For My Brother’s Sins

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

  ‘You were never innocent,’ returned Sonny.

  Dickie laughed aloud. ‘Ah, those long-gone dog-days! I often hanker after them. D’ye recall the time you, me an’ Bones went on that picnic? Poor old Bones; I wonder what form he’d be in now if he was still with us … an’ that girl; what was her name? Bonny? Sarah … oh, I can’t recall her name, but I can see her as plain as day. I wonder what she’s doing today?’

  Sonny’s ginger head hobbled alongside the black one. ‘Her name was Beth, and who knows? she’s probably a millionaire by now if what she did to us was anything to go by.’

  ‘Aye, right mugs weren’t we?’ laughed Dickie, and gripped his brother affectionately. ‘So, we part as friends, do we? I’m forgiven for my sins?’

  ‘Was there ever a time when I didn’t forgive you?’ answered Sonny. Dickie grinned in his devilish manner and gripped the shoulder more firmly. They continued with their reminiscences all along the way, and reached Monkgate far too soon.

  Dickie sniffed the air. ‘Somebody’s burning old socks.’

  Sonny reflected his grin. ‘I hope Peggy hasn’t found her way to my studio.’ It was odd how that episode had stopped hurting now he had Josie.

  But as they neared home his smile was displaced by a look of concern. ‘It’s somebody’s house on fire, Dick – look at the smoke.’ Ominous black clouds were seeping out from the closed doors and windows. ‘God, save us! It’s our house … Mam!’ He set off at a gallop, Dickie after him. They were met by their parents and grandmother who were enveloped by an excited throng of neighbours on the pavement. Erin and Sam were there too; here to deliver some heartwarming news – but this was not the time. They, too, had arrived to find smoke pouring from the building and their frantic parents making desperate attempts to get into the house.

  ‘How did it start?’ Dickie overtook his brother and was the first to reach the scene.

  Patrick spoke to him as though he had merely been down to the corner shop; showed no surprise nor welcome. ‘I don’t know!’ He was coughing. ‘Your mother an’ me had taken your grandmother to the solicitor’s. When we got home we found the door locked an’ the house full o’ smoke.’ He grasped Sonny’s arm as he thudded up to them. ‘Son … Peggy’s still in there – with the children. At least we think they are. We don’t know where the maids are.’ He broke off coughing again.

  Sonny blanched, and Dickie shouted, ‘Bugger the bloody maids, my children are in there!’ He dashed to the door and started to kick at it. ‘What about the windows?’ ‘They’re locked too,’ shouted Patrick.

  Sonny had flinched at Dickie’s possessive term and now ran after him to join in the battering of the door. ‘Out of the way, Dickie! It’s my family in there.’

  Dickie continued to ram the door. ‘This is no time for arguin’ whose children they are. They belong to both of us.’

  The door caved in and a great wave of heat swept over them, belching black smoke far out into the street. ‘Let me be the one to go in!’ cried Dickie, but Sonny grabbed him. ‘No! It’s got to be me.’

  Patrick saw that if he didn’t intervene they were going to lose them all. He grappled with Sonny. ‘For Christ’s sake let him go!’

  Before Sonny could object his brother had leapt into the smoke-filled house. It seeped into every orifice of Dickie’s head. His eyes, already suffering, streamed as he fought his way into the dining room. He began to cough and gag. This room was empty. He ran through the other downstairs rooms and into the kitchen where the smoke had not yet reached, the door being shut against it. Here it was cool and tranquil. He took breathing space to look around. There was no sign of any maids. Quickly he pulled a towel from the airer above the fireplace and doused it in the sink then, draping it over his head and around the lower half of his face, he shut the kitchen door and ran back through the house to the stairs where the fire was crackling and spitting. He could hear Patrick and Sonny arguing by the front door, behind the wall of smoke.

  He tried the first bedroom – it was empty. The second was more productive – what he saw there made him hang in the doorway for precious seconds. Then he was away and skimming up another flight of stairs.

  He eventually found them in the nursery; two terrified children huddled wide-eyed and whimpering by the window. He grabbed them, one under each arm, and fled back to the landing where the flames were licking the banisters and the smoke had grown even more dense. The children choked and retched as they encountered the clogging vapour, heads jiggling about as he leapt down the stairs three at a time.

  Nick put his hands to his racking face, smearing the mucus over his cheeks in an effort to clear it. Rosanna did likewise – allowing the box of matches she had been clutching to drop, unseen, to the floor.

  She hadn’t intended to be naughty. It was just a trick to play on Mam, who had started to give them that horrid medicine again so she could go out without them. When their mother had come in with the bottle she had sneaked from the medicine cabinet, Rosie and Nick had taken it dutifully and climbed into bed like good children. But when Mam had left, Nick, as Rosanna had instructed him to do previous to Peggy’s expected visit, pulled the removable head from his wooden soldier and had spat the medicine into the hollow body, replacing the head after. Rosie had rid herself of her own spoonful. They had thought themselves extremely clever to hold the nasty stuff in their mouths for so long, and had giggled at their own audacity. Then they had waited for their mother to go out. When the door had slammed Rosie had dragged Nick down to the kitchen and poured them a glass of milk to take away the claggy taste. They had sat for a while dangling their legs from the kitchen stools and nibbling biscuits – then Rosie had spotted the matches. She knew how naughty it was of her to take them, but grand-daddy wouldn’t be cross when she kissed him and told him she hadn’t really known it was bad.

  It had only been a little fire to begin with. She couldn’t have foreseen it would grow like that. When the blaze had spilled over from the cupboard into the hall they had become frightened and had gone looking for the maids to own up. But when they had seen their mother asleep in her bed when she was supposed to have gone out they decided silence would be more prudent. Perhaps if they shut themselves in the nursery the fire would go out of its own accord.

  In a strangely adult attempt to keep out the smelly smoke Rosanna had stuffed the gap under the nursery door with dolls’ clothes, earning them a lucky reprieve until their natural father had found them.

  Dickie felt as if he would collapse any minute. His head was about to burst open like a water-filled balloon. And just when he thought that all was lost he found himself on the pavement and the jubilant crowd swarming round him.

  He looked blearily at the sobbing children in his arms, then kissed each heartily and handed them over – one to Thomasin, one to Sonny. ‘There’s no maids, but your wife’s still in there, unconscious,’ he informed his brother. ‘I’m off back in.’

  ‘No!’ Sonny started to hand over Nick to his father. ‘That’s my place, Dickie, come back!’

  But Dickie, giving Thomasin a hasty, but sincere peck on the cheek and patting his father as he passed, was already on his way.

  ‘I’m certain he’ll come to no harm, Mrs Feeney,’ consoled Mrs Price, one of the neighbours who had up until now scorned them. Typical how it took a tragedy to bring them rallying, thought Thomasin, but was grateful for her support even if it was a little late, and smiled weakly, hugging Rosanna protectively as she stared up at the smoking building.

  It seemed the neighbour had no sooner spoken these words than there was an almighty roar and the crowd was driven back into the road as a giant fireball ripped through the house, ballooning high into the street in a huge flower with petals of orange, crimson and gold. Women and children screamed. Horses whinnied shrilly, prancing and bucking in their harness.

  ‘Dickie!’ Patrick ran towards the raging inferno but was dragged away by his neighbours as the roof, showering red sparks, finally gave way and plumme
ted down, down in a seething mass of flame.

  * * *

  No one could comfort her. After the fire brigade had arrived and had reduced the blazing house to a shell of hissing embers, neighbours had vied as to whose hospitality the Feeneys should accept. In the end they had been led to Mrs Miles’ stately Georgian residence to receive succour: cups of sweet tea laced with cognac.

  Thomasin sat rigidly with her cup and saucer on her lap, staring glassily at the wall. She supposed she should have salvaged some consolation out of all this: her son had redeemed himself in the end – he had been coming home. And Erin, dear Erin and Sam had tried to soften the blow with their news of the baby. They kept telling her that she would feel better if she cried, but the tears wouldn’t seem to come. Everyone else had cried – Erin, Sonny, Mother, even Patrick, great anguished sobs – but not Thomasin.

  ‘Ye’ve got to hand it to him, Tommy,’ said her husband dazedly. ‘He went out in a blaze o’ glory.’

  ‘Oh, Patrick your choice of words!’ burst out Hannah.

  ‘Tommy understands what I mean, don’t ye, love?’ said Patrick sofdy. ‘He went out the way he lived – larger than life – an’ he proved us all wrong, didn’t he? When it came down to it he was the most courageous o’ the lot of us. Oh damn!’ He caught his breath. ‘I could kill meself for all the rotten things I said to him.’ Thomasin nodded dumbly.

  Erin squeezed Sam’s warm hand. This had been meant to be such a happy day. She comforted herself with the thought of her husband’s loving body pressing down on hers, How odd that that which had been so terrifying could be such a source of support now.

  Sonny picked at the loose skin on his thumb. ‘I feel so guilty … if I hadn’t persuaded him to come home … It should have been me in there.’

  ‘Enough o’ that talk,’ said Patrick firmly. ‘He did what he did ’cause he wanted to. You know Dickie, he never lets himself be coerced into anything.’ With a stab of pain he realised he had referred to his son in the present tense and the tears pricked his eyes. ‘At least he was coming home.’

  Sonny saw no need to mention that the reunion was to have been brief, that Dickie had come home only to say goodbye. That it would have been such a final goodbye … He cleared his throat. ‘Where will we sleep tonight, Mother? Mam …’

  Patrick touched Thomasin gently and she turned fathomless eyes on him. ‘What?’

  ‘Sonny was just asking where we’ll live now.’

  She shrugged indifferendy.

  ‘Maybe one o’ your sisters …’ Patrick began, then broke off as Mrs Miles came in.

  ‘Mr Feeney, Mrs Feeney, I regret having to intrude on your bereavement but there is a gentleman here to see you.’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Miles.’ Patrick rose, as did the other males in the room. ‘This is your house. I’m sorry I omitted to thank you for taking us in …’

  She smiled sympathetically, feeling guilty for her previous snobbishness. The man was not at all as she had expected him to be – really very polite – and his poor wife looked positively devastated with grief. ‘It is the very least I can offer after your terrible tragedy, Mr Feeney, and naturally you will be most welcome to stay here until you find more suitable accommodation. I shall show the gentleman in personally.’

  The man, leaving his hat with the maid in the hall, stepped into the room and looked around at the collection of grief-stricken faces, then walked up to Patrick. ‘Mr Feeney? This won’t take a minute, sir. Detective Sergeant Nettleton …’

  Patrick frowned. ‘A policeman?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve just heard about your ghastly experience. May I offer my deepest regrets.’ Patrick moved his head. ‘I’ve no wish to impose at such a time but it’s imperative I get one or two facts clear. I understand from your hostess that someone died in the fire. Two people, she said.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Patrick, lowering his gaze from the policeman’s mutilated ear. ‘My son and my daughter-inlaw.’

  ‘Could you tell me your son’s name, sir? Just for the record.’

  ‘I’ve already notified the police of both the victims’ names,’ said Patrick. ‘Why do you only want my son’s?’

  ‘Please, sir,’ persisted Nettleton.

  ‘It was Richard, Richard William.’

  Nettleton felt swamped by anticlimax as he pocketed his notebook. ‘Thank you, sir. I shan’t have to trouble you any more.’

  ‘Won’t there have to be an investigation into how the fire started?’ asked Patrick, watching the detective’s passage to the door.

  ‘I expect so, sir, but that’s not my department. That’ll be the local police and fire brigade. I’ll be on my way, then. And I’m very sorry …’ this to everyone.

  He was in the hall when he heard the noise. It was born as a low moan and rose swiftly to a crescendo of unbelievable pain. He brushed past the maid and out through the front door. The sound pursued him into the street. It was a mother’s realisation of grief.

  ‘My baby!’ keened Thomasin heartrendingly. ‘My son!’

  Epilogue

  A squall of gulls had shadowed them from Liverpool, screaming and dipping into the foam-lashed waves each time the ship evacuated another load of refuse. But now the gulls had gone, signifying that they had left the mainland well and truly behind them.

  The girl held her face to the elements, shaking her head as the spray-laden breeze whipped and tossed her unrestrained blonde locks about her pretty features. She leaned on the rail, twirling her pink parasol against her shoulder and pretended to find something profoundly captivating about the sea, when all the time her interest lay in something more tangible; someone who was casting a mutual display in her direction. She caught his eye, smiled, then looked away, seeing from the corner of her vision the young man’s casual approach.

  He propped his elbow on the rail and scanned her admiringly. ‘Ye want to be careful, ma’am if I might make so bold. A slip o’ gossamer like yourself could get caught up by this damnable wind and carried out to sea. What you need is a strong arm to anchor ye down.’

  She parted her lips and her laughter was lost on the wind. She was about to speak then, seeing his diverted attention, followed his eyes and with a regretful shrug strolled off along the heaving deck.

  The other woman observed his sheepish advance, her slanting, feline eyes bright with loving reproach. ‘You never alter, do you?’ She tucked her arm into his and they followed the girl’s path along the deck, feeling light-headed with the rush of salt-spray at their nostrils.

  He gave a reparatory smile then swung his eyes out to sea over her wild, chestnut head and relived those vital seconds that had enabled his escape.

  He had wondered at Nettleton’s absence from the railway station – expecting to have to face this last obstacle – but when he weighed the facts carefully he surmised what must have happened. They had found the second body in the house, the one sprawled by the door of Peggy’s room, hands clutching in a vain attempt at escape before he had been overpowered by the smoke, and had assumed it to be his; a last, heroic attempt at redemption. He wondered how long it would be before the truth was discovered; not that it mattered, for he would be out of their jurisdiction by then.

  He wondered, too, how long Peggy had been entertaining her men friends in her husband’s house, and also if Sonny knew about it. At least that explained the absence of the maids; Peggy had obviously given them the afternoon off, leaving only the children and the wallpaper to witness her adultery. That had been the sight that had arrested him on his breathless dash to the nursery; Peggy’s white body, naked and ungainly, hanging head down from the bed, her lover slumped by the door. They must have been dozing for the smoke to have taken hold so quickly. When they had woken their lungs were too weak to take them further than the door.

  When he had gone back into the blazing house it was not for the purpose of rescuing Peggy, but because his primary inspection of the kitchen had revealed a way for him to rectify everything. On his secon
d trip – minutes before the fireball had ripped through the house – he had gone, not upstairs, but directly to the kitchen, seeking out the cellar door. He had felt the intense heat scorch the back of his neck even in the coolness of the cellar as the house volcanoed overhead. In the remaining seconds all his efforts were focused on that one spark of hope – the coal shute.

  When he had reached the bottom of the garden, cool and serene while back there the world erupted, he had looked back to watch the burning building collapse, knowing what assumption they would draw. But there was no going back – even if he wanted to. Then, he had vaulted over the wall.

  The roaring of the waves brought him back to the present. He felt her eyes upon him, and smiled into their loving depths. She had left everything behind – for him. Gripped by a rush of feeling he drew her into his arms and kissed her upturned face. ‘Well, Mrs Feeney – and how does it feel to be a married lady?’

  Her fingers went unconsciously to the band of gold on her finger, her own mother’s wedding ring – one of the few things she had been able to bring. Then she put her arms round him and leaned her face against the burgundy jacket. ‘We’ve not been married but ten minutes …’ Literally – the Captain had just performed the ceremony. ‘I go to our cabin, and when I return what do I find? You’re at it already.’

  He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Sure, you’re not jealous? I was only talking to her. Ye should know me by now: I can’t resist a pretty face. But ’tis you I love. Honest, Dusty, I truly love ye.’

  She moved her untamed hair beneath his chin, pulling him closer to add weight to her words. ‘And I love you. But hear this: if ever I catch you doing more than talking …’

  The girl to whom he had spoken earlier stood by the rail, watching the newly-weds attentively.