Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4)

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘Josephine.’ The girl in the black stockings and pinafore, her long hair topped with a black bow, rocked her shoulders self-consciously and looked down at the carpet. ‘No, I don’t work at Father’s mill. I still have to do boring lessons at home.’ None of Sonny’s girls had been sent away to college, due to their father’s unhappy memories of his own education. Josephine would have liked to go.

  Dickie put his head to one side. At fourteen the girl whom he spoke to had not yet reached her elder sisters’ proportions. ‘Josephine Feeney, eh? Sure, that’s a bit of a gobful if ever I heard one.’

  The girl coloured and said that the observation had been made long ago, that was why she was always known as Feen. She was the only one of Sonny’s children not to have inherited the auburn tint; in this she considered herself fortunate, for she deemed it most unattractive. In fact, Josephine was particularly lucky, for she had the best of both worlds: her mother’s dark brown hair and freckle-free skin with the Feeney good looks. Dickie was quick to remark on this after greeting the youngest, Amelia. ‘Well now, you’re all very …’

  ‘Stunning young ladies,’ echoed Dusty, reading his mind.

  ‘… but I think Feen’s the pick of the bunch.’

  The girl almost burst under her uncle’s admiration and fell instantly in love with him. While Josie, seeing the frayed smiles of her other daughters, gave an inward sigh for her brother-in-law’s tactless selection.

  Dickie patted the sofa. ‘Come an’ sit by me, Jos, I’m in a bit of a draught here.’

  ‘You cheeky monkey,’ chided Thomasin, and told her daughter-in-law, ‘Just give him a belt round the ear, that’ll warm him up.’

  Josie returned a bashful laugh, but then her eyes turned sad and she touched Thomasin’s arm before sitting down. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

  ‘Aye, love, I know …’ Thomasin cognized softly. ‘But he’s rid of his suffering now.’

  ‘I’ll pop in and see him later. I didn’t like to go with …’ Josie inclined her head at her son, to whom Thomasin returned her attention.

  ‘No, that’s right, love.’ She recharged her voice with cheer. ‘Eh, we’ll have to see if we can find some pennies for this grand chap! Erin, pass us me bag.’ When this was handed to her, she rummaged about amongst the female paraphernalia and came up with a shilling. ‘There! Tuck that in your pocket, Paddy. Oh look, your Aunt Erin’s got one for you as well.’ She set the little boy on his feet and Paddy, wearing a pleased smile, marched up to his aunt to receive another coin.

  Erin laughed as he proceeded confidently to Dusty’s chair. She turned to catch her father’s reaction … but Patrick wasn’t there. Sonny reproved the child for his manners, but Dusty stroked her nephew’s auburn head, asked if she could have a kiss and rewarded him with a couple of shilling pieces.

  Isn’t that typical, thought Erin. She has to go one better.

  ‘Let’s see if there’s any money in this suit your Dad loaned me.’ Dickie sprang to his feet and thrust a hand into the pocket of the black trousers. ‘Well, would ye look at that!’ Paddy looked up in apprehension at the giant who towered over him, but was reassured by the warm grin. ‘Fancy your dad having one o’ these in his breeches!’ Dickie bent over, pointing his first and second fingers like the barrel of a gun, a large coin nipped between them. ‘There y’are, Paddy, that’s a real silver dollar. Ye’ll be able to spend it when ye come an’ visit me in New York.’

  ‘You stay away from New York, Paddy,’ advised his Aunt Erin as he trotted back to his mother. ‘That’s where all the bad boys live.’

  ‘I think it’s time for tea,’ said Thomasin firmly.

  On the way to the dining room, Dickie laid an arm round Feen’s shoulders. It was an avuncular gesture, one which he might make to anyone, but for his gauche niece it brought feelings never experienced before. She did not know how to respond. The arm burnt into her. She felt embarrassed and joyful at the same time. When they reached their seats and the arm was removed she felt almost bereft. She wanted to look at him across the table, but daren’t for fear that the others would read what was in her eyes, and worse still that he would know.

  But Dickie moved blindly through the meal, unaware of what his earlier compliment had begat. Only the girl’s mother caught scent of the infatuation. Startled, she glanced at her husband, but Sonny was too busy wondering whether there had been any set-to’s between Dick and his mother since he had left them this morning. Not until the meal was over and they were back in the drawing room did he satisfy his curiosity, dragging his brother over to the window and out of earshot. ‘Have you had your bazzacking from Mother yet?’

  Dickie ran a finger round the crease of his ear. ‘No… it’s makin’ me nervous, this waiting.’ He stared at the old lady in the black weeds, whose mind seemed to be far from this room. ‘Ye know,’ he sounded mystified, ‘I was prepared to see the change in her, but well, she doesn’t seem like our mam at all.’ His brother asked what he had expected. Dickie moved his head in acknowledgement. ‘Aye, I suppose she’s too flattened to get round to bollocking me yet… It’s worrying, though.’ He made a gesture as though offering something on his palm.

  ‘I mean, our lass wasn’t too upset to resist a dig at me, was she? She had a go this mornin’ an’ all.’

  Sonny’s mouth twitched. Consciously or not, his brother had adopted the old vernacular; it sounded so comical. ‘Sorry, I’m not laughing at our Erin having a go at you, it just sounded funny hearing you say “our lass” in that weird accent.’

  ‘Here’s me trying my best not to act the foreigner – don’t you start tearing me to shreds an’ all.’

  Sonny apologised and asked what Erin had said this morning. After relating the incident, Dickie snorted, ‘I feel as if I should have a goolie chit to venture into the same room as her, and she hasn’t even started to let fly with the real stuff yet. I wonder if her and Mam’re waiting till after the funeral before they slice ’em off.’ He looked across the room to where Erin sat deep in thought. ‘I’d never’ve recognised her on the street. She’s grown into a right old crow, hasn’t she?’

  Sonny defended their sister. ‘I think she looks very well for her age. You’re not exactly seeing any of us in our best light today.’

  Dickie stuck to his opinion, raising his voice for Erin to hear. ‘And she’s got fat.’ This comment naturally led his eyes on to Josie who was trying to keep her son occupied. He gave a soft laugh of delight. ‘That’s a grand wee fella o’ yours; looks just like you with that ginger nut – at least, like you used to before ye got all these white bits.’ He ruffled his brother’s hair. ‘Pity ye didn’t have another little lad with black hair, then the pair of them would just be like you an’ me when we were that age.’

  ‘God forbid that I should have a bugger like you.’ Sonny smiled as he raked his hair back into place, but soon his expression became serious again. ‘I do have another son, though.’

  ‘Ah, yes … Nick.’ Dickie nodded pensively. ‘I hardly had a chance to speak to him last night. I’d like to.’

  Sonny’s grey eyes swept the collection of mourning gowns. ‘I’m sure you can put that right when he comes back for the funeral. He’d like a chat with you, too.’

  ‘Mm …’ Lost in reverie, Dickie was just about to ask his brother if Nick felt much bitterness towards him, when he caught sight of Erin surreptitiously examining her reflection in a glass-fronted cabinet. He nudged his brother, then called, ‘It’s mostly at the back, Sis.’

  Erin shot him a frown. ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘You were looking for the fat, weren’t ye?’ His expression changed as his mother gestured tersely for him to follow her. ‘Looks like my time’s come, Son. If ye see two round things come flying at ye then get ready with the needle an’ thread.’ He left the room and strode across the tiled hall towards the open doorway through which his mother had just passed.

  He found himself in a smallish room, somewhat dark, but cosy rather than opp
ressive, with a radiant fire in the grate. Russet and gold paper clothed those parts of the walls that were visible; most of them were obscured by shelves full of books, some new, some well-thumbed. The carpet, too, had a background of russet with a deep-blue pattern. The only furniture, apart from a few chairs and a wine table, was a solid leather-topped desk positioned beneath the window. Yet despite its hint of industry, it was obvious that no serious work was intended to be done here, for its occupant would be constantly distracted by the view of the garden. There was no view at the moment for it was growing dark, though the light from the fire dismissed the need for a lamp.

  ‘Close the door and sit down, Richard.’ Thomasin was already seated in a well-worn armchair close to the fire.

  Richard – she only used his Sunday name when about to rampage. Dickie’s eyes sought out a chair. The only ones vacant were of a plain wooden variety; he was forced to take one of these, pulling it round to face the fire and his mother.

  Thomasin surveyed his position: stiff spine, palms on knees, elbows stuck out like wings … as if he were posing for a photograph, waiting for the flash powder to ignite. Well you’re not going to be put out of your misery just yet, lad. ‘Give that fire a poke if you’re cold,’ she instructed. He said he was fine. After another gap, she said, ‘So … you like America, do you?’ On edge and swaying slightly, Dickie replied that he did. ‘Bit of a silly question that,’ said his mother. ‘You’d hardly have stayed there twenty-six years if you hadn’t liked it.’

  ‘Mam …’ His pose collapsed and he leaned forward appealingly, but Thomasin launched straight into another sentence.

  ‘This was your father’s room, where he came for a quiet read. These are all his books.’ She indicated the well-stocked shelves. ‘This,’ she patted the faded green arm of the chair in which she was sitting, ‘is his favourite chair. Shabby bloody thing. I always threatened to throw it out. Your father used to say, “The minute I get a chair acclimatised to the shape of me bum you want to throw it out – leave it be!”’ Nostalgia tinted her smile. She rubbed the chair arm as if caressing the hand of its owner. ‘He waited for you.’ Her eyes probed deep into those of her son now. ‘I hope you appreciate that, hope you realise how much he thought of you.’ He said he did, and lowered his contemplation to the patch of carpet at his mother’s feet; small areas of hessian were showing through the russet, worn by the feet of the man who had sat there reading. After a pause, Thomasin murmured, ‘Good … good,’ then was silent for a very long time.

  At last, Dickie was forced to beg, ‘Come on, Mam, get it over with.’ Her old face was guileless as she asked get what over with. ‘My rollicking – that’s what ye brought me in here for, isn’t it?’

  The downy chin tilted as if in defiance. ‘Think you deserve one, d’you?’

  Dickie sighed and spread his hands. ‘Yeah … I’m sorry, Mam, for all I put ye through.’

  'You have no idea what you put me through, Richard, thought his mother: how I’d wake in a hot sweat, unable to breathe, how my head felt as if it were stuffed with cottonwool for months afterwards, and the all-enveloping pain of loss … A sad smile played over her lips. ‘Do you suppose I’d’ve allowed you into your father’s room if I didn’t think you were sorry? Besides, I reckon you’ve been the loser in all this; you’ve missed out on twenty-six years of family events. Oh, I know,’ she nodded. ‘Sonny kept you up to date with his letters, but it’s not quite the same, is it?’

  Dickie shook his head. The night was almost upon them. In the glow of the fire, his brooding face looked demonic. ‘That really hit me when Rosie was killed … not that I ever really knew her, but… well, she was part of me. Ye don’t know how badly I wanted to be with ye then … it cut Dad up a hell of a lot, didn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Thomasin’s eyes glazed over as her mind regressed. God, she looks so tiny, thought her son, fiddling with a button on his jacket cuff, so tiny and old. For a while he stared at her mouth with its old woman’s downy moustache, urging it to say something. Then, hating long silences, he was compelled to fill the gap. ‘Sonny said … well, he hit the bottle pretty hard, didn’t he?’ His mother nodded. ‘Was that… ?’

  ‘What killed him? Partly, I suppose.’ Thomasin hoisted one side of her mouth, ironing the folds. ‘That, and the same as gets all of us in the end – old age. It seems criminal, doesn’t it? You get to eighty and you’d think you’d die in peace … you don’t expect…’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind talking about it, it’s better than bottling it up, and I think you should know what he went through. I’m not laying any blame, Dickie, just telling you how it was …’

  Her son moved his head in affirmation. ‘Sonny told me that none of ye knew he was sick till a week ago.’

  ‘No… he didn’t go to our own doctor, otherwise I’d have probably known sooner. On our way back from Ireland he told me everything. It had started off as cirrhosis of the liver … well, you know your dad, he was always fond of a bevvy. It just got a bit out of hand after Rosie was killed. I don’t know whether it was that particular spell of boozing or just an accumulation over the years. Apparently, he could have had it for ages without feeling too much discomfort… Anyway, by the time he was really suffering and decided to go and have it seen to it had grown into something even worse. He must’ve been in agony and none of us noticed a damned thing. Oh, looking back there were signs, but we were all too busy moaning about him to notice. He tried to spare us.’ Her grey eyes became less abstracted and she fixed him with her gaze. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m not going to give you the rollicking you deserve – your father was so glad you were coming home …’ She paused to swallow the clot of emotion in her throat. ‘He wouldn’t’ve wanted there to be friction.’ An ironic eyebrow was raised at his expression. ‘Now that’s a relief, isn’t it?’

  He chuckled softly and stroked an imaginary speck from the black trousers. ‘It sure is.’

  She smiled too, then. ‘By, Dickie, I don’t know what your father would have to say to your twang. You sound real American.’

  He laughed again, thinking of what his brother had said. ‘Not to the Yanks.’

  ‘No, well … I’m glad to say I can still detect a bit of Yorkshire-Irish.’ She pondered then over her other children’s accents, considering how very different they were. Dickie seemed to be a mixture of all the people with whom he had ever come into contact. For all its mongrel quality, his was a very pleasant brogue. She settled back, asking him to switch on a lamp and ring for a tray of tea. ‘We might as well make ourselves comfy while you tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself while you’ve been away.’

  ‘You’re certain ye want to know about that?’ He donated a lopsided grin and looked round for the light switch. Thomasin pointed it out and he went towards it. ‘I must say, I found this a surprise, Mam – electricity.’

  ‘Aye, we’re nobbut posh. I had it put in about a month ago. Your father was tickled pink with it.’

  Dickie flicked the switch, though the effect was only slightly better than the light from the fire. After pressing the bell, he sat down again and smiled through the dull yellow glow. Such a lovely smile, thought Thomasin. But she who knew him had learned to be wary of it. There were times when he had worn that smile to wield such infamy upon his kin … ‘It’ll be a long while in the telling. I could do with a more comfy chair.’

  ‘Sit here.’ She began to push herself up but he motioned her to sit back.

  ‘Don’t be daft! I was only kidding.’

  Thomasin insisted. ‘I prefer a hard back, this thing’s much too saggy for me. Go on, do as you’re blasted-well told!’ She pushed him into Pat’s chair.

  Once they had swapped places, she studied him. It had been an experiment. She had wanted to see how Dickie, who was so much like his father, would look in that chair; to pretend for this moment that he was Patrick. But it didn’t work. However alike they had been in looks, the charact
er, the spirit, was different.

  Dickie saw her eyes glisten and pretended to be checking on the contents of the bookshelves. ‘Well … d’ye want it from the beginning?’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said his mother, pulling out a handkerchief to dash against her eye. ‘I haven’t that much time. Anyway, Sonny’s told me a lot of it – though I would be intrigued to hear how you managed to get out of that burning house with nary a mark on you.’

  He rubbed the back of his neck in memory. ‘I did get a bit scorched, but nothing that shows. I got out the coal chute just before the house caved in.’

  ‘Aye, your brother said.’ The face adopted more wrinkles with her frown. ‘But how on earth did you manage to climb up it? Just in case I ever need to escape that way meself.’

  ‘Long legs.’ Dickie shook a limb in the air. ‘I did the splits, and got a grip on the brickwork on either side o’ the chute.’

  Thomasin looked down at her own legs. ‘Huh, I’d probably burn to death if it’s long legs that’re needed.’ Her half-jovial visage regressed into one of concern. ‘When you went back into that house, you said it was for Peggy …’

  ‘I did try to get her out,’ replied Dick sincerely. ‘But the fire had spread. I had to leave her, Mam … otherwise we both would’ve had it.’

  Wanting very much to believe him, she did not dwell on the subject. A slap of her knee marked a return to more contemporary matters. ‘So, what now? Your brother tells me that you’re in business yourself.’

  ‘Yes, but not the sort o’ business you’d recognise.’

  She groaned, then looked at the door as Vinnie came in. ‘Bring some tea up, dear, just for two, and pull those curtains before you go.’ The maid did so, watched by Dickie, then left.

  ‘Nothing nefarious, o’ course,’ continued Dickie.