A Long Way from Heaven

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

  ‘I was just saying,’ Patrick looked unamusedly at Nelly who was unwrapping yet another of their belongings. ‘I think we should…’

  ‘Oh, very nice.’ Nelly seemed intent on examining the entire contents of the box. ‘Oh, Mrs Connel’s got one of these.’ She beamed and held up a cheese dish decorated with pink and yellow roses. ‘She got hers from Leak & Thorp’s sale.’

  Thomasin sagged at the opposing end of the iron bedstead which she and Patrick were trying to manipulate up the stairs. ‘Mrs Peabody…’

  ‘Miss!’

  Is there any wonder, thought Thomasin? ‘Miss Peabody, can yer just nip upstairs and open t’bedroom door for us so’s we can see where we’re goin’?’

  Nelly was only too pleased to grasp the opportunity of investigating the contents of the bedrooms and was on the landing before one could draw breath.

  ‘Sure, what did ye send her up there for?’ grumbled Patrick, walking backwards up the stairs. ‘She’ll be telling everyone what we’ve got.’

  ‘Well, she’s already seen half o’ t’stuff, she might as well see t’rest,’ gasped his wife, easing the bed onto the landing and pausing for breath. ‘Any road, I’m not bothered if she does tell everybody. My new furniture can stand comparison wi’ anyone’s in this street.’

  ‘I still don’t like all and sundry knowing my business,’ hissed Patrick and glowered at Nelly who was busy opening and shutting the drawers of a tallboy. ‘Will ye look at the ould biddy? Has she nothing better to do?’

  ‘Probably not,’ replied Thomasin lifting the bed once more.

  ‘Shall I unpack that?’ Nelly was pointing to a battered, leather trunk.

  ‘That’ll not be necessary,’ said Patrick brusquely, swinging the bed into position and drawing a spanner from his pocket.

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble.’ Nelly began to unsnap the locks on the trunk. ‘Your clothes will be all creased if you leave them in there all day.’

  ‘Mrs…!’ began Patrick crossly, then fought down his temper. ‘I don’t want…’

  ‘We don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ finished Thomasin rapidly, not wanting to alienate her neighbour at this early stage. ‘But, if yer’d really like to help?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Nelly clasped her hands eagerly.

  ‘Then would yer be so kind as to make us all a nice cuppa tea?’

  Patrick chuckled to himself at the popular phrase as Nelly, not bothering to hide her disappointment, went downstairs to put the kettle on, then finding no fire in the grate took Thomasin’s teapot with a quota of tea into her own house to brew it.

  ‘There,’ said Thomasin, some time later, dusting her hands.

  ‘We’ve just t’beddin’ to put on and t’curtains to ’ang then we’re about done up here.’

  Together they inspected the bedrooms. There was a double bed in each, one for them, one for the boys and a mattress for Erin until she was summoned to her new employment, which would be any time now.

  ‘I wonder how that lot are faring downstairs?’ Thomasin hoisted her skirts and hurried below, followed by Patrick who went outside to pay the carter for his services. This done, he joined his wife to find Nelly having words with their elder son. The children, it seemed, had not appreciated her instructions on where to place the furniture and a heated exchange had developed.

  ‘What a disagreeable child,’ said Nelly, arranging the cups on the table. ‘Most unmannerly.’

  ‘Sure, I only said ’tis rude to poke about in things that don’t belong to ye,’ provided Dickie when asked. Hadn’t his mother told him so?

  Thomasin took hold of his collar and sent him outside with a stern warning, then sat down. ‘By, this is a welcome cuppa tea, Miss Peabody. Just what we need to warm us up till we get fire lit.’

  ‘Yes, everyone says I make the finest cup of tea in York,’ boasted Nelly. ‘And though I say it myself I have to agree. Though of course this is not up to my usual standard. I would normally use a better quality tea.’ She sat next to Sonny and tweaked his ear lobe. ‘And what have you to say, young man?’

  ‘S’all right, I suppose,’ granted Sonny, jerking his ear from her torment. ‘S’not as good as me Mam makes though.’ He hoped Nelly’s visit would not be a regular occurrence. ‘Won’t yer dad be worried if yer out too long?’ he enquired hopefully.

  ‘He means yer husband,’ enlightened Thomasin. ‘Miss Peabody isn’t married, Sonny.’

  ‘But yer old,’ replied Sonny unflatteringly. ‘All old people are married.’

  ‘Not all, my good fellow,’ corrected Nelly firmly.

  ‘Why aren’t you married then?’ pressed Sonny.

  ‘Because I choose not to be,’ said Nelly looking somewhat uncomfortable.

  ‘Oh.’ Sonny seemed surprised at this and pondered upon it a while before adding, ‘Haven’t ye even got any children, then?’ causing his father to clear his throat noisily.

  Nelly blushed and attempted a coy laugh, taking great pains to avoid an answer, sipping her tea prissily.

  ‘Well, have ye?’

  ‘Er, Sonny, will you go outside and check that we’ve got all the stuff off t’cart?’ asked Thomasin with a crafty kick of Patrick’s ankle who was smiling into his teacup.

  Sonny’s mouth turned down and he placed his cup heavily on the table.

  The woman turned her attention on Erin who, as usual, had been merging quietly with the background. ‘What long hair, dear, you must ask your mother to tie it up in a more suitable style or it will sap your strength.’

  ‘I like it like this,’ replied Erin coolly. This woman would make a worthy companion for grandmother.

  ‘It is very nice, of course,’ agreed Nelly. ‘But most unhealthy, especially in the hot weather. It can produce an extreme attack of the vapours if one does not take care.’

  ‘Well, I like it like this,’ repeated Erin stubbornly. She put down her cup and went to join her brothers outside.

  Nelly, unmoved by the hostility she had engendered, finished the tea and rose to continue with her inventory. ‘This has a chip out of it.’ She held up a pottery figurine before placing it on the mantelshelf. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of it, Miss Peabody.’ Thomasin glanced at her husband who was in danger of setting fire to himself in trying to constrain his temper.

  ‘How much did you pay for this?’

  That was too much. Patrick gave a strangled gasp, clashed his cup and saucer together and marched outside. Thomasin decided that enough was enough and began to side the teacups.

  ‘Well, thank you for all your help, Miss Peabody,’ she smiled, hoping that Nelly could take the hint.

  ’Oh, it’s my pleasure.’ This was obviously true. Nelly, never one to take a cue, failed to grasp Thomasin’s attempt at subtlety and started to arrange various articles on the mantelshelf until the effect was to her satisfaction.

  ‘There! Now, I think we could just do to move this chair over to that corner.’ She hauled the chair to the required spot.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to seem as though I’m throwing you out,’ said Thomasin slowly. ‘But I’ll have to get our meal ready in a minute.’

  ‘Pray proceed, Mrs Feeney,’ cried Nelly. ‘I can cope quite well alone.’

  ‘I’m quite sure that’s true, Mrs Peabody…’ Here Thomasin was again corrected on Nelly’s status. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Peabody,’ she laid great emphasis on the Miss, ‘but I wouldn’t dream of allowing yer to undertake any more o’ my duties. I’m certain you ’ave enough to do at home.’ She stifled Nelly’s objections and escorted her down the passage.

  Outside the children, coatless but with an added comforter to keep the cold at bay, had made a slide on the pavement. They careered noisily up and down, eyes alight, joined by an equally ecstatic father.

  ‘What a foolhardy caper!’ exclaimed Nelly, wringing her hands. ‘Oh, dear. What if I should walk upon that and break a limb, or even worse?’

  ‘That was the general idea,’ mutt
ered Patrick in a sly aside to the children who giggled, then laughed even louder when their father slithered abruptly onto his bottom.

  Nelly disappeared for a few moments then returned bearing a shovelful of ashes which, despite the childrens’ vociferous protests, she sprinkled over the onyx-like strip on the footway.

  ‘Upon my soul, we cannot have you being responsible for someone hurting themselves, can we?’ she said, mainly for the benefit of Patrick who, she reasoned, should know better.

  The children, robbed of their game, trooped back indoors as Nelly retreated to her own domicile, brushing her skirt which held a trace of ash. She turned, before closing the door, shouting to Patrick as if nothing had happened, and to his further annoyance, ‘I hope you enjoy your kippers.’

  ‘Tell the whole street, why don’t ye?’ fumed Patrick scathingly when Nelly’s door had closed. ‘Jazers, have ye ever known the like of her?’

  But Thomasin was still meditating on Nelly’s parting words. ‘How on earth did she know?’ she breathed amazedly. ‘I haven’t even taken ’em outta t’paper yet.’

  ‘Thomasin, there’s nothing in our house she doesn’t know about,’ answered Patrick resentfully. ‘She probably inspected the privy just to see what colour the…’

  ‘All right, we don’t want to know!’ Thomasin interrupted.

  ‘Well, honestly,’ said her husband, gripping the handles of the cart. ‘The woman’s a menace. Had I known what we were letting ourself in for I’d never’ve taken the place. There’s no need to ask why the last occupants moved, is there?’ He prepared to wheel the handcart away.

  ‘Where d’yer think yer off to now?’ enquired Thomasin. ‘I’m just gonna put them kippers on.’

  ‘I’ll not be long,’ he answered over his shoulder. ‘There’s things I want to buy.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Praties!’ The conversation grew louder as the distance between them widened.

  Thomasin curled her lip. ‘Why d’yer need handcart for a few taties?’

  ‘Who said anything about a few?’ shouted Patrick. ‘Sure, I’m not humping ten stone o’ praties home on me back when I can wheel ’em in comfort.’

  ‘What the devil d’yer want ten stone for? We don’t need that many.’

  ‘What’s all this “we” business? They’ll be my praties, for me own personal use. An’ before y’ask,’ he added, tapping his nose, ‘never you mind.’

  ‘Right, that’s your rations cut off for a week,’ shouted his wife and slammed the door.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  ‘Will you get up? This bed stinks like a rats’ nest! Thomasin’s bellow ricocheted off the walls, threatening to bring the house down. Taking hold of her elder son’s ankle she hauled him from his bed.

  ‘S’truth, child, yer worse than yer father. Come on now, Sonny’s been up for hours. Yer’ll be late for school.’

  She threw open the window and peered into the street which rang with the sound of men’s boots, their breath coming in silvery balloons as they laughed and joked their way to work. In the neighbouring house Nelly Peabody, up since first light lest anything of import should occur, sat at her usual position behind the lace curtain, noting the coming and going of the male population, making sure that everyone came out of the right house and keeping a particular eye on the door directly opposite hers, the home of Ruby Sinnington, the street’s scarlet woman.

  Thomasin pulled her shawl tighter and leaned over the windowsill to shout a merry salute to another of her neighbours and told herself what a good choice they had made in coming to live here. Little more than a fortnight had passed since their arrival but she felt as if she had lived here all her life, so friendly and embracing was the house’s atmosphere. They never really talked about it but she knew the others felt as she did. At night, while the wind rattled bad-temperedly at the door knocker and whined through the gaps in the windows, the family would sit cosy and warm around a blazing log fire; Thomasin and Erin darning, the boys playing dominoes and Patrick puffing dreamily at his pipe, his long legs stretched over the hearth, a book propped upon his stomach, occasionally each catching another’s eye to smile contentedly. Yes, this certainly felt like home. She broke off her dreaming to reissue the warning.

  ‘Come on, Dickie, let’s be havin’ yer, else I shall be up wi’ a pail o’ water!’ She went downstairs.

  Dickie yawned and rubbed his head which had made smarting connection with the floorboards, the thin, bedside rug offering no protection. Monday again. How he hated Mondays. Monday meant school, an end to the fun of the break. School meant an end to everything. The twice-weekly trips to the cattle market with Grandad, the good times he and Sonny had spent with Uncle John on Low Moor, when he had taught them the tricks of his trade and would often reward them with a couple of rabbit skins to be exchanged for a halfpenny at the rag and bone merchant’s, which in turn was exchanged for a bag of confectionery at the corner shop. He wondered fleetingly when Uncle John would come back. Daddy said he had gone away but did not say where and for how long.

  Now there was only Saturday and Sunday in which to have fun, and half of that was taken up by church. What was the point of it all? he asked himself. School was such a bloody waste of time.

  With wearisome effort and half-open eyes he pulled his trousers on over the shirt which he had worn for bed. No such luxuries as nightshirts for the Feeneys. Although there was a time, he ruminated, when even the bedside rug would have been classed as a luxury, now it was accepted as normal. He had often wondered where their newfound wealth had sprung from. It seemed to happen after his father had been away, when they had had to live with Grandma. Perhaps he had been earning his fortune then, though when Richard had asked where his father was during those months his mother had always changed the subject; the question had seemed to make her unhappy, he did not know why. Grandma and Grandad stayed tight-lipped about it too.

  He rubbed briskly at the gooseflesh on his upper arms, longing for the summer, then went down to the kitchen.

  At the breakfast table, with cheeks that glowed red like the unruly hair that had been plastered down with water, sat Sonny, his small hands wrapped around a mug.

  ‘Oh, yer’ve decided to honour us wi’ yer presence at last.’ Thomasin, sweat gleaming on her brow from the heat of the oven, put the bowls of dough that she had mixed onto the range to rise. ‘I suppose yer’ll be wantin’ some breakfast?’ She pushed the bowl of dripping at Dickie who had flopped lethargically at his brother’s side. ‘There y’are, help yersel’.’

  ‘He’s had bacon.’ Dickie scowled and pointed with a knife to his brother’s empty plate.

  ‘An’ I had a dip o’ me Dad’s egg,’ Sonny informed him gloatingly, bringing upon himself a bombardment of nips and digs.

  ‘Do we have to have this every morning?’ sighed their mother. ‘An I’ll tell yer why he’s had bacon, me laddo,’ she directed a rigid finger at Dickie, ‘because he’s been up since crack o’ dawn fillin’ t’coal bucket an’ layin’ t’fire, while you were lozzockin’ in t’pit. I’ve told yer before, if yer can’t be bothered to get yer bum up in a morning yer’ll have to make do wi’ what’s left. Lazy article. Yer didn’t think yer were gonna get breakfast in bed, did yer? Why should I put meself out when yer never do owt for me?’ She turned her back on Dickie’s downcast face, knowing it was only put on for her benefit and he was not really impressed by her chastisement.

  ‘Go fetch us the salt, Son.’ Dickie began to spread the dripping over the crust.

  ‘What’s the matter, have you run out of legs?’ said Thomasin, then: ‘Stay where you are!’ she ordered as Sonny was about to comply. ‘If he wants salt he can get it himself. He wants a blinkin’ servant does that one.’

  Dickie shrugged and ate the bread and dripping without salt.

  Thomasin puffed crossly at a stray hair that had floated down to tickle her nose, then wound it back into the bun at the nape of her neck. How different they were, she sighed to hers
elf, giving Sonny the benefit of her sparkling smile as he brought his plate to the sink. Looking at her youngest was like looking into a mirror. There was the auburn hair, the grey eyes, and if the generous mouth was perhaps just a little less ready to turn up at the corners it was still her mouth that she saw.

  He was just like a little robin this morning, all chirpy and bright-eyed at the prospect of learning to read and write. Such an eager face. She hoped he was not going to be disillusioned.

  Dickie pushed the last of his crust into his mouth and came alongside her, putting his arms round her thighs, his head against her hip, sneaking a beseeching gaze with one of his brilliant blue eyes. This fine chap was solely his father’s son, with not a drop of Fenton blood in him. A beautiful child. The crisp black hair, the eyes that danced and twinkled when he smiled; in years to come this one was going to be a great attraction for the ladies – just like his father – but unlike Patrick, who had never taken seriously his magnetizing effect on the opposite sex, even at this early age she could tell by the tactics he employed on his mother that Dickie would break many a heart. How could anyone resist such charm, such beauty?

  Her eyes softened and she placed a forgiving hand on his head. ‘Come on, cupboard love, we don’t want Sonny being late on his first day.’

  She reached for the bowl of dripping and hurriedly prepared two slices while the boys put on their jackets, then wrapping each slice, she put one into Dickie’s pocket, the other into Sonny’s. ‘There y’are, special treat for playtime.’ Poor little mite, he looked so innocent standing there. A sudden tear stung her eye and she bent to hug him.

  Dickie pulled on his boots and laced them up. ‘Away then, our lad, ’tis a hidin’ we’ll get if we’re late.’