A Long Way from Heaven

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

  It was not so much his words that hurt as the way he kept calling her ‘woman’, as though the very utterance of her name caused him pain. Which it did.

  In the end he had given Erin permission to tell William and Hannah about their grandson, but with strict orders that they were not to try and visit him. He would perhaps allow the boy to visit them when he recovered – This will kill me Dad, thought Thomasin grimly. He thinks the world of those lads. It’ll kill him.

  The schoolmaster was speaking. ‘I am sure that everyone is as worried as you are, Mrs Feeney. It is simply, I suspect, that they do not wish to impose upon your grief or hurt you by their probing references.’

  ‘Oh, don’t listen to me,’ sighed Thomasin. ‘I know they care really, an’ I know they don’t come because they don’t know what to say. It’s just that you get this awful, empty loneliness when nobody asks how he is.’

  The schoolmaster nodded in agreement, then began to unwrap the package he had brought. ‘It may seem a rather foolish thing to offer when your son is… Well, I thought perhaps when he wakes he might like to look at this again.’ He pulled the paper from the book which Sonny had borrowed on his first day at school. ‘I recall how much he enjoyed the pictures. It may help a little towards his recovery.’ He laid the book gently on the chest of drawers as Thomasin struggled with her tears. He might never be able to read that book again…

  ‘Thank ye, Brother Francis,’ said Patrick, for both of them. ‘I don’t know when we’ll be able to return it.’

  When Brother Francis smiled it was as if someone had held a candle to his face. The eyes generated warmth and encouragement. ‘Tell Sonny he may keep the book as long as he wishes. He will no doubt be able to bring it with him on his return to school.’

  ‘You think he will return?’ asked Thomasin, doubtful, hoping.

  The man took her hand comfortingly. ‘I am sure of it. Your son is a very determined character, Mrs Feeney. He has had to face adversity before and has sailed through it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Thomasin was confused.

  ‘No, it is I who am sorry, I ramble so,’ said the schoolmaster, not wishing by his inference to implicate Brother Simon Peter as the cause of Sonny’s accident. That little matter was about to be dealt with personally. He had stood by for too long and allowed his colleague’s cruelty to go unchecked. Now he must act before someone was seriously hurt, or had that happened already? No, he would not allow himself to consider the possibility that Sonny might not wake. ‘I was referring to your son’s tenacity in the playground, Mrs Feeney. He will not, I think, be bullied?’

  Here even Patrick effected a smile. ‘I’m afraid my son is a bit of a fighter, Brother. I trust he hasn’t caused too much upset?’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Feeney,’ said Brother Francis. ‘You can thank Heaven for that fighting spirit, for it is that which will bring him through. I am sure of it.’

  ‘What a grand man,’ murmured Thomasin when the schoolmaster had gone.

  Patrick nodded but did not look at her. Could not look at her — Oh, Tommy, Tommy, please don’t speak. The sound of your voice kills me…

  When Erin returned with a tray of tea she was accompanied by another visitor. Molly crept into the darkened room, apologising as she tripped over Patrick’s chair-leg.

  ‘I’ve brought the rest o’ the family. I hope ye don’t mind?’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘I’d hate to wake the little fella up.’

  ‘Yer don’t have to whisper, Molly,’ said Thomasin listlessly, shuffling up her chair to make room around the bed. ‘We’d be glad if yer can wake him up. Bring ’em all in, then, don’t have ’em littering staircase.’

  The Flaherty tribe crowded into the small room, the larger ones taking their places behind Thomasin and Patrick, the babies crawling on the bed wearing only short shifts, the soles of their feet and their naked bottoms bearing the familiar imprints of Britannia Yard.

  Molly held out a grubby paper bag. ‘I brung the wee fella a bit o’ somethin’ for when he wakes up. ’Tis toffee, I made it meself.’

  ‘It’s very good of yer, Molly,’ answered Thomasin, wondering what recipe Molly had used. A pound of sugar, butter, half a pound of muck from Molly’s fingernails… She screwed the bag into her hand. ‘We were just sayin’ as how nobody’s been an’ the next minute we’re inundated wi’ visitors.’

  ‘Ah, ‘twas only that we didn’t like to poke our noses in before, like,’ answered Molly. ‘I was all for coming round straight away when I met up with Miss Peabody in the butcher’s, but Jimmy said ye wouldn’t be wanting us round at a time like this.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad yer decided to come, Molly,’ replied Thomasin. ‘A little chat helps to take yer mind off things. Yer tend to go inside of yerself when yer’ve nobody to talk to.’ Her eyes fluttered over Patrick who, after an abbreviated greeting to the Flahertys, had reverted to his dejected silence. ‘Ah, Himself is takin’ it hard, is he?’

  Patrick prickled at the woman’s muted lilt. They were talking about him as if he was not there.

  Thomasin nodded. ‘I suppose Miss Peabody also told yer about…?’

  ‘She did,’ replied Molly. ‘An’ not just me. ’Tis all over Walmgate about you an’ Pat. Sure, I’d never’ve thought it, well who would, him bein’ so well-favoured like. How could ye bring yourself to look at another fella?’

  Thomasin stiffened. ‘You know nothing, Molly, nothing. It’s not the way you’re thinkin’ at all.’

  ‘Ah, sure, what’s the fuss?’ returned Molly. ‘It looks like ye’ve patched up your differences now.’ She frowned at Thomasin’s negative gesture, the furrows on her brow made more pronounced by the dirt that had collected in them. ‘Well, you’re back aren’t ye?’

  ‘I’m only here ’cause of Sonny,’ muttered Thomasin. ‘He’s made it very clear that once the lad’s better I’m to go.’

  ‘Ah, but ’tis wicked he is,’ cried Molly, and dug Patrick hard in the ribs. ‘Hey, ’tis you I’m talkin’ about, ye dizzy poltroon. Can ye not see ye were made for each other? An’ you behaving like a dog with hydrophobia. Ye oughta be shot.’

  ‘Molly, if ye’ve come to see Sonny then you’re very welcome,’ he answered. ‘But if it’s to interfere in my affairs then I’ll thank ye to mind your own. There’s enough busybodies around here with Missus P.’

  ‘Well, ’tis sorry I am,’ said Molly, smarting at the rebuff. ‘But if a friend can’t be concerned that you’re making a fool of yourself then who can?’

  ‘A fool is it?’ Patrick raised his voice. ‘Sure, you’d know all about that.’

  Thomasin sighed. ‘Will you both please stop it? I won’t have you arguin’ while Sonny is like that.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry, pet.’ Molly bent over the bed to examine Sonny. ‘Sure, he looks as good as gold, don’t he, Jimmy? Ye’d never think he was such a little varmint to look at him there. Jimmy, d’ye mind when we took the children to see Connor Killeen? Did he not look just like Sonny does now, like a little angel?’

  ‘Molly,’ said Thomasin sharply. ‘Connor Killeen was dead! Sonny’s still alive, he’s just asleep that’s all.’

  ‘Ah, I know, I know,’ cried Molly, baring long, burnt umber teeth. ‘I meant nothing by it. ’Twas just the look about him. Peaceful like. I often think when I look at me little ones asleep, how angelic they look. ’Tis almost a shame when they have to wake up.’

  A soft mewing caused everyone to look at Erin, whose face was interred in a huge, red handkerchief.

  Molly threw up her pruney-skinned hands. ‘Ah, God will ye look what I’ve done now! Erin, colleen, I wasn’t meaning that Sonny was going to die. I was just trying to think of something nice to say about the wee fella, to cheer your Mammy up.’

  Erin sobbed piteously and no one could stem her tears.

  ‘Jazers, woman,’ breathed Jimmy Flaherty. ‘Can a man not take ye anywhere? D’ye always have to go upsetting folk? Can ye not see that they’re all worried outta their minds?’
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  ‘And so am I,’ objected his wife. ‘’Tis not my fault that everyone takes my words the wrong way. Don’t ye know I love Sonny like me own? Won’t I cry enough tears to fill the Ouse if he should die?’ Her lower lip quivered. ‘Why, ’twas me who brought him into this world…’

  ‘We know yer didn’t mean anything, Molly,’ sighed Thomasin, trying to comfort Erin.

  ‘Come on now, Molly.’ Jimmy swung a baby under his arm and took another by the hand, dragging it from the bed. ‘We’d best leave Pat an’ Tommy in peace. We’ll call again tomorrow maybe.’

  ‘Aye, maybe the lad’ll’ve woken by then,’ said Molly encouragingly. Then spoilt it by adding: ‘But if the Lord decides to take him I’ve got a lovely little nightgown that’ll…’

  ‘Molly!’ It was not very often that Jimmy raised his voice to her, but when he did it meant he must be obeyed.

  Molly said a hasty farewell and, with accompanying slaps and prods, herded her family down the stairs and through the front door.

  Erin still wept. ‘He isn’t really going to die, is he, Mam? He can’t die, not our Sonny.’

  Thomasin drew the girl to her and kissed the tufty-sprigged head. ‘Why don’t yer fetch yer harp and play us a little tune? Something to cheer us.’

  ‘Oh, ye don’t know.’ Erin sucked in her breath, that horrific night rushing back to her. ‘My harp, ’tis broken.’ She laid quick fingers on Thomasin’s lips. ‘Please, don’t ask how. I couldn’t bear the telling of it again, not just yet. Maybe later, when Sonny…’ she changed her mind. ‘I think we ought to say another prayer, don’t you?’ She dipped her fingers into the puddle of holy water beneath the crude statuette of the Virgin Mary and knelt down, resting her forehead against the coverlet.

  Patrick clasped his work-abused hands against his brow, nipping the bridge of his nose between his thumbs, then slowly dropped to his knees. Dickie too knelt and prayed, and some minutes later Thomasin also sank to the bedside rug and pleaded for her son’s life.

  A tan-coloured skin had formed upon the untouched cups of tea. Outside could be heard the sound of children, other people’s children, scurrying and laughing as Miss Peabody chased them away from her front. A lone dog’s bark echoed in the lane. A starling perched on the guttering and went through his repertoire of impersonations. The prayers seemed to dry up.

  Thomasin pushed herself from the rug and sank back into her chair. Dickie dragged himself to his feet, clasping a handful of his mother’s dark blue skirts and looked into her face. She was so sad. He wished that he could say something to make her better. He knew they all played war about his selfishness, but he loved his Mam really. He hated to see her looking so old and ugly.

  ‘’Twas only supposed to be a trick ye know,’ he explained solemnly. ‘We just wanted ye to come home. We were only pretending that Sonny had had an accident. It was his idea. He said what a good laugh it would give ye when ye found out he was all right. We didn’t know he was going to have a real accident.’

  It was too much for Thomasin. She bowed her head and wept quietly into her chest. Yes, that was just the sort of mad thing her Sonny would do. And it was all her fault. Her mind was crammed with pictures of her son as a baby, a little carrot-topped head wobbling against her shoulder, the greedy pulling at her breast, all the funny things he had ever said came back to haunt her. Snug on her knee around the winter blaze, cuddled in a blanket to hear the bedtime story, patting her chest indignantly – ‘Mammy, your humps are getting in my way’ – his goodnight kiss, the lips that tasted of caramel – dear God, don’t let him die!

  The sound of her pitiful weeping filled Patrick’s ears, filled his brain, his whole body, enraging him, making him want to hit her, silence her.

  ‘Stop it!’ he demanded loudly. ‘Stop it! For God’s sake stop!’

  But her sobbing only increased. He could stand no more.

  Leaping from his seat he lurched to the side of the bed where she crouched. ‘See what ye’ve done?’ he shouted, sinking iron fingers into the tender flesh of her upper arms. He took hold of the wet face that stared at him dumbly and screwed it around to face the boy on the bed. ‘Look at him. I said look at him! He’s lying there because of you. Because he wanted ye to come home. God damn you!’ His tanned face was hewn with such despair that it added ten years to his shoulders. To Thomasin he suddenly looked so old, so lost.

  The once-merry eyes were sunken and dispirited, the mouth an agonised incision as he shouted and raved at her. ‘Was it not enough for ye to destroy me? Will ye not be bloody satisfied until ye’ve killed the lot of us?’ His fingers bit deep into the marshmallow flesh but she felt no pain, only that of his accusing eyes. ‘What sort of a mother are ye? Eh? Tell me, what sort of a woman? Damn ye, I’m asking ye, answer me. Answer me! Oh, Thomasin!’ And she suddenly found herself in his arms, being scolded and hugged and sworn at and kissed all at the same time with the full length of his body pressed tightly against her, crushing her as she quivered and sobbed. ‘Why did ye do it, Tommy! Why? Ye knew that ye were my life, are my life, look at the state of me without ye.’ He jabbed at his anguished face. ‘Look at them!’ He stabbed at the children who cried with them. ‘Do we look like we’re alive? Ah, God, Tommy, I worship ye, why did ye do it to me? I could kill ye.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ She wept the words into his hard chest, the tears and mucus intermingling, sniffing, pleading, loving. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ Breathing in the comforting man smell, drowning in his hardness, finding solace even in his anger. ‘But it was for you. Only for you. Forgive me.’

  ‘Ah, God no, ’tis me who should be forgiven,’ shivered Patrick, nuzzling her herb-scented hair, sinking deep into it, behind her ears where the scent blossomed warm and familiar, aching for her. ‘Come back. Come back to me, Tommy. I love ye. I don’t care about him. Yes, I do, I could kill him! I could kill you. But I need ye. We all need ye.’

  They clung together fiercely, kissing tears, tasting sorrow, infecting their children who wept copiously, but this time with the happiness of having their mother delivered safely back to them. And then they were all kissing each other and crying, hugging and stroking and the house began to come alive again.

  ‘What day is it? Ow, my head hurts.’

  The four ceased their noisy reunion to stare disbelievingly at the bed as Sonny repeated his sleepy question.

  Patrick and Thomasin came simultaneously to his side, eyes still misty, expectant, not daring to hope…

  Patrick gave a throaty laugh, then wiped the moisture from his face. ‘Jeez, son, ye’ve kinda caught me out there for I don’t rightly know what day it is.’ He hugged his wife to him, the old Patrick smile there again. ‘I think maybe ’tis Thursday, no Friday…’

  ‘Oh Jazers,’ groaned Sonny. ‘Bloody physical torture again…’ He squinted at the dim figures that ringed his bedside. ‘Sure, what are ye all doing in my bedroom in the middle of the night?’ And then he noticed Thomasin and his mouth turned up into that cheeky grin which they had dreaded they might never see again. ‘Good trick eh, Mam? Knew ye’d come back. Told them lot that I’m your favourite. Knew ye’d come. Got a headache. Could I miss school today? ’Tis Codgob, I don’t like him…’ Then he yawned, laid his russet head to one side and promptly sank into a peaceful, healing sleep.

  Epilogue

  It took many months, but with forgiveness and remorse from both sides they picked up the shards of their marriage and began to piece them together. The form that partnership took was a different one: how could anything possibly be as it was after all the pain, bitter words and loss of trust? But despite this, maybe because of it, theirs became a deeper relationship, one which would last, forged by the tribulations they had endured together, bonded by the love of their children.

  Thomasin laid the heel of her hand firmly against the window, in an effort to dislodge the snow that obscured her view. ‘Looks like yer going to be laid off again,’ she told her husband. ‘Yer might know it’d do this just
when it’s coming up to Christmas an’ we need the extra brass.’

  She went to the cupboard and lifted out Patrick’s best suit, then as an afterthought picked up his boots and parcelled both up separately. ‘Take these down to Izzie’s will yer, lad?’ she told Dickie. ‘We’ll have to have a few bob an’ it don’t look like yer Dad’s goin’ to need his suit for Church, unless he’s got a dog sledge tucked away. I shan’t be shiftin’ far in this lot either.’

  ‘I like the way you’re sending my things to the pawnshop,’ accused Patrick. ‘What if I should have an important meeting or something?’

  ‘D’yer mean down at The King Willie?’ smirked his wife. ‘Aye, well ’appen I’m gettin’ you in trainin’ for Christmas. Yer needn’t think you’re goin’ to be pumping gallons of bilge-water down your throat this year. I intend it to be a nice, quiet family do.’

  ‘If it’s a quiet Christmas then it’ll be the first one ever,’ grinned her husband, then reached under the sofa for a newspaper to read.

  Dickie seemed loath to move from his fireside seat. ‘Aw, Mam – why can’t our Sonny go to t’pawnship?’

  ‘’Cause I told you to go, that’s why,’ shouted Thomasin. ‘Now shift!’

  Dickie’s sulky departure was forestalled by the arrival of his grandfather who burst through the door in a flurry of snow.

  ‘Nah then, young fella me lad!’ bellowed William, ridding his boots of the surplus snow, his face and ears bright red above the checked comforter. ‘Where’re thee off to? Tha’ll get buried alive in this bloody lot.’ He slammed the door, leaving the knocker reverberating in irritation. ‘An’ how’s young Nobbut?’ He bobbed down in front of the fire beside Sonny who smiled and held up the picture which he had just completed. ‘By, that’s grand! What’s it supposed to be? Oh, I see, Father Christmas.’ He caught the child’s nose gently between his knuckles. ‘By, he’s a good drawer is our Sonny.’ The hurt he had felt at Patrick’s snub when Sonny was ill had now worn off.