by Mary Wood
They both laughed at this, but Andrew felt a trickle of trepidation run through him. Richard had moved from friend to blackmailer, and he didn’t know how to bring it all to a halt. How would he manage things when all this was over? Because he felt sure the end of the trial would not be the end of Richard’s preying on him.
Bridie’s head ached. Each loud bang increased her pain and dragged her further to wakefulness, but she couldn’t open her eyes or fight through what felt like a veil of spider webs clogging her brain. Voices shouted her name. Her lips cracked as she opened her mouth. She closed it against the pain and tried to swallow. Something cold dripped onto her. Water, oh God, water . . . She forced her tongue out to let the icy nectar fall onto it. It moistened her mouth.
Still her name resounded in her ears over and over. ‘Bridie, will you open your eyes? Come on now, it is safe as you are. You’re going to be fine.’
The Irish lilt soothed her, but it wasn’t Seamus. Where was Seamus?
Her throat moistened enough for her to swallow. Sore as it was to do so, she took a bigger sip, but her body wasn’t of the same mind as her and retched it back.
‘Just a wee drop at a time. Keep it in you, Bridie. We have to get you to take the water.’
She tried to speak, tried to say her beloved child’s name. Her brain wouldn’t give her the information she needed. A tiny baby came into her mind. No, not Eric, though her heart would like to see the wee fellow, but who . . . ?
‘She’s mumbling, sounds delirious. ’Tis distressed as she is. What shall I do?’
‘It’s the dehydration, Sergeant, it causes confusion. Bridie, ’tis Dr Feeley. You are all right, so you are. And your little girl is doing better than you: she is already awake and taking the water like it was honey. Now you be at doing the same. You’ll soon be in the hospital. Once you have taken a drink, we can start to get you there.’
She took another sip, forced it down and made it stay there, swallowing hard against the threat of retching it up.
‘’Tis a good girl you are. Now just be having a wee drop more. That’s right.’
The whiteness surrounding her took her back over the years, and the soft tread of the nuns gliding around as if floating compounded those memories. If only she could look to one side and see Beth sitting there, and all of this had been a dream. Parts of what had happened since that time she wouldn’t be able to wipe out, but most of it she would. Heavier footsteps strode towards her – a black menacing figure amongst all of this purity. ‘Bridie Hadler?’
She nodded.
‘I’m Officer Walter Haines. I’m over from England – Leeds. They have Seamus Finney under arrest there, and in custody awaiting trial. I have to tell you that I am arresting you on suspicion of helping him to dispose of his ill-gotten gains.’
Dear God!
She couldn’t make any protest. Her mind hadn’t yet processed everything that had happened. All she could do was beg for information. ‘Where is me wee Bridget? Is she to come with us? I’m not for leaving without her.’
The Sister, who had somehow reached the bed, answered her. ‘Wee Bridget is doing fine. We will be keeping her. She is safe with us, so she is.’
‘No! No . . .’ The pain searing Bridie’s heart ripped it in two. Her cries fell into sobs, then to screams. ‘Not me wee babby! No, don’t take her from me, no! No!’
‘’Tis us having no choice, Bridie. You can’t be taking her. Where will she go whilst you and her pappy are in prison?’
‘Seamus isn’t her pappy. Her pappy died. Please, please . . . I have friends. They will be after caring for her, please.’
‘Sister, I was told to bring them both back home. If there’s a doubt concerning the young ’un’s welfare, then the authorities in England will take care of her. She is English and is our responsibility.’
‘Very well. I will be after talking to the doctor, to see when it is we can release them both.’
Bridie grabbed the policeman’s hand. ‘Thank you, thank you. It is a saint you are.’
‘I don’t know about that. Just doing me duty. A Yorkshire lass belongs on Yorkshire soil, and your young ’un is a Yorkshire lass through and through, so I had to say sommat. Now, let go of me hand and don’t worry. I won’t leave without both of you.’
It felt good to hear the familiar dialect again, though she never thought she’d be admitting that. She looked up at him. The exhaustion holding her in its grip only allowed her to say, ‘I didn’t do it. I wasn’t for helping him.’
‘Well, whether you did or didn’t ain’t for me to decide. It’s a case as has more witnesses than ever I’ve known, so truth will out. If you did nowt, you’ll not have owt to worry over.’
Witnesses? What witnesses? Who knew the truth? Only Paddy and Seamus, and she couldn’t see Paddy coming forward – not to say he was willing to torch her home. And as for Seamus, would they believe anything he said?
29
One year later – October 1887
Trial and punishment
The cells beneath the court held no comfort. Water ran down the brick walls, rats scurried around the floor, and the cold stored up over hundreds of years seeped into Bridie’s body. But worse than all of this, the fetid stench of the bucket in the corner and of the latest inmate – who had a tinge on her of Dilly May – clogged her mouth and throat, making her retch. Swallowing hard, Bridie wiped her mouth, chafing her face with the coarse workhouse pinafore.
Hadn’t living in the workhouse for a whole year since she’d recovered in the October, and committing herself to that hell-hole, closed her mind? To allow herself to feel would have meant giving in to the death of her. And didn’t she have to live, for her Bridget?
But then it had all been to follow a plan, for the inspector had told her at the time that if she was to put herself willingly into the workhouse until her trial, and earn herself a good report from there, it would help her cause. It’d seemed like a good day when the officers had arrived to bring her to the courts, but not getting bail had meant she’d to endure life cooped up in this cell. If prison was anything like the conditions she’d had to put up with in this place over the last six weeks – the time the trial had taken – she hoped to Jesus the judge would be for letting her go back to Deanhouse – something she never thought to wish for.
She hadn’t taken Bridget with her. Issy and Tom were taking care of her, and Issy brought Bridget to see Bridie once a month. Sure, it wasn’t nearly enough, but it was better than having her in Deanhouse. Many a wee child died in there. Disease took them – anything from measles to whooping cough, as the place was a breeding ground for infection. Although Deanhouse was less than fifty years old – and, they said, designed for purpose – it was a warren of foul-smelling, overcrowded rooms. The stench came from the water closets, built in such a way that the putrid air from them came back into the building.
Those who’d been there a lot longer than Bridie were always telling her she was lucky, as things were a lot worse in the early days. Back then, they’d had to convert the vagrant wards into men’s sick wards, the female-receiving ward into a bathroom for mentally ill females, and use the male-receiving ward as an infirm ward. Now at least they had the newly built infirmary attached to the north of the building. Bridie had tried to imagine the overcrowding they talked of as being worse than it was now, but couldn’t for the life of her. Sure it was, she thought, the life of a prostitute had many merits compared to the lives of the inhabitants of a workhouse, and it made her sick to the stomach that it might be her lot for years to come. But wasn’t the alternative much worse?
The clanging of the outer door leading to the cells meant that her time had come to face the jury. Bridie knew a relief at this, but sent up a prayer as to the outcome. Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t let them be for sending me to prison! The plea had only just died in her when she remembered that Seamus was to face his sentence the day, too. She added a prayer for him, even though what she’d heard about him over these las
t weeks had sickened her: the taking of wee ones from the Irish as a payment for debt they couldn’t honour – when he’d lied to her, and said the menfolk had sold them willingly – the raping of young girls as a punishment to their parents for stepping out of line, the vile threats of murder, and the actual murder carried out in one case, to make folk swear an alibi for him. Then there was the robberies, and having folk steal to order for him. And yet, despite it all, she held a feeling for him.
The warden clamped the irons around her wrists and took her through a maze of draughty gangways, passing by other holding cells from which men leered at her. As she passed the one that the Irish lot were in, a treacly glob of spit hit her face. Disgust shuddered through her. She pulled against the warden, forcing him to stop. Her eyes met the evil eyes of Paddy Docherty and she hissed at him, ‘You bastard! You’re for being more of a bastard than Seamus is, as you are a traitor, so you are. A traitor to your own. Isn’t it true that you know I didn’t go willingly with Seamus? That I had nothing to do with—’
‘Shut your mouth, whore, and keep moving.’ The warden yanked the chains linking her to him, and the Irish laughed as the pain cut into her wrists.
‘Aye, you’re right there, Warden. She is a whore, and ’tis as she was spawned by the Devil himself.’ Paddy’s voice followed her down the passageway. ‘They say as the Devil takes his own, but he won’t be for having you until we’ve finished with you, Bridie O’Hara. Every Docherty in the land will hunt you down. You’re a dead woman, d’yer hear?’
They turned a corner and went out of earshot, but his words quivered through her. Weren’t the Dochertys known for violence, and weren’t they known for bringing revenge down on anyone who crossed them?
They reached the last familiar door. When the warden opened it, she saw the steps leading to the dock in the courtroom. A court usher standing at the top gave them an angry ‘Shush!’
The warden stayed his progress and leaned against the open door. A heavy, thick silence bore down on Bridie. She couldn’t for a moment make out if the usher was the only person in the court above her. A cough told her he wasn’t.
‘The prisoner must remain standing.’
A shuffle indicated a lot of people sitting down. Bridie’s breath caught in her lungs.
‘Seamus Patrick Finney . . .’
Oh God! She wanted to be anywhere but here. Jesus save him, save him . . .
‘You have been the cause of many people committing crimes, by exerting the power of fear over them. I want all the crimes admitted by these named witnesses struck from the record.’ Bridie’s heart warmed at the roll call, as she knew most were decent folk and had been driven by fear. As he came to the end of his list the judge said, ‘I accept their crimes were committed under the pressure of extreme duress, and a real fear for their families and their own safety. The court thanks them for the courage they showed in coming forward, even though they knew their testimonies were incriminating.’
A cheer went up.
‘Silence in court!’
The oppressive curtain of stillness and utter hush came down again. Something that Bridie couldn’t see broke it, as a mass of gasps and excited chatter cluttered the space over her head.
‘SILENCE!’
The see-saw of noise and quiet increased the tension in her. What was happening? She looked at the warden. He had a smile on his face as he patted his head and mouthed, ‘The black cap.’
Holy Mother, no! Her throat constricted. She swallowed hard. The judge’s voice boomed down to her: ‘Seamus Patrick Finney, you have been found guilty of one count of murder, and are guilty as charged of rape, child abduction, robbery and intimidation. It is my duty to pass sentence upon you. You will be taken from this court and held at Her Majesty’s pleasure until one month from now when, at twelve noon, you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.’
The bile gushed to her throat, and this time she couldn’t stop it billowing from her mouth. The warden grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. His fist smashed into her chest. Her head swam. She couldn’t draw in her breath. He dragged her body to a bucket of water standing a few yards away – kept, she assumed, for swilling away the mess made by frightened people awaiting their fate. With brute force, he dunked her head into the icy-cold water. Taking some of it into her mouth, she swilled out the taste of her vomit.
‘You filthy bitch!’
The water splashed her feet as he threw it. She watched the water run the contents of her stomach down a drain. As her ears cleared, a ripple of applause started above her, and then a loud cheer went up. The elation only deepened her own despair. She held her body as if clamped in a vice, until the clanging of chains told her they were bringing him down. When Seamus came into sight, she kept her eyes on him. His eyes showed surprise at first, then twinkled, just how they always used to.
‘Remember, it is that I love you, me wee Bridie. And don’t be for thinking all of what you heard was the truth. We took our paths, you and I. They weren’t the ones we should have taken, but they met in the end. That short time of happiness will go with me to me grave, so it will.’
‘Move on, scum.’ His jailers pushed him forward. He tripped and nearly fell.
Bridie leapt towards him. Although her warden jerked her back, he could not shut her up. ‘I love you, me Seamus . . . I love you . . .’
She kept her eyes on him as they led him away. Her heart wept tears of pain until his whistling echoed around the corridor. The strains of the tune played all those years ago, and recently too, filled her. They nudged the pain away and gave her the joy of the campfire, the bright colours, the laughter, the fiddles and the dancing. The wonderful, carefree dancing.
‘Bring her up now.’
She didn’t mind the shove, or the climb up the stairs. She was ready. Seamus had given her courage.
The courtroom buzzed with whispers. It seemed that a million eyes were on her. She looked around and saw Issy. Dear Issy. Encouragement shone from her smile, and it helped to know she believed in her.
To Issy’s left, a little way away, sat Andrew Harvey. Bridie lifted her head, shook her wet hair back from her face and stared back at him. She hoped the lies he’d told would rot his insides. Of all the men she’d lain with, he was after being the vilest! Hadn’t he condemned her by saying she tried to seduce him? Oh, he’d tried to get out of it, by saying he couldn’t be sure of her involvement with Seamus, but he was still saying it seemed that way. If she could reach him, she would give to him the same humiliation that she had suffered from Paddy and would spit in his face, so she would.
‘Bridie Bridget Mary Hadler, I find the case against you as to your being an accomplice to Seamus Finney insubstantial, and the prosecution has withdrawn the charge. On the second count of helping to dispose of ill-gotten gains, I find the case proven.’
Her legs crumbled, but she remembered Seamus’s bravery and held herself together.
The judge’s voice droned on, telling her he believed there were mitigating circumstances and that he had listened to the plea of her solicitor. ‘I therefore agree with him that your present circumstances should prevail, until such time as you can pay a fine of fifty pounds. Can you pay this fine?’
She could only shake her head.
‘In that case, until such time as you are able to, you will be judged a bankrupt and will therefore be committed to the workhouse under the pauper law.’
The hope she’d held in her that maybe Beth could help, by paying the fine, died within her. Fifty pounds! A fortune, which it would take a working man ten years to earn. She couldn’t name a soul who could raise such a sum.
Try as she might, she couldn’t hold back the tears. Someone shouted something, and she heard the familiar tag to her name: Whore! Then another voice said, ‘Whish, leave the girl alone, you skite. Hasn’t she paid enough?’
‘No, she hasn’t. No O’Hara will ever be for paying enough. We’ll get you, Bridie O’Hara, so we wil
l.’
‘Silence in court! Until I have left this court, it is still sitting, and those present remain bound by its rules. This is a court of law, and I will not tolerate threats of that nature. Sergeant, arrest that man and hold him in the cells for forty-eight hours for contempt of court.’
A rumble of voices followed this, but they quietened as the judge looked across at the public gallery once more. With order restored, he stood and left the room.
The warden pulled Bridie down the steps. At the bottom, Paddy Docherty stood with all of his co-accused behind him. His eyes stared into hers. She gathered the spittle in her mouth and repaid his insult. His jailer hustled him away before he could react. A small feeling of pleasure trickled into her. She only wished she could stay to hear his sentence. She’d cheer louder than any of the others.
The heavy doors swung open, and fresh air rushed into her lungs. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths of it. When she opened them, Issy stood in front of her.
‘Bridie. Oh, Bridie . . .’
They clung to each other, their tears mingling as they kissed cheeks. Issy seemed to be the only person in the world to believe her, and her support meant a lot.
‘I’m sorry, Bridie. I’m sorry for everything. I know you love Seamus, but he’s a bad . . .’
‘Is it after being obvious how I feel? Does it show?’
‘I hadn’t guessed, no. I thought you felt the same way I do, but we all heard you shout it to him.’
‘Do you hate him, Issy? I know you’re not for liking him, but if you got to know him – really got to know the heart of him – you’d not be for hating him.’
‘I . . . Oh, you’re reet love, happen as I wouldn’t.’
As always when they talked of Seamus, Issy seemed on her guard, as if she knew something she couldn’t share. Instinct told Bridie not to press the point, so she said, ‘Anyway, how is me little Bridget? Is she asking after her mammy?’
‘She is, and she’s grand. I’ll bring her across next week, eh?’