‘Thanks, love,’ said Thomasin. ‘Don’t work too hard.’
‘I doubt there’s little danger of that,’ muttered Hannah as Patrick left, then went to the crib to check on the baby.
Erin too was checking on him, though not for the same reasons as Hannah. It was her greatest hope that one day when she looked into the crib she would find it empty, that the tinkers had stolen this horrible red-faced creature who had replaced Erin in her father’s affections. As if he had perceived her resentment the baby opened his mouth and let out a yell, making her step back in alarm lest she be accused of hurting him. The possibility had not eluded Hannah who now pushed Erin aside and lifted the baby from his bed, examining him for scratches.
‘This child is wet,’ she proclaimed and began to strip off the damp clothes, cooing and fussing over her grandson in a manner which completely sickened Erin. That was the reason they lavished so much attention on him, thought the child sullenly as the baby kicked his naked legs in the air, that… that thing there. How she would love to take a pair of scissors and cut it off, the thing that made him a boy and her, with the lack of it, only a girl. It was not fair. Nobody took any notice of her now that he had come – and what was so clever about being a boy anyway, she wanted to know?
She listened to Thomasin and Hannah discussing the child’s attributes and felt desperately lonely – I shall go to Granny’s, she decided suddenly. She still loves me. An announcement: ‘I’m off to Granny’s.’
Thomasin was tickling the baby’s toes and looked up absently. ‘All right, love.’ Then her attention returned to her son.
She doesn’t even notice I’m gone, thought Erin, stamping down the stairs. It was all that baby’s fault. Well, shit. She liked the sound of the word and experimented with it, beating time on the tread: shit, shit, shit. She wasn’t bothered about them either, she would run away, then see how they liked that. Lugging the harp which was almost as tall as herself from its place in the corner, she stormed out to Bridie’s. Granny would give her a home.
* * *
Granny didn’t go so far as to give her a home, but she did succeed in making things a little better, telling Erin she must pretend to love her new brother, then everyone would say what a good girl she was and pretty soon it would cease being a pretence and become reality.
After spending an hour with the old woman and secure in the knowledge that not everyone in the world was against her, Erin left in search of younger company. Outside a watery sun made a weak attempt to melt the snow in the yard. As with most children the cold did not seem to bother Erin, which was fortunate for the thin dress she wore ill-afforded a sensitive body. Two of the Flaherty girls answered her knock and they stood in the doorway chatting loquaciously until their conversation was interrupted by an insolent-looking boy of about ten years old.
‘What d’they call you then?’ His question was directed at Erin, who turned her big blue eyes to the scabby face and gave her attractive smile.
‘Erin Feeney.’
‘Huh, another Irish, eh?’ The mean little face sneered, curbing Erin’s smile. She looked to Norah for support as the boy, without provocation, nipped her cruelly on the arm. ‘As if we ’aven’t got enough wi’ all this lot.’ He gestured at Norah and Peggy. ‘Me Dad says we oughta send y’all back where yer belong.’
‘Ye can shut your mouth, Ned Raper,’ commanded Norah. ‘An’ leave her alone. We’ve as much right to be here as yourself — you don’t even live in this yard.’
‘Me uncle owns all this,’ boasted Ned, sweeping his arm wide. ‘I can throw y’out whenever I want – in fact I think I’ll throw this mucky pig out now.’ He made a grab for Erin who dodged behind Norah.
‘Mucky, is it?’ shouted Norah. ‘At least she doesn’t stink like a landlord’s boot.’ She gave a ‘that’ll show him’ nod to Erin who laughed gleefully at the boy’s morose face and decided to chance a rejoinder of her own.
‘Stinky Raper! Stinky Raper!’
Ned was not brave enough to take on Norah – she was a good head and shoulders above him, even if she was a girl – and had to content himself by snarling at Erin, ‘Just you wait, Feeney. Yer brave now but wait till I get yer on yer own.’ He lashed out with his boot at a stone, kicking it at her legs with painful accuracy, then moved off towards his uncle’s abattoir.
Erin could not understand why the boy should want to be so unfriendly.
‘Take no notice, he’s just like the rest o’ them Rapers,’ said Norah knowledgeably. ‘A nasty piece o’ work.’ She opened the door to admit Erin who was examining her leg. ‘Come on, let’s go play mothers an’ fathers.’
The door closed behind them, watched by a weasel-like face through a crack in the abattoir door – I’ll get that clever bitch, Ned Raper promised himself.
Chapter Twenty-three
That first visit to the hospital had been dreadful. Patrick had toured the rows of beds in search of his friend. Twice he had gone back along the ward to see if he had somehow bypassed John, and in doing so had found him. Out of a bandage-swathed face the solitary eye observed him. A weak hand raised in recognition. ‘I shouted yer once.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t hear ye.’ Patrick moved briskly to John’s bedside, trying not to betray the pity he felt. ‘Now y’old bugger, what’re ye doing lyin’ here? Sure, I thought ye’d be running a book on which patient snuffed it first.’
John closed his eye and swallowed. ‘I doubt I’d be around to collect with my odds.’ A groan.
‘Don’t think ye have to make conversation if ’tis painful.’ Patrick gripped his hand. ‘Sure, I’ll just sit here an’ look pretty.’
‘I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t,’ answered the other with difficulty. ‘It hurts like hell.’
‘Is there anything ye’re wanting?’
‘Aye, there is… but you can’t do it for me.’ Tears of fury welled up in the eye. ‘It’ll have to wait till I’m out of ’ere. Christ, I’ll ’ave that bastard, Pat, for what ’e’s done to me. No matter ’ow long I ’ave to wait I swear…’
‘Leave it, John.’ The man’s head had elevated from the pillow in his determination. Patrick now pushed him back.
‘’Tis mad he is. He’ll likely kill ye next time.’
‘He had a bloody good try last time an’ all, but I’ll ’ave him, you see.’
Patrick attempted to divert John’s mind from the tinker, speaking of his new son and what was going on at work, but though John made the appearance of listening, the seed of revenge was taking root and spreading like an all-consuming cancer, the only reason for his being.
‘Am I boring ye?’ asked Patrick suddenly.
‘No… no — I allus have this hole through me skull.’ John attempted a grin. ‘Ah well, I am a bit tired, kidder if yer don’t mind.’ Even as he spoke he knew it to be untrue; sleep would remain elusive until the plan of retaliation formed itself.
‘I’ll go then,’ said his friend lamely.
‘Aye – an’ don’t come empty-handed next time, tight bugger. I don’t know, all that stuff I provide for him an’ he never brings so much as an orange.’
‘I’ll bring ye a bagful, so I will,’ promised the Irishman.
‘Aye, an’ I bet you’ll’ve sucked the buggers first.’
* * *
‘Erin, put that bairn in his crib an’ come get yer tea,’ called Thomasin from the kitchen. ‘Never mind if he cries, he’s gettin’ too big for his boots, thinks everybody should be at his beck an’ call.’ It was no longer surprising to see Erin tending her brother; she seemed to have taken to him now. Probably just Mother’s presence that had retarded the relationship, thought Thomasin, for as soon as Hannah had gone Erin seemed to experience a change of heart. Didn’t Mother have that effect on everyone?
Erin ignored the screams of rage that rose from the box and arrived in the kitchen at the same time as her father.
‘Hello, me darlings, who’s for a beatin’ first.’ He ruffled her hair and flung his sack
in a corner.
‘Snowed off again?’ asked his wife.
‘We are, we are, an’ I can’t say I give a tinker’s cuss.’ The word brought a vision of Fallon. ‘’Tis nithered to the bone I am. Anyway, while I get the chance I thought I’d go see John.’
‘Can I go with ye, Daddy?’ asked Erin.
‘Best not,’ he replied kindly. ‘’Tis a long trail through the snow. Besides, the hospital’s not a very pretty sight for young eyes. Ye’ll see Uncle John soon enough.’
How glad he was later that he had taken this decision, for though John was vastly improved the face, divest of its bandages, was obscene and would likely have scared the child to death. The right cheek was seared by a long, raw-looking scar which transformed his whole visage, continuing over his lips and twisting the mouth down into an ugly grimace. The normally wide gap in his teeth had been expanded even further where the tinker’s boot had smashed out three teeth. Mercifully for any onlooker his worst injury had been concealed behind a black eyepatch, which he occasionally touched as they spoke as if hoping that his eye had somehow reappeared.
Patrick arrived on the ward to find John learning to walk again with the aid of crutches. The leg, badly broken, had been the doctors’ main concern and they had been greatly pleased when their fears had not been realised and John had felt the life return to it. Only he knew that it was the thoughts that raged within him, the single-minded yearning for reprisal, that had been channelled into healing the limb. He led Patrick over to his bed, stumbling awkwardly with the unaccustomed crutches. The Irishman put out a helping hand which was brushed away.
‘I’m not a bloody cripple,’ snapped John, then added ruefully, ‘Sorry, Pat, it’s meself I’m trying to kid. I know yer were only tryin’ to ’elp but I’ve got to learn to manage on me own. The sooner I get back to normal…’ His voice trailed away as he saw the expression on his friend’s face. ‘I can tell what yer thinkin’.’ His mouth contorted. ‘Yer wonder ’ow I’m gonna make a livin’ like this. I’ve been thinkin’ the same bloody thing: who’ll want a cripple round their necks?’ His bitterness touched Patrick deeply. Last time he had visited there had been grave pain, yes, but still a hint of the old humour. One would have imagined his improved health would have boosted that – but seemingly not.
‘Come on, where’s your spirit gone?’ He nudged John.
‘I can’t be a barrel o’ bloody laughs all the time!’ snapped John. ‘How the ’ell d’yer think I feel? I’ve a wife an’ two kids relyin’ on me an’ ’ere I am neither use nor bloody ornament.’ He calmed himself, propped the crutches by the side of the bed and lay down. ‘I don’t suppose yer’ve seen her by the way? T’wife I mean. She came to visit me day after t’fight, but I haven’t seen her since. I were wonderin’ if yer’d heard owt?’
Patrick moved his head slowly from side to side. ‘Would ye like I should go round an’ see what’s going on?’
‘No, it dunt matter,’ replied John wearily, afraid of what Patrick would discover. ‘I expect she’ll be in to see me when she gets time.’
The Irishman handed over a bag. ‘There’s the oranges I promised ye – unsucked.’
John accepted the gift and laid it to one side without looking at it.
There was a lull, then Patrick asked, ‘D’ye know how much longer it’ll be before you’re out?’
‘Not long I ’ope. I can’t wait to get me hands on that…’
‘Oh, John, ye’re not still on with that?’ demanded Patrick, concerned at the way the conversation always found its way back to Fallon. ‘Leave it I tell ye.’
‘I won’t leave it. I want to kill the bastard!’ John’s threat brought an orderly hurrying to his bedside, telling Patrick he would have to leave if he continued to upset the patients.
‘I’ve not a very good bedside manner, have I?’ Patrick stared down at his friend’s wild face for some seconds, before slowly turning away, leaving John to drown in his self-pity.
Constant thoughts of Fallon gnawed at him on the way home. John would only succeed in getting himself killed if he tried to handle the tinker alone. On the other hand, if the tinker was out of the way when John came out of hospital…
Instead of going directly home, Patrick undertook a quick tour of the public houses which he usually frequented, not to drink but to seek assistance. If he was to face the tinkers again he would not be outnumbered this time.
* * *
There was little movement on the streets as Patrick and the six friends whose help he had enlisted set out on their mission. The bitterly cold weather had kept those with any sense behind either their own doors or that of the public houses. The snow gathered in damp, annoying clusters on their lashes, forced its way between chin and comforter to trickle icily inside their clothing and set teeth chattering. They came well armed. All walked awkwardly as if their limbs were made of wood, for inside trouser legs and coatsleeves were secreted long staves, cudgels and hammers.
Patrick held up his hand as they came to the shop on the corner of Paver Lane. ‘’Tis careful we’ll have to be now,’ he whispered. ‘Not a sound. We need to take them by surprise.’ The men followed him into the lane, blinking rapidly to relieve their stinging eyes, feeling the excitement churn their stomachs as they edged further and further into tinker territory. The anticipation of a good battle was more thrilling than any woman.
Patrick halted again to issue orders. ‘Right, we’re nearly there. Another fifty yards or so an’ ’tis every man for himself. Only leave the big fella to me.’
Ryan chuckled. ‘I recall meself saying that once – have y’ever felt a clog-dance on your face?’
Patrick hushed him and proceeded stealthily to where the tinker camp should be. The others withdrew their cudgels in readiness, awaiting his command, creeping silently behind him. The snow continued to drive into their faces, hampering their sight.
Something was wrong. They had been crawling a lot further than fifty yards and still there was no smell of woodsmoke or the sound of gypsy recreation, though it could be that the weather had forced them all into their wagons.
Patrick suddenly disappeared from view as he stumbled over something in the blackness. Picking himself up he found that he was standing in the middle of a collection of small skeletons, tangled lumps of horsehair and waste paper; a rubbish pile. A groan of bitter disappointment turned to one of fury and he flung down the hammer that he carried with a violent curse. The lane, at this point usually flanked by brightly-coloured wagons, was empty – the tinkers had gone.
Chapter Twenty-four
Spring brought a welcome change in the temperature and with the lighter mornings came the opportunity to make up for lost hours during the winter months. Light, fluffy clouds scudded across the sky as Patrick arrived at the building site and prepared to start work. It was good to be alive on such a morning as this, now that his ribs no longer pained him. The grass was still damp with dew and the streets almost deserted. He felt as if he had the world to himself.
Whistling a soft tune he crossed the site to the shed where the tools were kept. Someone had broken the lock; it rattled uselessly in the fresh breeze. To Patrick there was nothing untoward about this. People were always breaking in and stealing the tools. Still whistling, he flung open the door, flooding the interior with light.
‘For God’s sake can’t a man ’ave any peace around ’ere?’ Patrick stepped back as the pile of rags in the corner suddenly came to life. ‘John!’ he cried in disbelief as the deformed face showed itself. ‘What the hell are ye playing at? Ye nearly scared a litter o’ pigs outta me.’
‘I’m not playin’ at owt,’ yawned his friend. ‘I was tryin’ to get a bit o’ sleep before this big Irish demick barges in. What’re you doin’ ’ere this early, any road?’
‘Baxter wanted someone to put in a few extra hours to get this job finished. I thought I’d take the opportunity to boost the old coffers.’
‘Isn’t twelve hours a day enough for yer?’ said
John sourly. ‘Workin’ yerself to death, for what? When yer’ve half killed yerself to buy her all t’things she fancies she’ll clear off, that’s what. Take my word for it, mate, no woman’s worth it.’
‘Ye sound as though you’re speaking from experience,’ said Patrick carefully.
John lay back with his hands behind his head, his once curly brown hair hanging lank and unkempt with pieces of dried grass sticking out all over the place, his clothes covered in mud. ‘Oh, I know all about it, pal.’ His mouth twisted downwards in a bitter grimace. ‘I gets ’ome from ’ospital an’ what do I find? She’s sloped off, takin’ bairns with ’er. God knows where. She never left a note or owt. I opens door an’ there’s this family sittin’ round table. “Who the hell are you?” I sez, an’ t’fella gets up an’ sez “I might ask you t’same question, what yer doin’ in my bloody ’ouse?” Turns out he’s been livin’ there for t’past six weeks. So ’ere I am wi’ only clothes yer see me in. That’s what women do for yer, Pat.’
‘They’re not all the same,’ said Patrick. ‘Tommy doesn’t ask me for anything. I do all this overtime of me own accord, so’s I can buy her the things she’d really like but wouldn’t dream of askin’ of me.’
‘Aye, an’ once yer’ve worked yerself into ground, settin’ her up in a big, fine ’ouse wi’ cupboards full o’ fancy clothes she’ll not need yer any more, yer’ll’ve outlived yer usefulness. They’re all t’bloody same, you mark my words.’
Patrick made no attempt to argue the point further, knowing that John’s opinion would not be altered; he had been badly disillusioned. Of course Patrick could have pointed out that John had not contributed very much to his marriage, that he had treated his wife like a chattel and subjected her to humiliation over his constant thieving, and therefore could not expect much loyalty from her; but instead he asked, ‘Where’ve ye been living then?’
A Long Way from Heaven Page 23