But at the moment he chose to make his bid for the barge the moon broke her own cover, fixing him in her silvery spotlight as he ran. At what point Fallon realised he was not going to make it he could not tell. Whether it was when the gathering current forced the barge to shift in its ill-tied moorings, or when his heel encountered the patch of oil on the quayside as he made his leap. A look of horror and understanding coloured the tinker’s face as his legs skidded from under him and his body hurtled headlong into the space twixt wharf and hull, hands clawing frantically at the barge as he plunged with a great splash into the icy water.
Patrick jumped down the remaining steps and hurried to the quayside as Fallon threshed about in the freezing river, his mouth agape with the shock of its coldness.
John rushed up to stand beside him and found it difficult to believe what his eyes were seeing when Patrick lay on the wharf and reached a rescuing arm towards the water. ‘What yer doin’, man?’ he gaped.
‘What’s it look like?’ grunted the Irishman. ‘Enough is enough, John.’ He succeeded in clasping Fallon’s slippery hand and began to haul him up when he felt a pressure on his arm and looked up awkwardly. ‘John, will ye take your boot off me arm an’ gimme a hand?’
John glowered at him. ‘I’m not wastin’ all this bloody time just to let him go. He’s stayin’ where he is.’ He squatted at Patrick’s shoulder and spoke persuasively. ‘What’s up wi’ yer, man? He nearly killed us once, remember?’
‘I remember.’ With the removal of John’s boot Patrick started to heave on Fallon’s arm again. ‘But ye’ll not ask me to stand by an’ watch a man drown, ’tis not in me. That would only make us as bad as he is.’ His face was suffused with blood from the effort of the struggle. ‘Now, for God’s sake, John, help me get him up.’
But John made no attempt at assistance.
Fallon gripped the proffered hand with all his might and effectively gained a foothold on the slimy wall, using Patrick’s shirt to pull himself out of the water. During a brief pause in the climb he looked up breathlessly into John’s face and knew that the one-eyed man shared none of his rescuer’s sentiments. Somehow he must create a diversion if he were to come out of this alive, and the only way to do that was to turn the tables on the man who was hauling him out of the water. It mattered not that Patrick had just saved his life when the one-eyed man had no intention of allowing him to live.
He was nearly out now and had brought his right knee up over the edge of the wharf. As he did so he grabbed a handful of Patrick’s shirt and tugged.
‘Easy,’ grunted Patrick, almost losing his balance. ‘Ye’ll have us both in.’
But the tinker ignored his plea and began to shunt Patrick lower and lower over the side. Too late Patrick realised the man’s purpose, his boots scrabbling over the damp ground as he was pulled further towards the water. ‘John, for pity’s sake!’
‘I wondered just how long it’d be before yer realised,’ said his friend, who had been watching the struggle with a twisted smile and now stepped forward in an attempt to extricate the tinker’s iron grip from Patrick’s shirt. ‘See what thanks yer get for all yer fine efforts?’
Patrick barely heard the mocking words; he was straining every muscle to keep his grip on dry land. The other men came rushing up to watch the battle just as a terrible scream split the night. Unable to remove Fallon by the strength of his hands, John had sunk vengeful teeth deep into the tinker’s fingers, relishing the taste of his enemy’s blood. He accomplished his aim. Patrick fell back as the tinker abruptly released his hold and began to slip towards the water, hands flailing for anything that might save him.
John turned his face to his friends with a satisfied grin, which was to prove fatal. With his blind side towards the tinker he did not see the falling man’s last desperate grab for life. The pressure on his ankle took him completely by surprise, pulling his feet from under him and with a resounding splash both men plummeted into the river.
Patrick and his companions peered anxiously into the black space between wharf and barge where the waters of the Foss threshed and foamed as each tried to push the other under its deadly coverlet. Once more Patrick stretched himself out on the cold stone and reached down a liberating arm, this time to his friend. Riley and Ryan hung onto his legs as he inched himself further, making frantic grabs for John’s collar but each time grasping only air. His shirt had freed itself from his trousers, bearing his midriff to the chafing stone. The veins in his neck bulged with the effort as he continued to call for his friend to take his hand.
John, however, saw nothing save the man with whom he grappled, recounting the hardships that this tinker had heaped upon him: the loss of his eye, his job, his family.
‘Jesus, Mary an’Joseph,’ breathed Flaherty, grasping Connors’ arm. ‘Will ye look? For Christ’s sake pull him up now.’ The force of the current against the hull had teased the laxly tied mooring free. Egged on by the waves that the violent combat had produced one end of the barge began to drift towards the wharf.
‘Jazers, ’tis going to crush the lot o’ them if we don’t get him up!’ screamed Riley. ‘Give us a hand, you lot.’ He and Ghostie tucked a hand into Patrick’s belt and began to pull him up.
Patrick bellowed in annoyance as he felt himself being dragged away from his goal. ‘Get off, I’ve nearly got him!’
‘Pat, the barge is movin’!’ shouted Flaherty. ‘We’ll have to pull y’out else you’re going to go the same way as them two.’ He spoke to the man next to him. ‘Grab his left foot, I’ll take his right. C’mon, boyos, haul away.’
‘No!’ Patrick tried to reach up with his arm to beat them off. ‘We can’t let John drown. We’ve got to save him.’
‘’Tis no use, Pat, we can’t save the lot o’ yese!’
With three men on either side they began to heave the struggling Irishman upwards.
‘No!’ Patrick’s anguished cry rang out again, but to no avail.
The swaying vessel continued its stealthy movement, sending icy ripples over the struggling figures below. Hands sought futilely to shove it away. To the observer a boat on water appears lightweight, but this was oh, so heavy. Behind the tons of wood and metal lay the greater strength of water. It would not be deterred.
It was a sight Patrick would never forget. One moment his friend’s face glittered in triumph, his hands clawing Fallon’s head beneath the water, laughing at the flurry of air bubbles that peppered the surface. Then his mouth came open in surprise, his face held an expression of incomprehension as the breath was squeezed noisily from his broken body, and his one eye shone out of the darkness, etching itself indelibly on Patrick’s memory.
* * *
At last the barge became bored with its game, relinquished its deadly embrace. Its bow nosed itself into the main current, straining at the remaining tether. Gentle waves lapped in its wake, all that remained of the previous turmoil.
Released, Patrick knelt at the edge of the quay and gazed spellbound into the watery void, sure that his friend would miraculously reappear, that in a moment his grinning, ugly face would burst through the murky backwash crying, ‘Fooled yer!’
‘Pat?’ Riley’s sharp enquiring tone brought little response. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold that bit through his thin shirt, he walked briskly away from them. From the river.
‘Pat, where ye goin’?’ repeated Riley, running after him, followed by the others.
‘Home,’ came the quiet reply. ‘Just home.’
* * *
The warmth that hit him on opening the kitchen door came as a restorative after the horrors of the evening, but his comfort was short-lived. Thomasin looked up as he entered, the smile of welcome dying on her lips when she caught sight of his filthy shirt and bruised face.
‘Oh, is it Christmas again?’ she asked sarcastically, flinging down her darning to point at the signs of violence on him. ‘I can’t let you out for five minutes, can I? Every Christmas it’s t’same,
yer get a few drinks down yer an’ yer seem to go completely barmy. An’ what, if I may ask, has ’appened to your best jacket? My God!’ She paced up and down in front of him, snatching tugs at his sleeves as she passed. ‘Look at the muck on that shirt. It’s oil, yer know, it won’t come out. I suppose fella me lad’s got yer into another of his scrapes, has he? Don’t suppose we’ll be seein’ his face for t’next couple o’ weeks. Huh!’ She frowned at Patrick’s reticence. ‘Well, out with it! Aren’t yer gonna make excuses for ’im like yer usually do?’
He shuffled to a chair and collapsed into it, ignoring her questions to ask one of his own. ‘Is everyone in bed?’
‘’Course they are,’ she snapped. ‘Have yer any idea o’ what time it is? There’s only soft Lizzie here waitin’ up like a wiltin’ daisy to see yer get ’ome safe. By God, I’ll give that little so an’ so what for when I see ’im.’
‘Ye’ll have a job,’ replied Patrick wearily. ‘Unless ye’ve powers that I don’t know about.’
‘What the hell are you talkin’ about?’ she demanded, hands on hips.
‘He’s dead, that’s what I’m talking about,’ replied her husband sharply. ‘Now are ye bloody satisfied?’ He glared at her stunned face momentarily, then lowered his face abruptly.
‘Dead?’ she repeated disbelievingly. She stared at her husband’s hunched frame, watching his shoulders heave. A minute had passed before she realised he was weeping. ‘Oh, Pat!’ She flung herself upon him, cradling his wet face in her arms, lamenting the hurtful outburst. She edged herself onto the chair alongside him, gripping him fiercely, rocking him to and fro like she did with the children when they came home hurt. She pulled out a handkerchief and lifting his face, mopped at his cheeks gently. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Her grey eyes held everything he needed at this moment; warmth, security, comfort.
He took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘Later, perhaps.’
‘It’ll be better if yer get rid,’ she prodded, laying her head on his shoulder. ‘Come on, love, let’s go to bed – or would yer like a nice cup o’ tea?’ She laughed as Patrick chorused the last four words.
‘Ah, Tommy, you always make everything seem better. You and your cups o’ tea.’
She stood up and held out her hand. ‘I think I can manage summat better than a cup o’ tea, if yer up to it. We’ll leave talkin’ till you’re feelin’ better. There’s nowt like a bit o’ mother’s love to buck yer spirits up. An’ when yer ready to tell me, I’ll be here.’
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-eight
The New Year opened up before them, a bright, clean page awaiting the indelible words that they might choose to write upon it. Patrick fought hard to put the events of the previous year behind him, though with each evening came the recurring nightmare of his friend’s death. He would thrash and whimper in his sleep, tossing his head from side to side, until his wife shook him gently and he would awake, drenched in sweat.
The worst part had been when a man’s body was reported to have been discovered wedged against the lock gates in the Foss. From the description Patrick knew that it could not be John and so the agonising wait continued.
By this time, the Feeneys had found a house of their own to rent. The small, terraced property was, as their other homes had been, situated off Walmgate, for Patrick wished to remain among his Irish friends. This one, though, was a vast improvement on their previous abodes, having its own supply of running water and, joy of joys, their very own closet in the back yard.
However, such luxury required a steep price and Patrick could not afford the high rent out of his wage. But Thomasin, who had fallen in love with the house the moment she stepped over the threshold, said she would go out to work for the extra money. She could not bear to think of someone else living in ‘her’ house.
Though she had been overjoyed when he accepted her plan the ease of his capitulation worried her. She had expected to have to fight very hard over this issue. Perhaps, she thought, the added years had made him more pliable, but she knew that the truth was more likely to be that his imprisonment had scaled away a little of his arrogance; had given him time to reflect on his assumed self-importance. Maybe that was not such a bad thing. Pride in a man was to be admired but Patrick could be very pig-headed at times.
She had flung her arms round his neck voicing her thanks. ‘An’ I promise the job will only be part-time, yer’ll not have to get your own meals.’
‘I should hope not,’ he replied sternly. ‘I shall expect my meal on the table, working wife or no.’
‘An’ here’s me thinkin’ yer mellowin’ in yer old age.’ She pulled away smiling, then put a thoughtful finger to her chin. ‘I’m just wonderin’ how we’re gonna be able to furnish this new place.’
Patrick reminded her that there was still some of John’s money left. Thomasin, hoping to patch his battered ego, suggested that he might perhaps like to use that money to start up in business again, in a small way of course.
He gave a brittle laugh. ‘Sure, there’ll be no more business gambles for me. I know when I’m beaten.’
‘You’re sure you are Pat Feeney?’ she teased. ‘The Patrick I know wouldn’t give in so easily. Where’s the old fightin’ spirit?’
‘I left that behind at the Debtors’ Prison,’ he replied glumly. ‘Along with a lot of other things. Ye’ve got to face it, Tommy, as I have, I’ll never be anything other than what ye see before ye; a labourin’ man. It was never meant to be that I should be one o’ the masters.’
‘Well I don’t know how yer’ve come to that conclusion,’ she answered. ‘You hardly had a chance to find out — an’ yer will keep talkin’ as if it were your fault that yer failed. It was because yer fell foul of a bunch o’ thievin’ scoundrels.’ Patrick was not to be heartened. ‘Ah, well, whatever, ’tis in the past an’ as far as I’m concerned there’ll be no danger of a repetition. It was John who was the businessman, not me. Before I came here I knew little else but farming. No, I think I’ll just stick with what I’ve got. I doubt Hannah will be able to find fault with the house we’ve chosen an’ with poor John’s money we oughta be able to furnish it nicely.’
‘She still creeps in, doesn’t she?’ Thomasin smiled but her eyes were sorrowful. ‘And don’t pretend yer don’t know who I’m meaning.’
‘Ye know what they say about old habits,’ he replied with a wry expression. ‘But, make no mistake, Tommy. This is for you, for all I’ve put ye through. All right, I would prefer it if your mother could produce just one complimentary remark about me, but if she can’t find it in her then ’tis not as important as it once might’ve been. I’m through trying to prove myself to her – to anyone, most of all to myself. All I’ve proved so far is that I’m not the man I thought I was. No, the important thing is to make ye happy. I’m sorry I cannot do any better for ye, ’tis eternally grateful I’ll be for the way ye’ve stuck by me. Ye’ve not a lot to thank me for, I know.’
Thomasin frowned. This was not like Patrick at all. ‘Pat, yer talkin’ as if I’m some stranger. I’m yer wife, lad! When we were wed I made a promise to stick beside yer for better for worse, yer surely didn’t expect me to leave yer when we came to the first hurdle, did yer? I do wish yer’d stop all this defeatist talk. Much more an’ yer’ll be havin’ me believe it.’ She tapped his cheek playfully.
* * *
On their return to financial stability they had decided to re-examine the question of the boys’ education. Dickie, who had enjoyed a short reprieve due to his father’s business collapse, did not take kindly to finding himself once again destined for school. Sonny, on the other hand, was delighted. Why, he had wanted to know, could Dickie start two weeks earlier than himself? Because, Thomasin had replied, Dickie was the elder and also they had insufficient means to equip both boys for school at the same time. If Sonny had guessed the true reason he would have been further infuriated. It was such a big step, Thomasin had told her husband, she could not possibly part with
both her sons at once, especially her little, carrot-haired baby, the wrench would be too severe. Just wait till she had acquired a little job, then she would have something to assuage the soreness of parting…
The Feeneys’ arrival at their new home excited great curiosity from Nelly Peabody who was unmarried, fiftyish and extremely nosey. The moment their cart pulled up she rushed outside to offer assistance.
‘It’s very kind of yer, Mrs Peabody,’ smiled Thomasin and pointed at the menfolk who were unloading the furniture, ‘but I think we’ve enough hands for t’job. Some o’ these things are very heavy, I’d hate yer to hurt yerself.’ She turned as Erin and the boys came trundling a handcart down the street, laden with crates and curtains, pots and pans.
‘I shan’t break anything,’ promised Nelly.
‘Oh, I wasn’t suggestin’…’ Thomasin sighed and indicated the handcart. ‘Well, if yer’d like to help you could carry one of those smaller boxes, thank yer very much.’ She left the chair on the pavement and took hold of the other end of a table which Patrick had dragged from the cart.
Nelly, when the children arrived, pushed them aside and, struggling with a box, followed the others into the house. She waited until Patrick and Thomasin had positioned the table and had gone back to fetch another item of furniture before she placed the box on the floor and started to lift out the objects inside which had been packed with newspaper. The children, who had trailed in with burdens of their own, made disapproving faces behind her back. By the time Patrick and his wife returned Nelly was up to her elbows in discarded newspaper.
‘Er, Mrs Peabody, I think ’tis best we get the big stuff in before ye start unpacking the crockery,’ suggested Patrick, making her jump.
‘Oh, ahem! I was just admiring your wife’s taste,’ said Nelly, holding a teacup up to the light. ‘Very pretty. Bone china too.’ She placed the cup on the floor and delved again into the box. The way she sat on her heels and rubbed her hands together gleefully reminded Patrick of the red squirrel he had seen on Lord Herleigh’s estate. The brown eyes bright with curiosity, the little paws rifling the horde of goodies.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 39