’t it?’ Josie informed him that they had stayed the night. He lowered his voice. ‘D’they know I’m here I wonder?’
‘Well, I should be surprised if they hadn’t heard your arrival, sir.’ Josie finally managed to glimpse the inside of the basket. ‘Oh, sir! A baby!’ she cried delightedly.
‘Ssh! Quiet, woman, d’ye want to get me hung drawn an’ quartered?’ He gestured at the crib. ‘Will ye tell me where’s the best place to put this – as long as it’s not a rude answer. I want it to be a surprise d’ye see?’
Unfortunately, Josie’s exclamation had penetrated the door of the drawing room and a curious Thomasin came out to investigate. ‘What sort of racket is this on the Sabbath?’ she began, then, ‘Pat, you’re back!’ She rushed for him but then seeing he was alone, froze, her joyous expression fading. ‘You didn’t find him,’ she said pathetically.
‘I’m sorry, love.’ He stood there, still holding the basket. ‘We did catch up with the Fallons, but he wasn’t with them.’
For My Brother’s Sins Page 46