A Long Way from Heaven

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

He saw it was no use arguing with her; once Mary had set her mind on something she would not budge. Anyway, she probably knew best how she felt. He snuffed out the candle and followed her upstairs.

  * * *

  It wasn’t a surfeit of cherries; Patrick could see that as, over the next few days, his wife’s condition worsened. She was still refusing to see a doctor, arguing strenuously that they could not afford it. At first he gave in to her, making do with Molly’s nursing skills, but as others of his acquaintance began to go down with a similar ailment he knew that it was something serious. Finally she became too weak to protest and he sent a friend to bring the doctor.

  As he waited he looked down helplessly at the frail creature on the palliasse. The illness had weakened her so much that now, to her shame, she had not the strength to reach the privy. The dry, cracked lips emitted a rasping cough and a cold sweat had broken out on her forehead. Patrick, damning himself for listening to her argument so long, wrung out a cloth in the bowl of water that Molly held and laid it over his wife’s brow.

  ‘She’s not getting any better, Molly. Sometimes it’s as if she doesn’t even know me.’

  The girl mumbed something about Erin.

  ‘Ah, don’t worry yourself, pet, she’ll be fine enough.’ Molly put down the bowl and stroked Mary’s hair. ‘Sure, isn’t her Aunt Molly takin’ care o’ her?’ Still, she was concerned.

  The two were still with Mary when the doctor arrived. After a perfunctory examination he snapped his bag shut. Patrick asked what ailed his wife.

  ‘Cholera,’ replied the man. ‘And you’ve left it a little late to inform me, haven’t you?’

  Patrick was stunned. ‘God… I didn’t know… she said it was just a belly-ache…’

  The doctor mentally condemned these people’s ignorance. Were they too stupid to realise it was their own filth provided a haven for the disease?

  ‘She’ll have to be taken to the fever hospital.’ He had taken out a handkerchief, through which he now spoke. ‘Though God knows when I can arrange it, the damn place is full up.’

  Patrick asserted himself. ‘Then they’ll just have to find room!’

  ‘I’ll try… but really, man you shouldn’t have allowed it to get as bad as this. You must have known what it was – the city’s crawling with the disease!’

  Patrick looked shamedly at Molly. The doctor, telling the Irishman he would return when he was able, left to arrange a hospital bed.

  At his revelation Molly had backed away from the bed. Fever! and she had been nursing the girl. Giving her excuse as wanting to see the children, she left.

  Patrick barely noticed the pounding of Molly’s retreating feet. He slumped beside the writhing girl to await her removal to hospital. The disease being rampant in the city this was not arranged until the next day, by which time Mary’s condition had deteriorated even further. Patrick did not go to work but played sentinel whilst she moaned deliriously of events long past, shouting out the names of her dead brother and sisters. There were moments of lucidity, though few. In one of these she asked him to bring her the little piece of Ireland so that it might give her comfort. At this time she also asked why he was not at work. His lightly delivered explanation did not convince her: she knew how things were.

  ‘Pat,’ she said croakily. ‘Will ye fetch Father Kelly?’

  He took the rag from her brow, dipped it into water and replaced it. ‘Sure, what would ye be wanting with Liam right this minute? Didn’t he promise to come an’ see ye again the other day?’

  ‘Pat, ye know well enough what I’m wanting him for.’

  ‘No!’ He laid a finger over her dry lips. ‘Don’t talk like that, Mary. Ye’re going to get better.’

  ‘Please, Pat I must have the priest,’ she begged. ‘Don’t leave it too late. Don’t let me die a sinner.’

  ‘Mary, you are not going to die! I won’t let ye.’ Where the hell was that doctor?

  ‘For the love of God, Patrick!’

  ‘No!’ He refused to believe that she was going to die, despite the evidence before him; to fetch the priest would be admitting defeat. A slight softening: ‘All right, I’ll send word for Liam to come a little sooner than he’d intended – but sure, ’tis only to keep you from nagging me. There’ll be none o’ this Extreme Unction rubbish. Once you’re in that hospital you’ll be leppin’ about like a spring lamb.’

  Her eyes lost their pleading as the pain overtook her again and once more she slipped into her twilight memories, flinging her head restlessly from side to side as he stared down at her. The pitiful object on the bed bore no resemblance to the girl he had married. Even in the months of famine she had never looked so bad. A stronger stench from the bed indicated that the sheets would need changing again. The last ones that Molly had washed for him were not dry. What could he do? He clutched the damp sheet in his fists and rent it viciously, the threadbare material making hardly a sound of complaint. He flung down the two halves of the sheet and paced the room, gripping handfuls of hair, hurting himself for the shabby way he had treated her. He knew that what he should be doing was kneeling and praying, but he couldn’t; he just couldn’t. The sleepless nights when he had washed and cared for her had taken their toll. He dashed his head against the wall in futility and guilt.

  A croak from the bed brought him rushing to her side again and he sat beside her, bowed his head and eventually closed his eyes.

  He must have slept, for when he opened them the room was dark and the girl on the bed was silent. ‘Mary?’ He picked up the cold, half-clenched fist, searching for life. ‘A Dhia na bhfeart!’ he whispered, as the fragile hand fell open to reveal the piece of dried turf, which crumbled through her fingers and turned to dust… as would his wife.

  He could not cry. Guilt forbade it, guilt, that he had not sent for the priest and now she was dead. Dead. The stairs creaked and Molly slowly appeared at the bedroom door.

  ‘There’s a cart here to take Mary to hospital, Pat.’ Her black slitty eyes narrowed even further as she stood on tiptoe to see over his hunched shoulder.

  ‘Tell him he’s too bloody late,’ came the choked reply.

  She crept closer then, seeing Mary’s glazed eyes, took an involuntary step backwards and crossed herself. Recouping her courage she moved alongside the mattress and kneeling down took hold of the edge of the sheet, making to draw it over the dead girl’s face.

  ‘Leave it.’

  Molly looked up at him quizzically but did not release the sheet.

  ‘I said leave it!’

  The eyes that bore into her were full of such anger, such hatred that Molly dropped the cover and rose slowly to her feet, looking down at him. ‘D’ye want me to do anything for ye? I’ll send for Father Kelly…’

  ‘Just go.’

  ‘Pat, she’ll have to be prepared an’…’

  ‘Go!’ he yelled. ‘Get out, will ye? For Christ’s sake leave me be.’

  Molly was about to do this but as she turned she encountered the tiny figure in the doorway. ‘Erin, darlin’ come back to Aunt Molly’s house an’ have a cup o’ tea, ye shouldn’t’ve followed me.’ She tried to shield the child’s view of the bed but the tiny hand pushed her out of the way.

  ‘Mammy?’ Erin sensed the tragedy, evaded Molly’s grab and ran to the makeshift bed, flinging herself at her dead mother. ‘Mammy, wake up!’

  She felt herself being grasped roughly and lifted from the mattress. Her father gripped her by the shoulders and glared into her face. He was trembling, she could feel the vibrations running from his body into hers where his hands joined her arms. His eyes looked funny. He was hurting her. Daddy had never hurt her before.

  Molly found it hard to believe this was the same man. His handsome face was disfigured by a mask of bitterness. Overcome with sorrow for him, Moljy went over and firmly disentangled the child’s arms, gently pushing her away from the bed.

  ‘Get that child out o’ my sight!’

  ‘Oh, Pat…’

  �
��Get her out, Molly, now!’

  ‘Daddy!’

  ‘Come on now, Erin,’ said Molly gently. ‘Daddy wants to be on his own for a while. Ye can come back later.’

  ‘No.’ Patrick was less vociferous now, but just as militant. ‘You take her, Molly. Take her an’ don’t bring her back. Sure, I can’t stand the sight of her.’

  You callous bastard, thought Molly as she saw Erin’s face screw up in pain. You lousy, pig-headed bastard.

  How can she know, thought Patrick, who guessed what was going through her mind – how can she know how I’d feel, looking at that child every day and seeing her mother? I could not bear it. Tentatively he reached out and passed a hand over Mary’s eyes. Then he took hold of the sheet and slowly pulled it up over her face. She was gone.

  It was then that the most distressing factor of all hit him. In all those months of famine, in their two, nearly three years of marriage, even in the throes of love, he had never told her – he had never told her he loved her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For a long time after Mary’s death Patrick endured his existence with bad grace. The cholera epidemic was on the wane but his escape from the disease was of no consequence. He was barely able to drag himself from his bed in a morning. Despair flooded over him, carving deep furrows on his brow and around his mouth. Any offers of sympathy from friends were quickly withdrawn on meeting the hostile madness in his eyes. His moods varied from apathy to anguish to hatred – hatred, mainly of himself. His workmates steered well clear of him when he was wielding his pick and not even John’s humour could pierce the sullen barricade he had erected.

  Erin, bewildered and forsaken, was cared for by the Flahertys, spending her days collapsed listlessly against her old harp and her nights snuggled up between Norah and Peggy on the lumpy, flea-ridden mattress. Often she would sneak into her father’s house and gaze down at him where he lay on the floor in a drunken stupor. She could not understand what she had done to make him hate her so.

  Day after day Molly Flaherty watched the bereaved child rock to and fro, staring sightlessly out of the cracked window. She had tried every method she knew to make Patrick, aware of the harm he was doing the child, but it was all utterly useless. Her entreaties were met with vitriolic retorts, sometimes nearing physical violence.

  Liam Kelly had also racked his brains for some way to shake Patrick from his self-pity. The man no longer washed and his clothes were filthy. Jaunty arrogance had collapsed into morose languor – and what he was doing to that child was criminal. Liam himself enjoyed a drink but Patrick had taken this pleasure to extremes, no longer visiting the pubs for companionship and a friendly chat but to find a quiet corner where he could drink himself into oblivion, in a vain attempt to eradicate his sorrow. The priest had more sense than to tell Patrick that it was God’s will that his wife had been taken. He knew any interference would only be misunderstood. He realised from the drunken, incoherent ramblings that had greeted him when he had spoken to Patrick after the funeral that this time the man blamed not God but himself, was steeped in guilt at not sending for the priest when his wife had begged him to. He shunned all who tried to help him; had never shed so much as one tear; was merely escaping further and further inside himself.

  Father Kelly knew that he desperately needed to be brought out of that self, to face his suffering. Just how he would go about helping Patrick escaped the priest for the moment. Perhaps Patrick was the kind who needed someone to provoke him. If so, then Liam must be the one to do it. Liam, who would not retaliate, would take whatever Pat needed to fling.

  Let’s hope ’tis not hammers, thought Liam grimly as he hung up his cassock and put on his street clothes. Opening the solid oak door he went forward to battle.

  * * *

  ‘A firkin o’ your finest ale, landlord,’ slurred Patrick, already beginning to sway though the night was still young.

  ‘A firkin?’

  ‘Aye – a firkin big potful,’ roared Patrick, thumping the bar and laughing at his own joke.

  ‘All right, clever bugger – out!’ The landlord lifted the hatch on the bar and made to escort Patrick from the house. ‘You’ve had enough.’

  On feeling himself grasped firmly by the collar, the Irishman gave vent to all the pent-up emotions that the priest had hoped to take upon his own shoulders. Instead, the landlord was to feel their violent effect. With a bellow Patrick threw up his arms, causing the landlord to fall against a customer, who in turn stumbled into his neighbour, who pushed him back, giving the signal for a general free-for-all. Patrick’s long-forsaken workmates, eager to renew their friendship with him, leapt over the tables to join the affray, kicking over glasses and tankards and bringing forth further violence from their beer-drenched victims.

  Patrick, spurred into further action by the rumpus he had initiated, was having a whale of a time. Picking up the landlord by the lapels he drew back his great fist and aimed it at the man’s jaw. Unfortunately, where Patrick thought the man’s jaw to be and where it actually was were two different places. The blow was neatly dodged, allowing the landlord to implant one of his own. His was more accurate; it sent Patrick crashing to the floor, upturning spittoons, splintering chairs and tables in his downfall.

  The battle was in full swing now, with bottles and pots hitting the walls, emptying their contents over the paintwork and leaving brown stains. Blood and teeth flew from all quarters and chairs were smashed over unsuspecting heads.

  It was at this point that Father Kelly came upon the scene. After investigating several public houses in search of Patrick he had been instructed by one of the walking wounded who had escaped the fracas that he would find the man in The Angel. Of all places, thought Liam, then ducked as a hurtling projectile – earlier identifiable as a meat pie – struck the woodwork behind him with a splat. Wearing an expression of determination he rolled up his sleeves and strode into the melee, forging a path through the struggling combatants in an attempt to reach the main culprit. The latter was drawing back his fist yet again when, feeling a hand grasp his shoulder, he ducked and spun round, delivering to the intruder the only accurate punch he’d thrown all night.

  As though a bell had sounded the end of the bout a sudden hush came over the room. Clenched fists were dropped as the men gathered silently to stare down at the unconscious priest who lay like a sleeping babe among the broken glass. Somebody chuckled nervously. The noise was joined by another, then another, until the sound grew into a crescendo of inebriated merriment.

  John Thompson’s face split into a grin, blood edging each tooth. ‘By, yer won’t half be in for a bollockin’ when he comes round.’ He slapped Patrick on the back and reached for a magically intact tankard of ale.

  Patrick, who had been staring, dumbstruck, at the trickle of blood at the priest’s mouth, turned slowly and looked around the room at his laughing friends, then back at the priest. His mouth slowly curled up into a half smile, which gave way to laughter, filling the room with its intensity. He laughed and brayed, bending over with side-splitting mirth. Oh, what a joke! Honking uncontrollably now he woke the priest from his slumber and Liam staggered to his feet, hauling himself up by the belt at Patrick’s waist. Patrick was still roaring with amusement. What a tale to tell Mary…

  The priest’s hand moved like the head of a snake to land with a resounding slap on the man’s cheek, killing the hysteria. The big Irishman’s reflexes demanded that he pull back his fist and retaliate. The eyes that stared back at the priest were wild and full of madness. Then, dispiritedly, his arm was lowered to his side, the anger in his eyes was doused by the sudden welling of tears which spilled over his lashes and trickled down his bruised cheeks. The room was deathly quiet now. The men hung their heads in embarrassed silence, not wanting to see those brawny shoulders shake with misery as he sobbed and sobbed.

  ‘Is there anyone other than the landlord paying rent?’ demanded Liam. ‘Then get you to your own houses!’ A rapid evacuation followed, leaving onl
y the two men and a disgruntled landlord.

  Father Kelly patted the weeping man’s shoulder. ‘Let it go, boyo, let it go.’

  And Patrick let the hot tears run their course to wash away all the pain and misery of the past and herald a new beginning.

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thomasin Fenton yawned and gazed through the bakery window at the bustle of activity outside. Idly she scratched her head. The early morning sun revealed particles of dust as they floated airily about her, captured on a thermal. Her attention suddenly focused on a group of workmen who were busily attacking the facade of the shop opposite the bakery. One man in particular caught her eye. The great hammer that he wielded bit into the ancient brickwork, sending up a cloud of reddish dust. Despite his unkempt appearance he was by far the most handsome man she had ever seen. A rampant imagination entertained her for the next few minutes in which she watched the powerful shoulders and forearms. She could almost feel them around her. The thought made her shiver.

  ‘More bread, Thomasin!’ The shout from the bakehouse brought her reluctantly from the window, her thoughts clinging stubbornly to the man outside as she drifted in.

  ‘What the hell’s up with you this mornin’?’ asked the baker. ‘I had to shout three times.’ His hands busily pressed the pastry around a mould, creating a shell. Thomasin watched as he filled the pie-case with minced pork then put on the lid – His fingers are like hairy sausages, she thought, watching them crimp the edges of the pie; couldn’t fancy ’em touching me.

  She always judged a man by his hands and had long since put the baker into the category of ‘completely useless’. Oh, he was a nice enough chap to work with, it was just that Thomasin tended to put every man into one of three categories: there was the ‘very useful but not fanciable’ category, which meant that the man was wealthy but had to be kept at hi arms’ length for as long as his patience would permit; then there was ‘fanciable but useless’ which indicated that the man might have breathtakingly good looks but was also penniless; ’completely useless’ meant just that. Thomasin had yet to find a man who fell into the pigeonhole of ‘fanciable and extremely useful’.