‘I’m going to be an artist when I grow up,’ Sonny informed him.
‘Nay,’ scoffed his grandfather, unwinding the comforter from his neck and unbuttoning his coat to let the fire reach his body. ‘That’s no job for a man. Tha wants to be an engine driver or summat clever like that. Artist? I’ve never heard owt so daft.’
Sonny grinned and made a start on another picture. Whatever his grandfather might think, an artist he was going to be.
‘Why aren’t yer at school, any road?’ asked William.
‘School’s closed for Christmas,’ answered Sonny.
‘I’ll bet yer pleased about that, aren’t yer?’
Sonny smiled and shrugged. ‘Our lad is, but I wanted to go. I like school.’ He recalled the relief he had felt when Dickie had returned one afternoon to tell him the good news; Codgob was gone. No one seemed to know the circumstances of his departure, but it was hinted that Brother Francis had been instrumental in the man’s dismissal. It was a strange thing, said Dickie, but on the day that Codgob left he had been sporting a black eye. Some said that Brother Francis had been seen leaving Codgob’s classroom looking very pleased with himself. But it was hardly likely that one so charitable had delivered the blow. Was it? Whoever the culprit, he had the eternal thanks of every boy in the school.
‘What you doin’ ’ere at this time of a mornin’ any road?’ asked Thomasin.
‘That’s a nice welcome, I’m sure,’ sniffed her father. ‘After I’ve trudged through frozen wastes, up to me ears in snow, talk about brass monkeys, fetchin’ yer this letter an’…’
‘What letter?’ Thomasin wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the envelope that William fluttered tauntingly.
‘Nay, it’s not for thee,’ he said airily. ‘It’s for t’master.’ He handed it to Patrick. ‘I thought mebbe someone was sendin’ me some money, ’till I saw yon fella’s name on it. Tha mother said it might be summat important an’ I had to bring it round right away.’
‘Ye didn’t have to put yourself out on such a disgruntled day, Billy,’ answered Patrick. ‘’T’won’t be nothing important with my moniker on it.’ He frowned at the envelope on which was scrawled a mass of redirections. Apparently it had gone first to Bay Horse Yard, then to William’s address, and by the condition of the envelope had been through many hands before reaching Patrick’s.
He ripped it open carelessly – and gasped as a collection of banknotes fluttered to the carpet. He stared down at them, making no move to pick them up, far too astonished to move at all.
William’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
Patrick slowly spread out the letter while his wife, who was also too amazed to speak, gathered up the large white notes and began to tally them. She then watched his face as he read and re-read the letter to make sure he had understood it correctly.
To Messrs. Feeney & Thompson
Dear Sirs,
It is with my deepest apologies that I send this remittance for work carried out by yourselves on my property. A member of my staff had inadvertently placed your bill in a drawer, where it lay unopened for some time before being discovered. I do trust that my delay in settling the account has not caused too great an inconvenience. I thank you once again for your excellent workmanship,
Yours respectfully
P. Dodd Esq.
‘When yer’ve finished reading it are yer gonna tell us what it says?’ asked Thomasin impatiently, as Patrick mouthed the words to himself.
He looked up, his mouth beginning to twitch at the corners. ‘See for yourself.’
She quickly scanned the words. ‘P. Dodd. Where have I heard that name before? Dodd. Dodd. Oh no, it’s not that fella that skipped off to t’Continent while you spent your holidays in t’Castle? Well!’ She seethed with the effrontery of it and testily repeated the words of the letter. ‘“I trust it has not caused too great an inconvenience.” Oh no, just a stay in gaol, and a nearly-broken marriage, that’s all, nothing to get steamed up about. Why, of all the bloody cheek!’
And then a splutter of mirth exploded from her lips as the hilarity of it all caught up with her, and she saw that Patrick too was trying very hard not to laugh. Both collapsed into uproarious laughter, holding their sides in exquisite agony, hooting, braying, the tears coming in torrents. Oh, the irony! The months of needless suffering, of deprivation, of heartbreak – but it was so, so funny.
‘Give us that suit back,’ giggled Thomasin, grabbing the parcel from Dickie who, along with his brother, sister and grandfather, stood nonplussed, astonished at their antics. ‘Old Skinny Brassballs can stick his measly handouts. What do we want his piddlin’ few bob for when we’ve got all this?’ She squealed, then threw the banknotes into the air and began to dance around the room again.
William stared as if his daughter had gone mad. ‘Well, do I get to share in this good joke?’ he demanded, hands on hips.
Thomasin, still in stitches, could not speak. She crossed her legs and doubled overjumping up and down on the spot, then gathered the money up and waved it, fan-like, in front of William’s face.
‘Come on, silly bugger!’ roared William, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. ‘Else I’m off to fetch tha mother. What does it say?’
‘Oh, Dad,’ choked Thomasin, the tears streaming down her face, and hanging on to her husband for support. ‘It says: this is goin’ to be your merriest Christmas ever.’
Patrick nodded and laughed until he was fit to burst, then echoed her words. ‘Aye, Merry Christmas, Billy boy. Merry bloody Christmas!’
First published in Great Britain in 1985 by Century Hutchinson Limited
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Sheelagh Kelly, 1985
The moral right of Sheelagh Kelly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911591191
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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A Long Way from Heaven Page 60