A Long Way from Heaven

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

  ‘Lord, don’t do that. Sure, I was pleased enough to see him after so long but I couldn’t do for him to go on an’ on about having the boys baptised.’

  ‘Why don’t we ’ave it done an’ that’d be an end to it?’ coaxed Thomasin.

  ‘Because I don’t feel anything, that’s why.’

  ‘I think it’s just ’cause yer don’t want to back down.’

  ‘Think what ye like – now will ye stop spoilin’ me enjoyment an’ come have a dance?’

  A sigh. ‘Whoever heard o’ dancin’ at a funeral?’

  Molly came round just then with a pewter pot which she dashed against each of their cups. ‘There, get that down yese – oh no, wait. Wait, everybody! I’m forgetting meself. We’ve not yet drunk a toast to Bridie’s health.’ She burst out laughing, shocking Thomasin even further at this thoughtless display. ‘Oh, have ye heard me? ’Tis a bit late for wishin’ the poor old darlin’ health. Anyway,’ she raised her mug, ‘here’s to Bridie, may she have Eternal Peace.’

  ‘Well, she’s not likely to get that ’ere,’ muttered Thomasin as everybody echoed ‘To Bridie!’

  ‘Ah, a drop o’ pure gold,’ gasped Molly. ‘Takes the lining off your throat so it does. Come on, then, on with the wake.’ And the festivities continued.

  In time the potent liquor banished Thomasin’s reserve and she consented to dance with her husband, asking her neighbour to take charge of Sonny. It had certainly been a long time since they had danced like this. The music – or was it the drink? created a mood of devilment in him and he pulled the pins from her hair, shaking it loose to stream around her shoulders.

  ‘Ah, I love it like this.’ He squashed his face into its red waves as he swung her round.

  ‘Take that look out o’ yer eye,’ she warned him laughingly. ‘I can’t be doin’ with another bairn just yet.’ After Sonny’s birth she had made it clear there would be no more additions to the family. Not for her a life such as Molly’s with snot-nosed children dangling from every available appendage. Three was quite enough, thank you, considering the difficulty they had to feed and clothe them.

  ‘Faith, ye wouldn’t be that cruel,’ he pleaded in her ear as they whirled around the room. ‘Not tonight. We’re havin’ such a good time, ’twould be a pity to end such a day on a sour note.’

  ‘If it’s sweetness yer after I’ll treat yer to an extra spoonful o’ sugar in yer tea. Now dance.’

  Hands clapped, feet drummed, urging the dancers on until they were ready to drop from exhaustion. It seemed as though Ghostie’s fiddle was about to be sawn in half, so frantically was his elbow moving. Yet above the tortured instrument the grey face remained impassive, sepulchral. Finally the strain on his fiddle proved to be too much as one of the guts snapped with a noisy ping.

  Thomasin sagged into a chair next to her husband. ‘Phew! I’ve only had one dance an’ I’m worn out. I must be gettin’ old.’

  ‘Never,’ smiled Patrick. ‘You’ll never grow old, Tommy.’ He kissed her and looked over her shoulder at Erin. ‘Erin darlin’, if ye want to play your harp now’s the time. ’Tis a captive audience ye’ll have.’

  Erin took her chance and pushed her way to the room centre, making no apologies for rapping some ankles with her harp on the way. They had had their bit of fun, now they must listen while she played something more respectful in honour of her friend. She then fingered out the saddest refrain in her repertoire, accompanying it with tragic words. The noisy drunken gabbling soon diminished to a deathly silence as everyone listened. She sang of the land after which she had been named, of its sons’ and daughters’ tragic exodus, its beauty, her sweet voice rising in pitiful lament. At the climax of her mournful song there was not an eye in the house that did not shine with tears and the applause was tumultuous.

  ‘Oh, that was lovely, pet.’ Molly blew her nose loudly and mopped the moisture from her deeply set eyes. ‘Sure, I haven’t enjoyed meself so much since me old mother died.’

  And everybody laughed again.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  How quickly the years flew past. True to Thomasin’s declaration there had been no additions to their brood in the last four years, but the strain was beginning to tell. John became uncomfortably aware that all was not well in the Feeney household. It began with tight-lipped faces and the odd sarcastic remark then, as it gathered momentum, developed into something more violent with abusive tirades being volleyed back and forth across the breakfast table. Thinking that maybe he was no longer welcome, John questioned his friend after one such particular outburst.

  Patrick waited until Thomasin was out of earshot before offering an explanation, then in a low voice said, ‘’Tis nothing to do with you, John boyo. ’Tis her an’ me that’s the problem. She’s been keeping me at arms’ length, I can’t even…’

  ‘Go on, tell him!’ Thomasin had sneaked back into the room as their voices had lowered and glared at Patrick’s guilty start. ‘Tell him all about our private life, see if I care. There’s a few things I could tell him about you an’ all.’ She stormed back into the kitchen, cursing as she tripped over a toy cart.

  Patrick sighed his exasperation, then told John of Thomasin’s reluctance to have any more children. ‘I can’t go on like this, John,’ he ended dolefully. ‘She’s driving me to rape. No other man’d put up with it.’

  John sympathised, understanding all too well how his friend was feeling. ‘I should imagine that once she’s made her mind up on summat there’d be no budgin’ her.’

  ‘’Tis right you are,’ replied his friend acidly. ‘An’ the frustrating thing is that it’s not going to get any better while I’m only bringing home thirteen bob a week. An’ that’s what it boils down to in the end, ye know.’ He tapped his finger on the table as he spoke. ‘Money. God, will I ever get out o’ this place?’

  ‘There’s some would be quite happy wi’ a place like this,’ said John. ‘I reckon you would if it weren’t for Tommy’s mother gettin’ yer ridin’ all the time.’

  Patrick groaned. ‘Ah, but she’s right, John! I should be able to give Tommy more than this – an’ it isn’t just her, ’tis all of it. D’ye know, when I first came to England, about eleven years ago, I promised meself that as soon as I’d saved enough, I was going to buy meself a small piece o’ land an’ be me own master. Huh! What happened, I ask myself?’ He swept his hand around the dreary room. ‘Is this all that became o’ my dream?’ He pushed away his empty plate and sighed again.

  ‘So, yer think a bit of extra cash’d solve yer problems?’ asked John.

  ‘It’d certainly help,’ came the sour reply. ‘What with there being no overtime lately I’ve had to dig into me savings.’

  ‘There’s only one solution then,’ was John’s simple answer. ‘Yer’ll ’ave to ask for a rise.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ argued Patrick. ‘’Tis the going rate.’

  ‘Goin’ rate be blowed. He could pay yer more if he wanted but he’s not likely to unless yer kick up a fuss. Yer never get owt if yer don’t ask.’

  ‘Well,’ answered Patrick dubiously. ‘If ye think there’s a chance it’ll work I may as well ask him this morning.’

  * * *

  ‘You put me in an awkward position, Feeney,’ was Baxter’s reply to the Irishman’s request.

  ‘Well, the way I see it, Mr Baxter, ye’ve been getting my services pretty cheaply.’ Patrick was determined to go out richer than he had come in. ‘I was doing the work o’ three men until recently.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ answered Baxter. ‘But as you may have gathered there’s not been much work put our way lately. Things haven’t been too easy for me, financially speaking.’

  ‘Oh, I can wait until things pick up a bit, Mr Baxter,’ conceded Patrick. ‘I didn’t mean I wanted more money right this minute.’

  ‘Either way you’d not get it, I’m afraid. It’s a bit more difficult than that.’ Baxter cleared his throat. ‘As a matter of fact I was about to se
nd for you to explain.’

  One of Patrick’s eyebrows formed a question mark. ‘Explain?’ he asked when Baxter was unforthcoming. ‘Explain what?’

  ‘Explain why I have to let you go,’ said the other into his waistcoat.

  ‘Let me go?’

  Baxter sighed. ‘I can’t put it much plainer. There’s no more work – you’re finished. Last in, first out, that’s how it goes, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’re ye talking about “last in”?’ cried Patrick. ‘I’ve worked for you eleven years. What about Barley, or Watson? They’ve only been here a matter o’ months.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ replied his employer. ‘An’ they’ll be going as well, only I haven’t had time to tell them yet. I’ve got debts to meet, I can’t be paying for men to sit idle. You know as well as I do there’s hardly been enough work for two men lately, let alone half a dozen. No, I’m sorry, Feeney, there’s no going back.’

  Patrick was stunned. ‘But doesn’t loyalty count for anything with you? I’ve given ye eleven years of my Jife, doesn’t that deserve more consideration? What’s my wife going to say when I go home an’ tell her I’ve lost me job? How am I supposed to feed me children?’

  Baxter was unrepentant. ‘Eleven years, you say? Well, when you’ve been at it as long as I have you’ll come to learn there’s no sentiment in business. There’s many a time I’ve given men like you a chance in the past, only to be let down. Don’t talk to me about loyalty, lad, loyalty won’t pay my bills – an’ I have children to feed too, you know. No, I’m sorry, I’ve tried to put it off as long as I could but you’ll have to go.’

  Patrick accepted his fate. What use was there in pursuing the argument?

  ‘How long have I got then?’

  ‘A week,’ replied Baxter. ‘And before you start upbraiding me again, I shouldn’t, or I might decide to finish you right now. As far as I’m concerned I’m doing you a favour by allowing you to stay on till Saturday.’

  Patrick curled his lip. ‘Thank ye very much, Mr Baxter, sir. Remind me to do you a favour some time.’

  * * *

  All day Patrick rehearsed in his mind how to break the news to Thomasin. How would she take it? Now there was a silly question. He could end up like some bloodied object on one of Raper’s hooks.

  When he arrived home that night John asked eagerly if Patrick had had any luck. The latter glanced briefly at his wife, slung his haversack into a corner and sank into a chair, rubbing his dirty hands over his face.

  ‘Well?’ repeated John impatiently. ‘How did yer get on?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ muttered Patrick through his fingers. ‘Tommy, where’s me tea? Me belly thinks me mouth’s been stitched up.’

  Thomasin, in slightly better humour than the morning, placed his meal on the table. ‘What’s the matter wi’ you? Yer look as if Liam’s been castigating you again.’

  ‘’Tis worse than that, I’m afraid,’ he responded. Her ears pricked. He raised his eyes to hers, then lowered them again. ‘I’ve lost me job.’

  ‘Stap me!’ cried John and slapped the wall in anger. ‘He’s not gone an’ finished yer just ’cause you asked for a rise? Blimey, I wish I’d never mentioned it.’

  Thomasin, initially struck dumb with shock, now found her voice and used it on John. ‘Oh, so it’s you who’s been puttin’ silly ideas into his head, is it?’

  ‘No, no,’ Patrick intervened. ‘’Twas not John’s fault. He only told me what to do for the best. The reason I got finished was that Baxter’s having a difficult time of it financially.’

  ‘Aw, poor old devil,’ came the satirical rejoinder. ‘My heart bleeds for him. It must be murder havin’ to live in a ten roomed house with only pheasant to eat.’

  ‘’Tis no good you giving me all your clever talk,’ replied Patrick. ‘After next week I’ll be out of a job an’ nothing you can say will change it.’

  ‘This is all your fault,’ Thomasin accused John.

  ‘No!’ shouted Patrick. ‘If anybody’s to blame ’tis you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all comin’ out now!’ jeered his wife. ‘I knew it’d be my fault. Well, yer’ve cooked yer goose, Patrick Feeney, ’cause until yer get another job yer’ll be sleepin’ down ’ere with yer friend, then see how clever his ideas are.’

  She stomped upstairs, closely followed by an incensed Patrick, where their argument continued vociferously for some time.

  John sat at the table, leaning on his elbows and staring at Patrick’s untouched meal as bangs and crashes erupted over his head. ‘Oh well,’ he decided, pulling the plate towards him, ‘waste not, want not.’

  He was halfway through the meal when he suddenly noticed that the noise had died to a rhythmic creaking. ‘Stone the crows,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I wish I had Pat’s powers of persuasion.’

  * * *

  ‘Ah, this weak flesh,’ cursed Thomasin, retching in the privy some weeks later. She had never been quite sure whether the saying ‘the luck of the Irish’ actually meant the opposite; well, she was sure now. A deep depression settled upon her at the thought of another mouth to feed. Patrick’s days at Baxter’s were over and as yet he had been unable to find work elsewhere. They were now surviving on their savings and relying on John for income.

  Their lodger, despite Patrick’s denials, held himself responsible for their dilemma and racked his brains for a solution. Though they were at the moment existing on the money he made from selling scrap he knew that Patrick’s pride would not allow him to rely on his friend for long. Perhaps they could set up some sort of business partnership. He decided to broach the subject with Patrick.

  ‘What sort o’ business partnership?’ asked his friend.

  ‘Well, brickyin’ I suppose,’ replied John. ‘I’m not so crippled that I can’t lay a few bricks any more, as long as you do all the humpin’.’

  ‘An’ just how d’ye suggest we go about this?’ enquired Patrick. ‘I mean it takes capital to start a business. I can barely afford to feed me family at the moment.’

  ‘It all depends on how yer go about it,’ answered John, lowering his voice, afraid that if Thomasin heard his good idea she would be sure to quash it out of hand. ‘I’ve been weighin’ the matter up very carefully. If we can get the materials cheap we’ll be well away.’

  ‘And how or where do we get cheap materials? Sure, ye know most o’ the bricks used are reclaimed. Nobody uses new stuff, so are ye proposing to knock down a few houses to get them?’

  ‘Aye, I thought we could start wi’ Baxter’s,’ said John. ‘Yer won’t take me serious, will yer? Just leave it all to t’businessman.’ He tapped his chest. ‘I know where to lay me hands on t’stuff.’

  ‘Ah, now where have I heard that before?’ mused Patrick.

  ‘Pat, if I’ve told yer once I’ve told yer a thousand times,’ objected a wounded John. ‘I’ve finished wi’ all that lark. Just you leave everything to me an’ don’t worry, yer Uncle John’s gonna make yer a rich man.’

  * * *

  A mere twenty-four hours later John stumbled into Bay Horse Yard, heaving under the weight of the handcart. He poked his head around the door, saying to Patrick, ‘Away, I’ve got a surprise for yer.’

  Surprise was not the word. Patrick could scarcely voice his incredulity at the piles of bricks, mortar, sand and horsehair that were crammed onto the handcart.

  ‘Holy Souls,’ he finally managed to whisper. ‘How did ye get your hands on all this since yesterday?’

  ‘I got it cheap off a man who’s gone bankrupt,’ replied John with his back to the Irishman, then pulled the tarpaulin back over the load.

  Thomasin stood at her husband’s shoulder, equally amazed, but not so easily misled. ‘The truth,’ she told John bluntly.

  John turned around. ‘Promise yer won’t hit me?’

  ‘Oh, God, it’s stolen!’ hissed Thomasin and pushed the two men into the house.

  ‘John, ye promised;’ accused Patrick. ‘Now where did ye really get it
?’

  ‘Think of a name beginning wi’ B,’ answered John sheepishly.

  ‘Oh, Jaze… an’ ye brought it here? Christ, man, have ye no sense? I could end up in prison if someone should guess where it came from.’

  John flapped a derisive hand. ‘He doesn’t know. I’ve had this up me sleeve for a while, been collectin’ it bit by bit over t’past month or so an’ stashin’ it away.’ Along with other things; John had these caches all over. ‘He won’t even notice it’s gone.’

  ‘Oh, John, John,’ wailed Patrick. ‘Why the hell d’ye think Baxter had to get rid o’ me? Because he was in “financial difficulties”, as he put it. There’s no bloody wonder if some devil’s been thievin’ all his materials, is there?’

  John was scornful. ‘A tiny bit o’ stuffs not gonna make much difference to him. Flamin’ ’ell, he’s had his whack out of us over t’years. I bet he couldn’t survive on three bob a day like I used to before he gave me the boot – an’ what about you? Eleven years yer gave him an’ what has he given you except a kick up t’arse? No, I reckon we’ve only taken what’s rightfully ours.’

  ‘Well, I think John’s right,’ announced Thomasin, surprising both men. ‘He deserves everything he gets after t’way he treated yer both. I don’t hold wi’ thievin’ but I think yer a fool, Pat, if yer don’t take advantage o’ this.’

  Patrick stared at his wife in her dowdy, ill-fitting dress, at the lines of worry that striped her forehead; had it been his failure to provide that had carved them there?

  ‘All right,’ he yielded, much to John’s satisfaction. ‘I’ll go along with it for now. But,’ he pointed a warning finger, ‘the moment we start to make our fortunes this lot goes back. I’m having no one telling me my business was founded on dishonesty.’

  John stared. ‘Yer mad,’ he breathed. ‘Bloody mad. How will we get it back to Baxter? Trundle it onto t’site wi’ t’handcart an’ say “Sorry, Mr Baxter, we only borrowed it”?’