‘I expect you’ll be glad to see t’back of us,’ she said. Hannah could hardly disagree; two women in one kitchen was not conducive to good relations, especially when one of them was her impetuous daughter.
Thomasin’s hands paused in the task of preparing vegetables for the next day’s Christmas dinner. ‘Mother?’ she began awkwardly.
Hannah glanced up absently from the mixing bowl which cradled the aroma of crushed sage and onion, added zest for the forcemeat stuffing. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘While we’re alone I’d like to say something about what I said when I first came here… when Pat was in prison.’ Hannah’s face lost its abstractedness and took on a hard expression at the memory of it. ‘I hardly think your statement needs enlargement, Thomasin. It was quite plain to see you hold me responsible for all your troubles.’
Thomasin expanded her ribcage, then bit back the retort. ‘Well, anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I was cruel.’
‘Indeed you were!’ replied her mother, drawing forth her lace handkerchief. ‘Oh, the pain you caused by your wicked words. I could perhaps have understood if what you said was true, but to accuse me of such falsehoods when all I wanted was your well-being… oh!’ She sobbed heart-rendingly into the handkerchief, nary a tear in sight.
Despite her mother’s apparent grief Thomasin was able to smile, thankful for the return of the old Hannah; so much easier to cope with than the muted aggrievement they had had to endure since Thomasin’s admonishments.
‘Away, Mam, I’ll put kettle on.’
Cold air swept under her skirts and she shivered. ‘Put wood in t’oil,’ she commanded Patrick whose dirty smiling face appeared round the door.
He threw down his dusty rucksack and pulled off his boots while Thomasin brought his meal from the oven. ‘’Tis quiet we are tonight,’ he said as he washed his hands. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘In bed,’ replied Thomasin happily.
‘At this time? Why, ’tis only just dark.’
‘That is because it’s Christmas,’ provided Hannah, undergoing a prodigious transformation for one so previously consumed by grief.
‘Ah, they’re afraid Father Christmas’ll pass them over if they’re not abed when he calls,’ deduced Patrick. ‘An’ where’s Billy gone? To the boozer?’
‘William,’ said Hannah correctively, ‘has gone to conduct business.’
‘An’ that’s what I’ll be doing after I’ve had me tea,’ said Patrick, winking at his wife.
Thomasin poured out three cups of tea. ‘I’ll finish doin’ those veg later, ’cause it looks like this is all I’m goin’ to see of me husband tonight.’
Some time later, feeling refreshed after his catnap, Patrick went upstairs and returned looking spruce in his best outfit.
‘Oh, aye,’ scoffed his wife. ‘Rat’s leavin’ t’sinkin’ ship. Leavin’ t’women to do all t’work while you go off suppin’.’
‘Sure, you’re welcome to come,’ replied Patrick airily. ‘If ye don’t mind sharing me with all me other lady friends.’
‘I’ll give yer lady friends,’ warned Thomasin. ‘Get on if yer goin’, an’ don’t be comin’ back ’ere in a newtlike state.’
He peeped back round the edge of the door. ‘Er, Merry Christmas, love.’ He ducked as a sprout flew past his head. Thomasin grinned at her mother’s baffled expression.
* * *
The Ham and Firkin was a-swill with patrons as Patrick stepped into its merry embrace. In this lively anchorage he found his friend, John who was living now in a room at Mistress Armstrong’s boarding house in Church Lane, along with Ghostie, Jimmy and Molly, Riley, Ryan and many more of his old friends. Ah, ’twas going to be a good night! He could feel it in his water. ‘God bless all here!’
‘Pat, me poor, wee boy, let me look at ye!’ Molly swayed up to him, her narrow eyes peering from a florid, befuddled face. ‘Aw, God love ye, ’tis good to see ye a free man an’ lookin’ so bonny. Ah, sure, ’twas my money what helped to free ye, ye know. I sez to Tommy, Tommy, I sez, here’s a shillin’ to help free that man o’ yours. ’Tis the only money I have in the world but if it helps to get me dear Patrick outta that there prison ’tis worth every drop o’ gin it woulda bought me.’ She looked at him coyly.
‘Ah, ’tis a lucky man I am to have friends such as you, Molly.’ Patrick put his arm around her and gave her a big kiss, which made her bridle and preen in front of her long-suffering husband. ‘An’ seein’ as how I should hate to be responsible for you dyin’ o’ thirst, I’m here to pay ye back every penny. Landlord, set them up. Come on, Jimmy, Ghostie, get your glasses filled. Tonight we’re going to sup this place dry.’
A great cheer arose and empty tankards began to clatter onto the counter, impatient for refills. For the next hour the liquor flowed as liberally as water, with John keeping the company in yuletide spirits with an unwilting supply of jokes and tales. Inevitably – for Patrick’s gesture was founded upon generosity of nature, rather than funds – the ale supply began to dry up and, reduced to purchasing their own drinks, his circle of friends grew gradually smaller. Patrick emptied out the entire contents of his pocket.
‘Mm, just enough to buy me another jar before I go home.’ He banged on the bar top shouting, ‘Let’s have another glass o’ froth and a pound out o’ the till.’
‘I’ve only one pair of hands,’ answered the landlord from the other end of the bar. ‘Wait your turn while I’m finished with this fella.’
Patrick gave a good-natured riposte and was about to turn away when a second glance at the man who was being served brought a tingle of anticipation, the harsh rasping voice of its owner jarring a distant memory. He opened his mouth and whirled to inform John, but the expression on his friend’s face told him it was unnecessary. The one eye sparkled with bitterness and the old lust for revenge. ‘You’re seeing the same as me?’ asked Patrick. John merely nodded grimly. ‘Hey, boyos,’ the Irishman hissed to the six remaining men. ‘How d’ye fancy a nice bit o’ sport to round the night off?’
They enquired suspiciously what the sport was and Patrick quietly explained the situation.
‘Oh, sure I remember now,’ exclaimed Riley. ‘He’s the one that gave ye the pasting. Aye, o’ course we’ll help ye sort him out, there’s nothing I like better than a good scrap.’
‘’Tis a few shillelaghs we could do with,’ stated Flaherty with a loud belch. ‘Have y’ever seen the size o’ that one?’
‘Sure, there’s only the two o’ them,’ encouraged Patrick. ‘An’ eight of us. As long as we don’t let them get to their camp an’ raise help we’re away. ’Tis time that bastard was copped.’
‘Do we get him in here, then?’ enquired Ryan.
‘’Tis no good wastin’ good drinking time,’ replied Patrick. ‘We’ll wait till he leaves.’
‘Will ye look at the size o’ them things on the end of his arms,’ breathed Riley, watching Fallon lift his tankard. ‘Sure, eight of us or no he could flatten a few. What d’you say, John?’
They think it’s a game, thought John, listening to their laughter. He made no reply to Riley’s question, merely leaned on the bar and fixed his eye upon Fallon, waiting for him to make his exit.
At that moment the tinker looked in their direction and his swarthy complexion drained to a wary pallor at the seven and a half pairs of eyes that seemed to be fused to his. Though he could not remember meeting any one of them before it did not take his mother’s crystal ball to tell him what was on their minds. For a moment his senses were clouded by edginess. He nearly rushed out of the place there and then. But while there were eight of them he and his companion stood no chance at all. Better to sit here awhile and think matters out over a drink. It was doubtful they would make their attack in here.
Only when his eyes fell on John a second time did he begin to get an inkling of the seriousness of his predicament. This was where the real danger lay.
Thirty minutes later the tinker and his companion l
eft. Fallon knew that their only hope lay in making a run for the camp. Once there they would find support.
Patrick slammed down his tankard and straightened his jacket. ‘Right, we’re off.’ He faltered as he saw John lean over the bar and extract two empty bottles while the landlord’s back was turned. ‘John, ye’ll not go losing your head over this?’ he asked worriedly as the man shoved the bottles into his pockets.
‘Don’t worry, Pat,’ replied John, his voice lacking its usual humour. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’
The men jostled their way out of The Ham and Firkin, adjusting their eyes to the darkened streets. Fallon was nowhere to be seen.
‘That way!’ John’s keen ears had picked up the distant clatter of boots. He set off in pursuit with the others close behind. ‘Come on, the bastards are gettin’ away.’
They did not catch up with the tinkers until the latter had reached their caravans, but luckily their reinforcements only consisted of two men and a couple of old women. Patrick hastily searched the roadside for a weapon as the tinkers produced knives. He found a thick, fallen branch and held it before him.
In a second the tinkers had struck, giving John only sufficient time to take out one of the bottles and tap it against the wheel of a caravan, hurling the other to Flaherty who caught it deftly and did likewise. The antagonists circled one another like dogs, searching for a weak spot. Then suddenly Fallon lunged for the nearest man’s skull with an iron bar. Patrick held up his branch to parry the blow, using it like a pikestaff to force his opponent backwards. John crouched like a cat ready to spring, the moon catching the bottle’s jagged edges. He lurched violently at one of the tinkers, but the man side-stepped and dealt a heavy blow to John’s neck with his fist, knocking him to the ground. John rolled over to avoid the tinker’s boot and sprang to his feet. Blood had begun to seep from a cut on Riley’s forehead but he and Flaherty had succeeded in disabling two of the tinkers while Ghostie and Ryan, despite strenuous harassment, were trying to keep the screaming women from laying brooms across the others’ backs…
John fought desperately to subdue his own combatant. He must get to Fallon. His friend suddenly cried out in agony as Fallon’s iron bar made painful contact with the hand that had been grasping the staff. He fell back, involuntarily dropping the branch and clutching injured fingers. At that same instant the only other remaining tinker reeled screaming and covering his face where John’s weapon had finally reached its target. The blood ran through his fingers, down his arms as he sank to the ground, writhing. His screams stabbed through Patrick’s own agony; it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
John hovered over his victim an instant, the bottle still poised, then looked around for his main quarry. ‘Fallon!’ His animal cry halted the tinker as he stood astride Patrick’s frame, the iron bar raised above his head.
Fallon looked about him for his comrades. The only ones left standing were the screeching women who hurled incessant abuse at the assailants. He remained like a statue, the iron bar clasped in upstretched hands, his eyes wild and staring. Then, unexpectedly, before anyone could stop him, he flung down the weapon, missing Patrick’s head by inches and was gone.
In a flash John too had disappeared into the murk in his single-minded pursuit. Ghostie and Ryan hurried across to where Patrick was being hauled up by the others, arms aloft as protection against the women’s brooms.
‘Where’s John?’ grimaced Patrick, staring at the carnage, and when told his friend had gone after Fallon groaned again. ‘Oh, Jazers, he’s going to get himself kilt if we don’t stop him. He’s no match for that madman. Come on!’
Fallon’s breath came in shallow gasps. He pressed his back to the cold wall, straining his ears for the sounds of following footfalls, trying frantically to think what to do. If they split up he could handle them, even two at a time; God’s mercy they would.
His hearing, made sharper by the flow of adrenalin that lashed through his veins, picked up a soft movement and he tensed in readiness. The group had split up and from the minimum of sound he guessed it was only one person. All the hair on his body stood on end. He felt an urgent need to scratch at his crotch and under his arms where the fear lingered in prickling annoyance.
The noise came again, closer this time. He made himself ready, holding his breath as the sound came once more. Very close. With a sudden bound he leapt from his hiding place to face his aggressor, his only weapons – his hands – positioned for the first blow… and startled the foraging cat which leapt onto a wall with a wail of dismay.
Patrick lifted his head at the sound. ‘It came from over there. Sounded like someone was hurt.’
‘No, ’twas only a cat, I’m sure of it.’ Ryan shook his head and lifted the rag he had tied around his hand to examine the gash.
The men lifted their heads at another cry. ‘Fallon!’ John’s voice resounded through the maze. ‘Fallon, I know you’re in there! I’m cornin’ after yer.’
‘Well, that was no bloody mowler,’ said Patrick. ‘C’mon, spread out an’ we’ll try an’ corner him.’
Dividing into groups of two with Patrick going it alone, they took off in different directions into the twisting skeins of alleyways.
But Fallon, after his stupid mistake, had already slipped the net and was now out of the maze and running down Long Close Lane towards Fishergate and the river, the fear lending speed and strength to his aching legs. Long-forgotten memories returned in his dash towards the Foss. As the blood pumped through his body so his mind was jarred into a confusion of events and happenings, people and places. Like a magic lantern show he had once seen at a fairground, the pictures slipped in and out of his memory like slides into the machine. The faces of his sons and baby daughter smiled out from his brain and lingered a second before being replaced by that of his wife, her tanned features wrinkling into the sly grin that so endeared her to him.
He was on Castle Mills Bridge now. The frosty atmosphere tore at his lungs with a thousand knives. Below lay the Foss, wind rippling its inky waters. Fallon clambered down the rough stone steps and paused at the bottom, undecided on which way to go. There were two enormous barges moored there. He waited for the moon to go behind a cloud, thankful for the chance to regain his breath.
* * *
Patrick proceeded carefully along the alley, peering cautiously into every dark corner, his heart thumping in his chest. Up until now the search had proved fruitless. Fallon could be miles away by now. He heard a church clock strike the half hour, and wondered half past what? Tommy would be wondering where he was. He’d likely get a caning when he got home. He suddenly damned Fallon for his untimely appearance. If the tinker had not favoured The Ham and Firkin as a watering hole they would all be home in bed right now. Well, it was obvious that they were not going to find him in here – one more alley, thought Patrick, and I’ll be out of this tangle of streets. With the end of the maze in sight he relaxed his guard, shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and began to whistle softly, anticipating the reception of his late homecoming.
All at once his whole body was encompassed by an excruciating agony which sent him staggering to the ground. Immediately the man was astride him, hands locked round Patrick’s throat. His eye glinted insanely as he tried to throttle the life out of Patrick – His eye! thought the Irishman, his eye. John, John, ’tis me! he wanted to shout, but the grip on his throat permitted no sound to escape. He writhed and bucked beneath the weight of his friend but although John was the lighter the added strength of his temporary madness made it impossible for Patrick to break free. The Irishman’s hands clawed at the other’s face, his injured fingers trying to seek a hold on anything which might remove the encumbrance.
Then suddenly the weight was gone and the sweet night air came rushing back into his bursting lungs. ‘John, ye mad bugger, is it tryin’ to kill your best friend y’are?’ Ryan and Ghostie hauled the Englishman to his feet and shook him savagely.
John wiped a hand over his brow and
stared down at Patrick who rubbed his throat with one hand, his groin with the other, breathing heavily. ‘Christ, Pat, what did yer want to go an’ do a soft thing like that for?’ he asked, pulling his friend up. ‘I thought you were Fallon.’
‘Well, God help him for he’d have no balls left.’ Patrick still squirmed from John’s initial attack. ‘Look, d’ye not think we’ve had enough? I’ve been half-strangled, beaten, had me plums crushed an’ probably got a busted finger into the bargain. I can’t take much more.’
The others agreed. ‘Sure, we’ve had our bit o’ fun,’ said Riley. ‘Can we not go home? I like a fight as much as the next man but faith that was a bit real.’
‘You buggers can do what yer like,’ answered John. ‘But I’m not givin’ up now.’ He pleaded with Patrick. ‘Come on, Pat, we’ve nearly got him. Let’s just check down by t’river. If he isn’t there we’ll call it a day.’
Patrick held up his hands to the others as John turned on his heel. ‘What can ye do with the man? Are you as puddled as I am?’ After much grumbling the others finally agreed.
‘But only as far as the river, mind,’ warned Flaherty. ‘Me feet’re like frozen turds.’
* * *
Fallon watched from the safety of the shadows as the moon outlined their figures on the bridge, willing the benign countenance to slip behind a cloud, which she obligingly did. Above him Patrick narrowed his blue eyes and tried to infiltrate the darkness.
‘’Tis out o’ luck y’are, John, there’s no sign o’ the bugger down there.’ He was about to turn towards home and then looked back sharply. ‘Hold on, I thought I saw something down there. C’mon, let’s go take a look.’ His feet trod the same steps as the tinker’s and Fallon held his breath as the man seemed about to pierce his hideaway. There was nothing else for it. He must make a run for it now; now, while the moon was hidden and make for one of the barges. Once on board he could cut through the mooring line and drift down river.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 38