A Long Way from Heaven

by A Long Way from Heaven (retail) (epub)

  She took no insult when he had told her rather than asked, and smiled at Denny though her face was weary. ‘I’m glad, Denny. We’ll be like a family again.’ With a sigh she lay back against a milestone. ‘God, I’m hungry. What I’d give for a drop o’ buttermilk even.’

  Denny felt her discomfort. Her fragile beauty never failed to move him. Sometimes he felt angry at his friend for his apparently indifferent treatment of his young wife. If Mary had been married to him he would… but she wasn’t, she was married to his friend, and he must dispell all such notions if he was to share their home. ‘You just sit yourself there, Mary,’ he told her. ‘Denny will go an’ charm the farmer’s wife for a drop o’ something.’

  ‘He’s a lovely young fella.’ Mary smiled at her husband. ‘I’m so glad ye said he could stay with us.’

  ‘Hearing that I’m beginning to wonder if it was the right thing,’ said Patrick teasingly. ‘Sure, ye never call me a lovely young fella.’

  ‘That’s ’cause you’re a lovely old fella.’ Mary watched the boy’s jaunty walk along the path of the nearby farm. She could still see him as he knocked at the door.

  ‘Ah, good day to ye, ma’am!’ Denny doffed his hat at the sour-faced woman who answered his knock, taking care not to soil the whitened step. ‘’Tis a kind day we’ll be having.’

  ‘State your business,’ snapped the woman, eyeing him up and down disdainfully.

  ‘I was wondering, could ye find it in your heart to spare a drop o’ buttermilk for a poor woman who’s expecting a child any day?’ He pointed down the path to the group of ragged travellers who observed his polite overtures with growing unease. This one was not going to be so easily swayed by his charm.

  The woman’s mouth dropped open as she followed his finger. ‘Didicois!’ she screeched. ‘Joshua, them bloody Didies are back. Get the dogs out.’

  ‘Ah, no, ma’am,’ begged Denny. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake. Sure, we’re only a band of starving immigrants. We’ll do ye no harm. I can see ye’ve got a kind face, lady, we’ll work for our sup…’

  ‘Joshua!’ screamed the woman again, grabbing hold of a broom and brandishing it threateningly at Denny who was now backing away. ‘Joshua, where’re them dogs?’

  The sound of furious yelping made Denny turn tail and retreat down the path. ‘I’m sorry, forget I ever asked ye!’

  ‘You’ll be even sorrier when my lads get hold of you,’ bellowed the woman, braver now that he was in retreat. ‘As if it weren’t bad enough you lot pinchin’ my eggs last week you have the cheek to come back here begging for milk. Ah, Josh!’ A heavy-jowled man had appeared flanked by two burly youths and a pack of snarling collies. ‘It’s them gyppos back again, trying it on.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re the ones, are yer?’ roared Joshua, advancing on poor Denny. ‘Well, I’ll bloody well teach you a lesson yer won’t forget in a hurry.’

  Denny increased his step. At the end of the path Patrick and the others had leapt to their feet and now watched as the men pursued him towards his friends. Suddenly one of the collies caught hold of Denny’s heel, bringing him down and knocking the breath from his body. As he fell the men started to lay into him, beating him about the body with the farm tools they carried, swearing and cursing as the dogs got in the way.

  ‘Pat!’ screamed Mary. ‘Ye have to help him, ’tis my fault, he went to fetch the milk for me.’

  Patrick set off, thinking his partners would follow, yet they did not. Realising they were not with him he spun back angrily. ‘Do I have to help him all on me own?’

  ‘I’m not sure me poor bones can stand up to a beating,’ moaned one member of the party. ‘An’ anyhow ’twas his choice to go.’

  ‘Why, ye miserable coward! That boy’s been providing ye with food every day, risked his skin a hundred times to save your worthless hide from a beating. Tut, Mother o’ God we’ve three times as many men as they have, we’ll soon have them beaten. Now come on will yese, before they knock the brown stuff out o’ him.’

  A handful grudgingly followed, though not feeling at all confident with no weapon in their hands. The lack of food had made once proud men weak and lethargic, caring only for their own welfare.

  The dogs were the first to hear their approach and raced towards them. One or two Irishmen lost their nerve and made a rapid detour through the hawthorn hedge, howling as the sharp branches cut their exposed skin. The dogs’ natural instincts were to follow those who were running away, thereby leaving Patrick and his companions to press a counter-attack.

  The farmer saw that he and his sons were outnumbered. ‘Away, lads, he’s had enough. Let’s gerrin t’ouse, sharp.’ His offspring saw the Irishmen charging at them and, dropping their weapons, made for the farmhouse. ‘Ey!’ shouted their father, pointing to the tools. ‘Don’t be leavin’ them there for that lot to use on us.’ But his sons ignored him. Indeed, he had only just managed to slam the door behind him and drop the bar into place when the Irishmen reached the house to rain heavy blows upon the woodwork.

  ‘The devil take ye!’ shouted Patrick, while his companions tried to break down the door.

  Inside, the farmer, trying to sound braver than he felt, shouted, ‘I’ve got friends coming in a minute! A constable, one is. You’d best clear off before you get what the other one got.’

  Patrick, breathless with the assault on the door, looked back down the path at the limp figure of his friend. ‘Come on, we’d best tend Denny.’

  Denny opened his eyes as Patrick lifted his head from the stony path. ‘D’ye think I said something to upset them?’ he asked with a bloody grin.

  ‘Quiet now, Denny,’ commanded Patrick, attempting to hoist the boy. ‘We’d best be taking ye back to the others before those rogues have another go at ye.’

  ‘I’ll not be going anywhere,’ winced Denny, obviously in great pain.

  ‘Sure, ye will. ’Tis only a couple o’ knocks ye’ve taken. We’ll soon have ye…’ He faltered as a trickle of red seeped from Denny’s mouth. Laying his young friend down again he opened his jacket to look for any sign of injury. There was nothing. It was then that he felt the stickiness on the hand that supported Denny’s back. Very gently he eased the youth onto his side. The ground beneath was red. Between Denny’s shoulderblades were two puncture marks. One of the prongs of the pitchfork had been deflected away from the heart by a rib and, though clearly inflicting great discomfort, the wound it had gouged could be mended. But the other, judging from the blood which coloured Denny’s agonized snarl as Patrick moved him, had punctured a lung.

  Patrick’s face darkened with rage. ‘Why, the bastards,’ he breathed. ‘The cowardly stinking hounds!’

  He sprang to his feet and pushed through the crowd of stunned Irishmen to where the discarded weapons lay. He picked up the pitchfork and glowered. It had blood on it; Denny’s blood. With a roar he hurled it at the farmhouse door where it embedded itself with a thud, its shaft trembling with the impetus of his savage thrust.

  The farmer emitted a terrified shriek as the prongs appeared two inches above his right shoulder. He shelved any thought of using his body to wedge the door and scuttled to hide with the rest of the family behind the upturned pine table.

  Outside, the immigrants returned to their fearful spouses and children, bearing Denny’s battered carcase between them. They laid him on the grassy verge at Mary’s feet. His eyelids fluttered open as Mary knelt down beside him and touched her cold fingers to his pallid brow. ‘Ah, Mary I’m sorry, I never did manage to get ye that milk.’ Then he lost consciousness.

  For the last stage of their journey they took it in turns to carry their injured compatriot. Mary walked beside the makeshift bier that they had cut from a blackthorn hedge, dabbing at the pink frothy bubbles on Denny’s lips. Mercifully, he was insensible most of the time, but when he was jerked awake by his stumbling bearers Patrick had to keep up a steady conversation to take the boy’s mind off his pain.

  When they made Denny comfo
rtable for the night Patrick said, ‘The lad’ll have to see a doctor soon else he’s going to die.’

  Mary sank to the grass at Denny’s side and wiped his face. ‘Sure, it can’t be far now. How many miles on the last stone?’

  ‘God, don’t mention miles.’ Patrick grimaced. ‘’Tis a good job my feet don’t have ears; they couldn’t walk another inch.’ Mary unfastened her little bundle of possessions and brought out her rosary. She bowed her head over Denny’s prostrate form and began to thread the beads through her fingers. Patrick lay on his back, hands clasped behind head, listening to her pious whisperings with mixed feelings, hoping her prayers would work, but fearing they would not. Long before Mary replaced her beads and curled up beside him, he was asleep.

  * * *

  When they awoke the next morning it was to a clear sky and a mist-free horizon. Patrick crawled from the musty hedgebottom and stretched himself. Mary followed suit, rubbing her knuckles over her sleepy eyes and coming to stand beside him. She linked her arm with his and laid her chin against him. On a morning like this they could almost be back home. He smiled down at her, thinking the same thing: this land was nearly as beautiful as his own.

  They were both suddenly aware that their companions were not listlessly searching the hedgerows for berries or pulling burrs and lice from their hair, as usually went on in a morning, but gesticulating animatedly and buzzing like an upturned hive.

  ‘See there!’ cried a man when Patrick approached him, and pointed into the distance. Patrick looked, but saw nothing, save a great saucer-like valley spreading out for miles. ‘’Tis the Vale o’ York! Can ye not see that great building over there?’

  Patrick shaded his eyes and after a moment said yes, he could just make out the gleaming monument.

  ‘That’s York, son,’ the man laughed. ‘We’re there.’

  Patrick spun triumphantly to inform Mary and found her at his shoulder. ‘Did ye hear that, darlin’? We’re there, we’re there!’ He picked her up and swung her round, making her laugh as she had not done for months. ‘Let’s go tell Denny.’ Hand in hand they ran back to the hedgerow and gently coaxed Denny awake. The boy responded by breaking into a fit of coughing and spraying the pair of them with his blood.

  Mary took out a rag and wiped his pallid face. ‘Oh, Denny we’re nearly there. We’ll soon have ye to a doctor now.’

  Denny smiled bloodily. ‘Soon be there, soon be there, fifty miles to County Clare, what will ye buy me when we get there?’

  Mary threw an anxious look at Patrick, who summoned three of his fellows.

  ‘The sooner we get there the better,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Well, don’t expect us to break into a trot,’ said the man. ‘Sure, it might look near but ’tis miles we have to go yet.’

  The raggle-taggle band set upon the final stage of their journey, limping and shuffling, their rags blowing in the breeze. Denny remained conscious, crying out in torment as his bearers heaved his pain-racked body awkwardly between them.

  ‘Mam!’ he sobbed deliriously. ‘Mam, I can’t see ye. Jimmy, I can’t find Mam an’ here’s Winthrop for the rent. Will I make him a cup o’ tea? No, tea’s for special visitors, not for scum like him. Ah, Mam I can see ye now. Were’ve ye been hiding?’

  And so he rambled on as his perspiring bearers grumbled about his weight and Patrick chastised them for their callousness.

  The sun had reached its pinnacle and was well into its westwards descent when they finally reached the ancient fortress of York. The medieval walls glistened welcomingly in its light. At this sighting the travellers somehow found the energy to increase their pace, their tired and hungry faces smoothing out in relief as they reached their journey’s end.

  ‘Denny, we’re there!’ Mary hobbled at the side of the injured youth’s stretcher and took hold of Denny’s shoulder, shaking him gently. There was no response. Her eyes flooded with alarm. ‘Pat… I think he’s gone.’

  Patrick stopped the men who were helping to carry the stretcher and bade them put it down. He caught his breath and bent over the young man.

  ‘Aw, Denny, could ye not hold on for a wee bit longer? We’d’ve had ye there.’

  ‘God!’ uttered an indignant stretcher bearer. ‘Is it a corpse we’ve been breaking our backs with? ’Tis a pity that farmer didn’t do for him right an’ save us all a lot o’ trouble.’

  ‘Patrick!’ shrieked Mary, making a dive for him as he lunged towards the complainant. ‘Stop! That won’t do Denny any good now, will it?’

  Patrick shook her off and stood glaring at the man. ‘Just say that again,’ he challenged, ‘if ye’ve an urge to be carried into that city the same way as poor Denny.’

  The man backed off, unwilling to pick up the thrown gauntlet, and made to walk on.

  ‘Hey, ye lousy bastard,’ spat Patrick. ‘Aren’t ye even going to help me carry him the last few steps to the city so’s we can give him a proper burial?’

  ‘We could’ve dropped him off at that place back there,’ muttered the man to one of the others. They had just passed a cemetery.

  But after much grumbling he, two others and Patrick picked up the stretcher and made their way to the city gates. Those in the group who had been to York before had lodged in the Walmgate area. It was because of this familiarity that they had steered towards this Bar, having crossed the river at an earlier stage in order to bring them into the city at this point.

  Mary linked her arm through her husband’s to lean against him, then remembered that he had enough to support and straightened her back. She knew that she should have felt sorrow at Denny’s death — which indeed she did – but her main emotion was one of relief; relief that their long, hard struggle was finally coming to an end.

  Had she but known it, the struggle was just about to begin.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Tha’ll not let any more o’ them buggers in ’ere, Mr Tuke, an’ that’s final!’ The effort of so much arguing had brought a crimson flush to the man’s face, creating a startling contrast to his ginger hair. Morosely he eyed the group of Irish immigrants who sat in hopeless disarray outside the city walls.

  Edwin Raper, a man of porcine appearance who hardly ever smiled – if he did it was usually at someone else’s expense – had been appointed spokesman for a group consisting of some fifty citizens, gathered to prevent the newcomers from entering. Someone had spotted their arrival from the city walls and had run to inform Raper who had then gathered reinforcements to check the invasion. Over the past months he had watched a seemingly endless influx of destitute Irish, bringing with them strange customs and deadly diseases, and now he and others were determined to end that flow.

  There were, however, one or two stalwarts ready to plead the immigrants’ case. James Hack Tuke, the man whom Raper addressed, was a member of the Society of Friends. Living quite nearby he had come to learn of this disturbance and had come to offer support. Tuke had not long returned from Ireland where he had been appalled at the suffering he had witnessed. He and his friends had championed the cause of the evicted cottiers many times during their stay in Ireland so he was not easily deterred by the belligerence which he now faced.

  ‘Friend,’ he began.

  ‘I’m not your bloody friend,’ muttered Raper, no diplomat.

  ‘Mr Raper! I am certain that if you had witnessed such sights that I have then you would not be so ready to turn these wretched people away. I can assure you that their suffering is far too acute for me to begin to describe it. These poor souls have travelled on foot across the country to find work and shelter. They tell me that some of their fellows have dropped dead on their journey. Please reconsider. If they are not given food and medicine for their ills then they will surely die.’

  If he had hoped to prick the man’s conscience then he was to be sadly disappointed. Raper’s face remained immobile. He tried again, ‘if their diseases are contained under the one roof the safer it will be for all.’

  ‘’E’ll be tryin
’ to tell us hoss tods are figs next,’ murmured one wag, sending a ripple of amusement through the crowd.

  Tuke experienced an uncharacteristic surge of anger, then promptly quelled it – anger would only serve to antagonise the mob further and he must gain their pity. ‘For the love of God, their children are dying by the thousand. Think how you would feel if they were your children. Do exercise a little Christian charity, I beg you.’

  ‘Christian charity!’ spluttered Raper, sending a spray of spittle onto the other man’s frock-coat. ‘What d’they know about Christian charity? They’re bloody papists.’

  Tuke closed his eyes in exasperation at this illogical statement and opened his mouth to reply.

  ‘Hold on!’ his opponent interjected. ‘I haven’t finished yet. Look, you can’t say as ’ow we ’aven’t taken our quota. There’s already thousands of ’em in t’city spreadin’ their muck an’ lice. Take Hungate an’ Bedern, ghettoes, they are, bloody ghettoes.’ A buzz of agreement came from the crowd as he continued. ‘An’ violent? What? Decent people daren’t walk down Walmgate without fear for their lives. You let any more in an’ in a few months we’ll be overrun by rats an’ God knows what diseases. I know that for a fact, ’cause I ’ave to live among the filthy ingrates.’ Raper was a butcher whose slaughterhouse was situated in the very heart of the immigrant community. ‘They’ll be pinchin’ me meat an’ God knows what – I can’t leave a blasted pig outside but that it disappears up somebody’s sleeve.’ He shook his head firmly and gave a mirthless laugh. ‘No, Christian charity my arse, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but our folk come before that lot.’ He clasped his hands behind his back and raised himself up and down on the balls of his feet, signifying that the argument was at an end as far as he was concerned.