‘Get tha booit up its arse!’ Edwin Raper bawled at a crimson-faced assistant who was trying to persuade a terrified steer to enter the hell-hole.
The youth’s shoulder was rammed against its rear when suddenly the frightened beast evacuated its bowels over his straining back. He stood there, arms outstretched, incapable of removing the steaming green cape.
Raper doubled over with coarse laughter. ‘Well, wouldn’t thee shit thissen if tha’ were gonna get topped?’ He wiped the tears from his piggy eyes and asked himself what in Heaven’s name had possessed him to employ a daft lummox like Leach. In exchange for half an hour’s pleasure from the idiot’s attractive mother when her husband was at his work he was now well and truly saddled with the dolt.
Jos Leach danced about in circles, trying to pull off his jacket. Raper snorted and, filling a bucket with none-too-clean water, marched up to the youth and emptied the contents over him. At the same instant that he lifted the bucket his eyes fell on Patrick’s disdainful face.
‘Well, by ’ell,’ he breathed, slinging down the pail with a crash. ‘Tha’s managed to come creepin’ in after all, has tha?’
‘Would ye care to throw me out?’ asked Patrick casually.
Raper eyed the Irishman, wondering whether to take him on, but thought better of it. He spun away with a sharp expletive and slapped Jos Leach on the back of the head. ‘Stop bawlin’, useless bugger an’ let’s gerron wi’ summat.’ Grabbing the rope that was attached to the steer he hauled it after him into the abattoir.
Jos Leach flicked back the wet hair from his forehead and, picking up a stick, poked and prodded the animal’s rear until he too disappeared into the slaughterhouse and fastened the blood-spattered doors behind him.
Patrick turned to the man to whom he had been speaking and made a sound of disgust. Then, after thanking him for the hammer, returned to his own dwelling, promising himself that as soon as he was able to he would be out of this place.
‘Ah no, pet!’ Molly was shouting as Mary started to brush the floor, sending the dust flying in choking clouds. ‘Ye’ll have to damp it down first, else we’ll all be smothercated.’ She sent her daughter, Norah, to fetch some water from the yard.
Mary then noticed the swelling under the woman’s coarse dress. ‘Why, Molly, you’re having one too.’
‘What? Oh, the bairn, ye mean. Sure, I get that used to having a child in me that a flat belly would be abnormal. Eight children, I’ve had – they’ve not all survived, mind. One died when we moved in here – of the fever, ye gather; another was born dead. Then, there’s no wonder, living in this filth.’
Mary’s face paled as the woman’s words struck a chord of fear.
Molly was quick to note this. ‘Ah, don’t go fratching yourself. Ye’ll’ve felt the little fella move lately, have ye not?’
Mary grew even more alarmed. She suddenly realised that she had not felt so much as a flutter for days. Clasping her hands to her belly she stared down at it.
Patrick came in to catch her anxiety. ‘Now what’s wrong with ye?’
‘Sure, she’s a bit worried about the child, ’tis all,’ provided Molly, completing her task of scrubbing the floor and rising to her feet. ‘It’ll be all right, pet. ’Tis probably such a big baby that it hasn’t much room to move in there, that’s why ye haven’t felt it lately. My last one was built like the tower o’ the gasworks. Oh, the pain.’
Patrick could see that if he did not get rid of Molly his wife was going to start labour there and then. ‘Well, thank ye very much, Mrs Flaherty for your help,’ he said, firmly leading her to the door. ‘We’d best let ye see to your own family now. Perhaps ye’d like to call with your husband tonight for a jaw?’
Bemused at finding herself so quickly sent packing Molly answered faintly, ‘I would, thank ye — an’ ye must call me Molly.’
‘Molly, it is then,’ said Patrick, backing through the door and beginning to close it.
‘Now mind what I said,’ shouted Molly through the gap.
‘I will.’ Patrick virtually pushed her back outside and fastened the latch. ‘Soft eejit. Take no heed of her, Mary. Everything’s going to be just fine.’
Mary gave a weak smile and went to unwrap the purchases she had made. Putting the two battered pewter plates on the floor, as there was nowhere else, she picked up some potatoes and turned to the fireplace, then realised there was no fire on which to cook them.
‘Isn’t there enough rubbish in that yard to keep a fire going for a year,’ declared Patrick. ‘You prepare the praties an’ I’ll have one fixed in no time at all.’
‘There’s no oven-pot either,’ answered Mary dully.
He gripped her shoulders. ‘Mary, I know ’tis a bitter blow to find ourselves come to this, but we have to make the best of it. If we’ve no oven-pot then ye must stick them in the fire an’ be satisfied. Ye cannot expect to have everything ye want straight away.’ He went to collect rubbish for a fire.
Later, they sat in front of the fire, each with a plate of potatoes on their knees. Even their eating styles were altered; at home they would take their potatoes from a communal basket. Mary had been very quiet since his admonishment. Patrick stole a glance at her now and saw that she was crying.
‘Aw, Mary.’ He flung his half-eaten potato back onto the plate and put his arms around her. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at ye.’
She sniffled into his shoulder. ‘Oh, Pat, ’tis not you. ’Tis just silly I am – but oh, I never thought it’d be like this.’ She indicated the dark depressing room. ‘An’ ye should’ve seen the going-on we had at the shop. The man didn’t know what I was talking about…’
‘I’ll bet he understood the colour of your money, though,’ cut in Patrick.
She continued as if he had not spoken. ‘An’ Molly, she was no use at all. She cannot speak a word of English either. ’Tis funny, what with all the Irish voices ye get to feeling like you’re at home. Only when ye open your eyes…’
‘Don’t I know?’ replied Patrick and squeezed her. ‘But it’ll not be like this always. Once I’ve had a few weeks’ wages we’ll be able to buy ourselves out o’ this filth. An’ like it or not ye’ve got to agree ’tis better than starvin’.’
She conceded. ‘I’m just being soft. If we’d stayed in Ireland we’d probably be in our graves now.’
‘Ah, you’re homesick, muirnin,’ he hugged her. ‘An’ so am I, Mary, so am I.’ His eyes misted over as he thought of his father; was he still alive? ‘One day,’ he promised, ‘we’re going home. When all this is over. I promise, we’ll go home.’
‘Oh, Pat ye’re so good to me.’ She kissed him. ‘I feel so safe with you.’ They hugged each other for a long time, touching and stroking and sighing until their forgotten meal grew cold on the hearth.
Eventually Patrick pulled away. ‘I know one thing though.’
Mary indicated the cold potatoes. ‘Come on, don’t waste them, they cost me the earth. What d’ye know?’
‘Someone will have to get things organised around here. No wonder the English think of us as shirkers and dirtmongers with all that trash out there. I’m going to call a meeting, an’ tell these lazy so-and-so’s to pull theirselves together – an’ I’m gonna give English lessons too. How the hell do they expect to get themselves out o’ this mess if they won’t even bother to learn the language?’
Mary was gathering enthusiasm. ‘An’ we could invite some of them round for a song an’ a tale or two,’ she chattered excitedly. ‘It’ll be even more like home then.’
Having made his proposal Patrick reminded his wife that she was in need of an English lesson or two herself.
‘Oh, teach me now, Pat!’
‘What, right this minute? I have to go down to that building site shortly.’
‘Oh, go on,’ she begged. ‘Just a few words…’
‘Sure, I’m not claiming to know any more meself.’
‘…the really important ones that I should be knowin’.’ So he pat
iently repeated over and over the words Father Brendan had taught him, the ones she would need for everyday conversation. ‘How much?… how much? Too dear… too dear,’ and so on. Mary was quick to learn and within half an hour had a sufficient vocabulary to make her shopping trips less confusing. After making certain that his wife was happier Patrick went off to look for the builder’s yard.
Chapter Ten
Mr Baxter explained to Patrick that he would be on a month’s trial – any trouble and he would be out on his ear! The wage was twelve shillings per week and if he didn’t like it or he wasn’t prepared to work he could go now. Patrick hurriedly accepted the offer and was taken off to meet his five workmates – three bricklayers and two labourers.
‘Another Mick, eh?’ said the first man, who had been introduced as John Thompson.
Patrick’s wary smile hardened into a straight line. Was it to be like this always? He withdrew his hand before it made contact with Thompson’s.
‘Eh, I’m only kidding!’ exclaimed the other. ‘Touchy, aren’t yer!’
‘How was I to know your mood when that’s the way I’ve been treated since I arrived in this wretched land?’
‘Oh, poor soul, proper ’ard done by, aren’t yer?’ replied John lightly. ‘Away then, Mick an’ meet the rest o’ the lads.’
‘The name is Patrick – or Feeney if ye prefer.’
‘All right, keep yer hair on. Ey, lads watch what yer say to this’n, he’ll ’ammer yer as soon as look at yer.’
‘I just treat like with like, ’tis all,’ said Patrick. ‘You be civil to me an’ I’ll cause ye no bother.’
‘I’m very glad to ’ear it,’ answered the other, examining him amusedly. He introduced Patrick to the others, two of whom, it transpired, were also Irish. ‘…and Jimmy Riley, ah! an’ if ever you’re needin’ a fiddler for yer sing-songs this is your lad: Ghostie Connors, the best Jeremy Diddler in York.’
‘That’s yourself ye’d be describin’,’ muttered Ghostie and nodded at Patrick. The chalk-white face had eyes that held a faraway look; wherever Ghostie was, it was not here.
John nudged the new man. ‘See, if we get laid off we do a bit o’ grave-robbin’ on the side. If yer look close enough yer’ll see t’maggots cornin’ out of his ears.’
The man in question snorted and shambled away. John shouted, ‘Right, lads, back to work!’ and turned to Patrick. ‘Are you ’ere to do some work then, Mick or just to cause trouble?’ He marched off.
‘He’s a bit of a clever so an’ so, is he not?’ grumbled Patrick to Riley.
The man picked up his spade. ‘Ah, sure he means no harm. He’s like that with everybody. Once ye get to know him he’s a generous body.’
‘Away, Mick!’ shouted John, flourishing a trowel. ‘Don’t stand there like a soft pillock else somebody’ll think yer a permanent fixture an’ pour cement in yer boots. Shove some bricks into that ’od, yer can be my man this aft.’
‘I’m nobody’s man but me own,’ returned Patrick.
‘All right, clever bugger, there’s plenty more’ll snap t’job up.’
Patrick smouldered, but knew that what Thompson said was true. He could ill-afford to throw this job away – but just let that one overstep the mark. Filling his hod he tramped over the rubble and placed the bricks in a pile next to John.
‘Now, yer can go mix some mortar,’ said the man without looking up.
This induced more anger but Patrick laid down the hod – deliberately gently, and did as he was told. One of the other labourers gave him instructions on how to make the mortar, telling him the ratio of lime and horsehair and helping to shovel it into a barrow which was then wheeled over to Thomspon.
John turned at his arrival. ‘Right, now yer can … Christ!’ he stared down at Patrick’s feet.
‘What’s the matter now?’ enquired Patrick irritatedly.
John blinked. ‘I’ve just noticed… you ’aven’t got no bloody boots.’
‘An’ how d’ye expect me to afford boots when I haven’t yet had a wage?’
‘Shit, man, yer can’t work in bare feet! They’ll be torn to ribbons before t’day’s out.’ John’s eyes rose from Patrick’s feet to his angry face, then fell to his feet again.
‘No, they won’t,’ argued Patrick. ‘I haven’t worn proper boots in months, my feet’ve become hard as nails. Feel.’ He rammed a foot at John’s groin but the man avoided it.
‘Get!’ Nevertheless he felt sorry for the new man and resolved to ask Baxter if Patrick could have an advance so as to get something to protect his feet; hard or no, they would break the same as anyone else’s should a brick fall on them.
Towards the middle of the afternoon all work stopped for tea. Patrick sat beside the others, wiping the dirty sweat from his brow and wishing that he had had the foresight to bring some refreshment.
‘’Ere y’are.’ John held out a napkin which displayed thick wedges of bread and butter. Patrick ran his tongue over his lips but declined the offer. ‘For Christ’s sake what’s the matter wi’ you?’ cried John. ‘Are yer too good to eat wi’ the likes of us or summat?’
‘I’m not,’ replied Patrick hastily. He took one of the sandwiches. ‘Thank ye kindly.’ The man was a paradox, he thought as he ate. All afternoon he had been dishing out orders as though Patrick was his personal slave, insulting him, calling him all sorts of unsavoury names, and now he was offering to share his food with him. Would he ever understand these English?
John’s grimy face creased into a grin, exhibiting a wide gap between his front teeth. ‘I can ’ear yer mind whirring away like clockwork. Yer thinkin’ what a funny bugger I am, aren’t yer?’ He laughed as Patrick’s face told him he was right. ‘Aye, I thought so. Yer’ll not be first, but I dare say yer’ll get used to me. I’m a nice lad really, aren’t I?’ he asked tbe others who made derisory noises. ‘See, they love me. Eh, Ronnie, are y’off t’ shop?’ he shouted to one of the bricklayers who replied that he was. John dug into his pocket. ‘’Ere, get Mick – sorry – Patrick,’ he grinned at his neighbour, ‘get Patrick a twist o’ tea from Mrs Mouncey’s, will yer?’ He spun a penny into the air which the other deftly snatched.
‘Hey, no,’ objected Patrick, digging into his own pocket. ‘I’m not that hard up.’
‘Oh, sit down, yer proud bugger. Yer can buy mine tomorrow. Hurry up, Ron, else water’ll boil dry.’
Patrick threw a penny onto John’s lap and leaned back to continue eating.
The man picked up the coin and turned it over thoughtfully as he spoke. ‘Is my money not good enough for yer, then?’
Patrick looked askance. ‘I meant no offence. I just like to pay me own way as does any man.’
‘If I offer to buy Ronnie a drink in the bar he doesn’t say no, does he? If he offers to buy me one I don’t say, I’ll buy me own, do I? Pride’s all well an’ good in its place, but seems to me yer can’t afford it at the moment.’ He looked pointedly at the other man’s feet. ‘An’ if yer continue to throw people’s good intentions back in their faces they’ll be wary of offerin’ owt again. Tek my advice: if anyone’s willin’ to do thee a favour, tek it, whether yer need it or not. We all help each other round here – or most on us — an’ if you’re gonna live among us then yer’ll have to get used to it.’
‘I really am sorry,’ said Patrick sincerely. ‘No offence was meant.’
‘None taken.’ John flicked the coin back at him with a thumb.
The conversation progressed in desultory fashion until Ronnie returned with the tea and Patrick borrowed a jug in which to make it. John asked where he lived.
‘Britannia Yard.’ Patrick used a pencil to stir the brew.
‘Oh, s’truth, of Raper’s residence, eh?’
‘Ye know the man?’ Patrick frowned as he sipped from the jug.
‘Who doesn’t? Edwin Raper, master butcher, Irish-hater, sheep-shagger, scourge of our womenfolk. Are yer married? Well, yer’d best keep yer missus locked up while he’s around, dirt
y old get.’
Patrick was all for going right home but the other clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nay, it’s only a jape, kidder. I think yer wife’s safe enough – lest she’s got a fleecy coat an’ goes baa. He’s that used to shovin’ sheep’s legs down ’is boots he’s probably forgotten where it is on a woman.’
Patrick joined in the laughter, but nevertheless made a note to warn Mary to keep well clear of the butcher.
* * *
As the weeks progressed the house became more habitable – which was more than could be said for the exterior. Patrick had done his best to keep the piles of refuse away from his door – unlike some of his neighbours who seemed unconcerned at the sort of conditions in which they lived, creating more filth as quickly as he disposed of it. Soil was piled high in the midden privies until it overflowed and spilled out onto the yard. No one made any attempt to move it. Small wonder that disease flourished here.
At the first official gathering of the residents Patrick had told them that they would be expected to contribute to the upkeep of the yard. There had been cries of derision. What was the point, some asked – it would not make the houses any better.
‘No! But perhaps it might help to keep your children alive a bit longer,’ he had goaded. ‘I’ll wage not one of you here can say he’s not lost a child.’
There had been mumbled acceptance of what he said, but some still grumbled. ‘Ye’d think the corporation’d do more to help. Why should the responsibility fall on us?’
‘Because it is your responsibility,’ answered Patrick. ‘’Tis you who subscribe to the state o’ the privies an’ you who must see they’re kept clean.’
‘Sure, I’m not shovelling shit for two hundred people,’ exclaimed another.
‘I’m not suggesting ye should. We must all take our turn at emptying the closets so that they stay in reasonable condition.’
‘An’ what do we do with the stuff we empty?’
‘Look, ye’re grumblin’ about the corporation not doing anything to help,’ said Patrick. ‘If we pile it into the street then they’ll have to have it shifted unless they want to be knee-deep in the stuff. An’ another thing: d’ye not think ’tis time ye learnt to speak the lingo?’
A Long Way from Heaven Page 9