Patrick’s gaze followed the man to the door. Once alone, his pain-bright eyes began to tour the room. This was not his room, nor his bed. He had refused to deprive his wife of the one they had shared together for so many years. When she lay there on a night he wanted her to remember it as a place where they had loved and chuckled, not as his sepulchre. Besides, this four-poster was not without its happy memories for Pat. It was here that his grand-daughter, Belle, had been bom twenty-five years ago. Cocooned in its sage-green bedcurtains with their pattern of vines and leaves, he could lie here and reminisce over all the joy she had brought him. The pillars of yew shone gold in the light of the fire, making death seem a much cosier process than he had feared … or was it just the warmth of his memories that made it so?
His tired mind attempted yet again to picture his son as he would be now, but saw only the image that Dickie had left behind. Dickie could be suave and charming, he could be boorish, crude and vulgar – it all depended on the person to whom he was talking and what he wanted from them. Had that side of him changed? Come on, Dickie, let’s be having ye …
‘He doesn’t want me to give him the morphine,’ the doctor was informing Pat’s family. Thomasin touched her cheek in concern, but was assured by the physician that he would not be allowed to suffer unnecessary pain. ‘He’s relatively comfortable at the moment. He just wants to keep his senses about him.’
‘Ye know whose benefit that’s for,’ said Erin darkly and her mother moved her head in sad agreement. ‘God! If he has to come at all I wish he’d damn-well hurry.’ A worrier at the best of times, this constant tension had driven Erin close to mania. In her mind’s eye she struck out at her brother’s smug, handsome face.
Thomasin apologised for her daughter’s outburst, then asked the doctor if he was leaving now, to which he replied that he would wait a while lest Patrick should need him. He stole a look at his watch. Thomasin excused him. ‘We don’t want to keep you from your supper.’
He told her he had already eaten. ‘And I’ve no one waiting for me at home. I’ll come up and sit with you – if that wouldn’t be an intrusion?’
‘Of course it won’t. You’ve been very kind.’ Thomasin moved towards the door which he held open.
‘Mam.’ Erin’s voice halted her exit. A statement had been poised on her tongue for days. Until now this had been subdued by the childish hope that if it went unsaid then all would be well; but withholding the words did not reduce their validity and besides, she didn’t want to prolong her father’s life only for him to suffer. She had to let him go. The words emerged more calmly than she had anticipated. ‘We really should send for the priest.’
‘Father Gilchrist?’ Thomasin projected alarm. ‘Your dad won’t thank you for that.’ Despite accompanying her husband to church she did not share his religion, but one thing they did have in common was an intense dislike of this particular priest. ‘Anyway, can Pat go through all that rigmarole? I thought he was excommunicated years ago.’ She drew nearer the door, but was stopped yet again by her daughter’s persistence.
‘He hasn’t been excommunicated,’ scoffed Erin. ‘That was just a joke to get Father Gilchrist’s back up. Besides anything else, he’ll have things to get off his chest.’ Erin was a devout Catholic. ‘Ye shouldn’t deny him the chance.’
Thomasin sighed. The doctor was still holding the door open for her; as she turned to answer Erin, he closed it to ward off the cold swell from the hall. ‘You know he hasn’t been to Confession in years.’
‘This is different, Mam,’ pressed Erin. ‘You’re not a Catholic, ye don’t understand.’
‘I wouldn’t say your father’s much of a Catholic these days either.’ Her husband’s religion involved the minimum of devotion: he went to Mass on Sundays, prayed, gave generously to the collection and that was his limit. Since the death of his friend Father Kelly, there had been no priest calling at the house.
‘But he’s still a Catholic! Ye can’t dismiss eighty years of teaching as easily as that. It never goes away. I know he’ll want the priest here. Ye mustn’t rob him of that, Mam.’
Thomasin looked doubtfully across the room and asked the others’ opinion. Sonny was rather slipshod in his worship and detested Father Gilchrist, yet he replied, ‘Maybe we should go for him,’ and conferred with Nick who nodded.
Thomasin bowed to their feelings. ‘All right, but if there’s any nonsense he’ll get thrown out, priest or no. Go tell one of the servants to fetch him, Nick.’
All went back up to sit with Patrick. Nick rejoined them after giving the manservant instructions. The latter returned to the house unaccompanied, saying that the priest was not at home; a message had been left asking him to call as soon as possible.
The old man’s face showed that the discomfort had begun again, but still he refused the injection, asking to be helped into a semi-sitting position. When this was painfully accomplished, he made a request of his daughter. ‘Will ye fetch me a drink, honey, please?’
‘I will not,’ replied Erin stoutly, with a glance at the doctor.
‘Refuse your father a sup o’ water, eh?’ His voice was forlorn.
‘You know very well you never call water a drink,’ she censured.
Pat chuckled. ‘Ah, they all know me too well. Oh go on, Erin … please.’
His daughter objected again and the physician looked none too favourable, but Thomasin muttered, ‘It can’t do him much more harm now. Go fetch the decanter – and tell Vinnie to put some coal on this fire.’ She leaned forward to wrap Patrick’s shoulders more snugly in his shawl. Like a baby, thought Pat, smiling into her eyes. A babe when you enter this world and a babe when you leave it. As if to endorse this, his wife chucked him tenderly under the chin.
‘Will you fetch me a glass please, Aunt?’ Nick called after Erin, then offered an apologetic shrug to his father.
The whiskey was fetched. Erin poured one for Nick then picked up the other. As afterthought, she put this aside and began to tip the decanter at the invalid cup. Her father had the sudden urge to retain some dignity. ‘I want it in a proper glass … not that bloody spouty whatnot … there’s some things I can still do like a man.’
Lips pursed in reproof, Erin folded Patrick’s dithering hand round the glass of whiskey and helped it to his mouth, feeling like his murderer. A short time later Father Gilchrist arrived bearing the accoutrements of death. Everyone stood, their respect being for the cloth and not the man. Godliness personified, came Thomasin’s rancorous thought as Gilchrist insinuated himself among them like a fawning dog, teeth bared in a smile, but equally prepared to nip at the first sign of opposition. Everything about the man vouched austerity: his garb was worn and of poor quality, his face narrow to the point of malnutrition, his nostrils pinched with cold. Gilchrist had bequeathed himself totally to God.
But Thomasin knew what lay beneath this humble countenance; Gilchrist basked in the power which he exerted over his parishioners, used the confessional to exercise his repulsion for women. The closely-set green eyes would always lack the warmth that had made his predecessor so beloved. Choosing not to waste pleasantries on him, she lifted herself from the chair and bent over Pat, murmuring, ‘The priest’s here, love.’
‘Aye, he’s been here a while, haven’t ye, Liam?’ said Pat and smiled at his old friend Father Kelly who stood at the end of the bed.
Thomasin and Sonny exchanged pitying looks. ‘No, dear, it’s Father Gilchrist.’ His wife smoothed his brow. ‘We’ll wait outside till you’ve finished.’
‘No!’ The yellow face turned anxious. ‘Don’t go.’
She comforted him at once. ‘All right, all right, love, we’ll stay in the room if you want us to. I just thought you might want to talk in private.’ She stopped and, under pretext of kissing his cheek, whispered in the language she had used before her rise in status, ‘If the bugger gets too uppity just give me the wink and I’ll boot his arse.’
Consoled by her old blunt manner, he released
her. She and the others withdrew into peripheral shadows while Father Gilchrist draped a stole round his neck and took a chair by the dying man. Spotting a rosary on the beside table, he picked it up and handed it to Patrick. There was a look of disdain as he noticed that the hands were already occupied by a whiskey glass. Transferring this to a table, he put the beads into Pat’s hands and then sat fingering his own rosary.
A lot of murmuring transpired. Thomasin could not decipher its content, but watched Pat’s face closely for the first sign of distress. However, her husband appeared to be calm enough at present. She stood by, deeply aware of the rattle in his chest. Erin and Sonny offered their support, one on either side of her, but to the doctor they resembled small children, clustering round their mother for comfort.
The priest stayed for an age. Thomasin grew restless – he was stealing the time that should have been hers. She was set to intervene, when there came the sound of an engine approaching the house.
At his mother’s look of alertness, Sonny left her and strode quickly to the window. Hoisting the curtain aside, he pressed his brow to the cold, dark glass to see the outline of a motorcar. He caught a whiff of honeysuckle as his sister moved up close beside him, felt her hand on his shoulder. Both squinted as the figure of a man climbed from the vehicle. The drive was illuminated, but as yet they could not see his face, for his back was to them whilst he spoke to the woman who was emerging from the passenger seat. He was very tall and much broader across the shoulders than the brother they had known twenty-six years ago.
‘Is it him?’ came Erin’s whisper.
There was a strained pause… then the man turned to look up at the slit of light, and there was no further need to ask.
2
Sonny turned abruptly from the window, leaving Erin still robed in the quivering drapes. He gave what he thought to be an imperceptible nod at his mother, but sick as Pat was, he detected the change in his wife’s expression – sensed the thrill that overtook her whole body, leaving her breathless and uncertain. He forgot about the priest and found the strength to raise his head an inch.
‘Is it Dickie?’
Immediately, Sonny went to hold his hand. ‘Yes, Dad.’
A sigh escaped the old lips and Pat let his head fall back to the pillow, closing his eyes in gratitude. ‘Fetch him straight up … then the doctor can go home.’
Father Gilchrist showed annoyance at this interruption and made no attempt to vacate his seat. Thomasin was already on her way to the door, saying as politely as she felt able, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Father,’ but giving no explanation for this. The priest begged another few minutes, which she granted, albeit reluctantly. ‘Very well… Sonny.’ The last word was said with a summoning gesture. Mother and son left the gathering and went down to meet their visitor.
They had taken to the stairs at the same time as Vinnie responded to the doorbell. When the big man stepped out of the night, both Thomasin and Sonny faltered. The latter felt his mother’s grip tighten on his arm. Her other hand squeezed the polished balustrade.
Despite those missing twenty-six years it was impossible for Thomasin not to recognise her son – he looked just as Patrick had done at forty-eight. Only the artful twist to his smile distinguished him from his father; the once black hair turned to gunmetal but still as crisp and abundant, the height, the strong jaw, the thick and quizzical eyebrows, those exquisite blue eyes … for a second everything in that sickroom was just a nightmare, and here stood Patrick as he really was.
The moment passed. Once more it was her son who stood here, exuding a brew of innocent charm and danger: eyes that twinkled ‘love me’ but at the same time warned ‘beware’. Her impulses were mixed; which one would she follow? The first – oh, so strong! – was to hurtle down the stairs and clutch him in gladness and kiss his lovely face and welcome him home … but the scars he had inflicted on this family, the personal torment he had caused her, told her to march up and slap him. She did neither. Indeed, no one seemed sure what course to take.
Dickie was the first to break the suspense. He came further into the oak-lined hall, put down his valise and gave his homburg, overcoat and gloves to the maid – as did the shadowy figure behind him, whom neither Thomasin nor Sonny appeared to have noticed yet. By now, the red-haired man and his mother had resumed their descent. As they reached the bottom step, Dickie came to meet them, rubbing his palms.
‘Well…’ He spread his big hands, brought them together in a clap that echoed off the black-and-white tiled floor and gave a cautious laugh. ‘Hello!’
Thomasin noticed straight away that a piece of his smile was missing: a tiny chip from the corner of a front tooth. But her mind had other things on which to dwell. With this meeting, she had expected the pain of loss to vanish – her son was alive – but it was obviously not so easy to rid oneself of an ache that had been present every day for twenty-six years. Her breast still bore the ulcer that might never heal. Her glance flashed over the L-shaped scar on his forehead, the light-grey, expensive-looking suit, the flamboyant tie of crimson silk with its diamond pin. She felt the coldness of his cheeks against her own though they stood apart. Above the pounding of blood in her head, she heard her own voice. ‘Your father wants to see you right away.’
The long Irish upper lip curled into a grin, directed ruefully at his brother. ‘Ah well, best get the rough stuff out o’ the way.’ Dickie raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Where is the old sod, then?’ The voice came as a surprise – he was saying the same words, but with a different twang.
Thomasin stared at him, seeing a little boy aged five years with his arm hugging her thigh and his head pressed into her flank, blue eyes turned up beseechingly. Then, grim-faced, she spun back to the staircase and began to climb. ‘He’s upstairs. Come on, he hasn’t got time to waste on you.’
Much bemused, Dickie turned to his brother – brother? Stranger would have been more descriptive. No hug, no welcome. Where now was the intimacy of their letters?
‘He’s dying,’ was Sonny’s quiet explanation. With this, he escorted his mother back upstairs.
So swift was the blow that Dickie had no time to dispose of his grin; the lines of laughter still fanned his eyes even as his lips parted in horror. Sonny felt that expression brand his back as he ascended. You rotten hound, you shouldn’t’ve said it like that.
The message finally reached Dickie’s brain. He wheeled to fling a panicked look at his wife. Then, both shocked into silence, they followed mechanically.
The stench of the sickroom met him long before the door was opened. It clung to his mother’s skirts, drifted behind her on a slip-stream to flare his nostrils. On the landing it worsened. With the opening of the door it overwhelmed him in a warm and nauseating rush of decay. Somehow, the smell of women’s perfume mingled with that of death made it all the more repugnant.
At the click of the door-handle, Erin spared one glance for her long-lost brother. He looked good for his age, the creases on his face etched by sunshine and laughter. Almost vomiting on her own bitterness, she returned her eyes to the deathbed. This was not the time for recriminations … but they would come.
Nick studied the newcomer more closely. He had good motive: this man was his natural father, the one he had never really met save as a very young child; the one who had committed the most unpardonable act of treason against his own brother, by impregnating the woman Sonny loved and then running away, leaving his brother to marry soiled goods and legitimise a bastard child. But the most amazing thing about this legend was that even after all this, he had managed to inveigle his brother into forgiving him! So … this was the one with all the magic. Nick examined the middle-aged man whose eyes were too preoccupied with the old fellow to notice this inspection. True, he wasn’t in bad shape for someone of his years – very good-looking in fact – but Nick was damned if he could detect the power that bewitched others. Right now he just seemed very ordinary … and afraid like the rest of
them.
Disenchanted, Nick abandoned his review and came to whisper to his grandmother before she reached the bed. ‘I’d better warn you, the priest’s been touting for money.’ When confusion rippled the old brow, he elaborated. ‘I heard the word “will” mentioned several times, and not in the context of Thy will be done either.’
‘The … Sonny, get him out of here!’ Thomasin was so furious she could not trust herself to speak directly to the priest. But greater affront was to come. Father Gilchrist approached her with his sickly, pious smile. ‘Have comfort, Mrs Feeney. I have prayed that your husband be delivered from his sins …’
‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ Thomasin interjected tersely. ‘Did it cost much?’ Before the astonished priest could respond, she hissed into his face, ‘You despicable, grasping – I call you in here thinking to give my husband the last comfort of his faith and all you’re concerned about is milking money from him! Well, you won’t get one more penny from this family and you can count on something else too: after he’s gone I’ll never set foot in your wretched church again. Now get out!’ For emphasis she jerked her head at the door then turned her back on him.
Gilchrist’s darker side came to the fore. ‘Mrs Feeney, your husband was destined for the eternal flame of Hell and so are you if you desert your church …’
Thomasin rounded on him. ‘Don’t try to frighten me with that tripe! It’s never been my church. I’m not one of your cringing little flock, I only ever went to church to keep Pat company. If there is a God He certainly doesn’t belong to your crowd.’
Gilchrist was astounded. ‘You mean … you mean to tell me you are a Protestant?’
In spite of her anger Thomasin was half-amused. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve only just twigged after all these years.’
The priest reared. ‘Then your marriage is invalid and your children are bastards,’ came the cold denouncement.
Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 3