Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  Erin’s Child

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Two

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Part Five

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Copyright

  Erin’s Child

  Sheelagh Kelly

  For my aunt, Beatrice Wilcox

  Part One

  1875-1878

  Chapter One

  The pain was excruciating. Her peaceful existence had come to this abrupt end when she had suddenly found herself grasped by two constrictive hands and had jumped with the unexpectedness of it. After a moment the squeezing had subsided and she had nestled back down into the dark warmth, the fingers of one hand splayed over her cheek as she slept. But then the manipulation had begun again, continuing at regular intervals until now she was forced head downwards into a dark, narrow tunnel of pain, pushed and pummelled unmercifully. Each time the squeezing passed so she would slip back a little, reluctant to leave her snug haven; but just as peace was about to reclaim her the arms of pain would wrap themselves around her once more, compressing, hurting. With each spasm her mouth puckered into a tight circle of protest.

  How long this endured she could not gauge. Time was unknown to her. She only knew that her head felt about to be crushed. Inside her skull she could hear the bones groaning at the onslaught. She could no longer move her limbs. Her whole being was consumed by agony. For the first time in her existence she knew fear; fear that it might never end.

  Then, without warning, she was ejected from the tunnel with one violent thrust, spluttering and choking, into a world of blinding light and chaos. Lungs, until now superfluous, ballooned on either side of her thumping heart. The deafening noise which had accompanied her liberation now subsided into two levels – one, an anxious questioning tone, the other, a low answering murmur. Trying to move her head she could only make out vague, blurry shapes amid the gleam, before feeling herself being grasped by the two hands again – were they the same? – lifted from the warm dampness and transferred to a place so icy cold that her arms and legs shot out at the shock of it against her nakedness. Slowly her body warmth began to ebb away as she lay there, helpless.

  One of the shapes appeared over her again, mouthing unintelligible sounds. Then everything was obscured as a suffocating mass came down on her and covered her face, cutting off the life-giving air. She tried to struggle but was too weak, too small. Life would soon be over before it had begun.

  ‘In heaven’s name what’re you trying to do?’ Sam Teale burst into the room, his eager anticipation turning to shock at the scene he now witnessed. Snatching the pillow from the midwife’s hands he hurled it to the far side of the room, then stared down at his newborn daughter in consternation.

  ‘It’s the best way, Mr Teale.’ The midwife defended her action, voice furtive. She had seen many such babes go the same merciful way. ‘Kinder for everyone. She won’t have much of a life, you know.’

  Sam’s questioning face looked down on the child – his child – still daubed with her mother’s blood, caked in the black substance that her bowels had secreted in that safe place; cast aside like some piece of offal. There was nothing wrong with her. She was beautiful, beautiful.

  The midwife, seeing his incomprehension, picked up the babe and turned it over on her big red palm, revealing the crooked spine that rose up like an obscene question mark under the translucent skin. Tentatively, the father reached out to touch the offending slur.

  ‘She’s so cold,’ he whispered. Then his pity turned to anger – anger at God, anger at the midwife. The same gentle hand that had touched the baby grabbed a blanket from the basinette and wrapped it around the child, finally tucking the little bundle inside his baggy shirt to transmit some of his body heat to her. He fought to hang onto his manliness, but lost. Bending his head he cried into his chest, the tears spilling onto the child’s face. Her cheek encountered his nipple and reflex opened her mouth. Her father laughed then through his tears and cradled her to him, sobbing quietly, half-proud, half-cheated.

  ‘Sam?’ Erin’s weak query jolted his preoccupation and he went slowly through the dancing shadows of the candle towards the bed. The birth had been long and difficult. She was very tired, too tired to question the midwife who had informed her that the long-awaited child was stillborn. She looked up at him with hooded eyes, eyes that could not cry. Her ebony hair flowed over the pillow in long, damp tendrils. Sam could not dispute the midwife’s competence when dealing with the mother – his wife had been washed and made comfortable, clean sheets had been put on the bed and all the covers tucked in neatly – but still he was angry, incensed that this woman should have the audacity to kill his child with nary a word of consultation nor compassion.

  ‘I’m sorry about the baby, Sam.’ The tone of her soft Irish lilt begged his forgiveness before drowsiness closed her eyes. Her piquant face was drawn, pallid from the agony she had endured. Purple hollows registered her lassitude.

  He wondered whether to tell her now, then decided that it would wait; she might accept it better after she had slept a while. ‘Don’t worry about anything, love. It’s going to be fine. Just let yourself rest. We’ll talk later.’

  A snuffling noise from within the folds of his shirt showed that the baby was regaining some of its warmth. Erin forced open puzzled eyes. ‘What was that, Sam?’ When he did not answer immediately she dragged herself up on one elbow and repeated the question. Hesitantly, he pulled the minute bundle from his shirt and laid it gently in the crook of her arm. ‘But… you said she was dead,’ Erin weakly accused the midwife, who flung a scathing, purse-lipped glare at Sam.

  ‘It’s better dead she would be,’ she muttered darkly, brawny arms hugging the pillow that Sam had tossed aside.

  ‘What does she mean?’ Puzzlement at first, then, ‘Oh, my baby! My baby!’ Erin, suddenly awake, prised the blanket away from the tiny, crumpled face. Her eyes pored over it as she touched every perfect feature with an exploratory finger. ‘Why, Sam, why?’ She looked up at him, frowning. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He told her, as gently as possible, that this exquisite child, their beautiful, lovely daughter who had taken so long to concei
ve would never be like other children. Erin turned her perplexity back to the child. ‘She’s deformed, Erin,’ blurted Sam, unable to think of words to couch the tragedy.

  There was brief silence. Then the tears that had hitherto refused to come now flowed in torrents. ‘Oh, my poor baby! The poor little soul,’ wept the young mother as Sam folded both her and the child into his arms and cried with her. The newborn watched them with grave, unfocusing eyes, while the midwife pretended to busy herself. ‘What have I done that God should punish my baby?’

  ‘Erin, Erin.’ He pressed his wet face to hers. ‘It’s nowt you’ve done. You could never be bad…’

  ‘It must be! God’s sent this to punish me.’

  ‘No! I was angry at Him at first, but God wouldn’t do a thing like that. You’re not to blame Him or yourself. It’s just one o’ the things that get thrown at us from time to time.’

  ‘But why us, Sam?’ begged Erin tearfully. ‘We’ve waited so long for her. It’s not fair. Why does it never happen to people like Mrs Johnson? Oh, God forgive my wickedness, but she’s got eight perfect children and doesn’t give a fig about any of them. If they didn’t beg and scavenge their food from neighbours they’d get nothing. Why isn’t our child perfect, Sam? What harm have we ever done anyone? Why, why, why?’

  Each repetition brought her nearer to the brink of hysteria. The midwife intervened. ‘Men! Look at the state you’ve got her into with your meddling.’ She elbowed Sam out of the way and made to take the baby. ‘If you hadn’t poked your neb in there’d be no need for any o’ this.’

  Erin hugged the baby protectively to her breast and glared up at the intruder. ‘Get out! Get out! You were going to kill my baby. Murderer, murderer, get out!’

  ‘Calm down, love.’ Sam attempted to soothe his wife as the midwife stepped out of the line of fire. ‘Don’t go upsetting yourself. She’s safe now.’ As he spoke he motioned violently for the nurse to leave the room. ‘Please, Erin love, do calm yourself – look, you’re makin’ the babby cry.’

  His wife’s hysteria waned as the baby’s howl rose above her sobbing, and though her grief continued her emotions were now under control. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve nowt to be sorry about, lass.’ Sam kissed the tear-drenched cheek and wiped her running nose with his own handkerchief. ‘An’ nowt to worry about neither, your mam’s downstairs, she’ll take us all in hand.’

  ‘Aye, Mam’ll look after us,’ sniffed Erin to the baby who was quiet once more. ‘She won’t let anyone harm ye. May God forgive that woman for her terrible thought – ye won’t let her in Sam, will ye?’ Her eyes were round with alarm. ‘Don’t let her near the baby, she might…’

  He shook his head. ‘No, the baby’s safe now.’

  ‘But ye won’t let her in? Promise?’ At his firm promise she regained her calm and all was silent for a while. Her attention became so riveted on the child that Sam felt a wave of loneliness wash over him, as if he were not part of all this. Turning from the bed he slowly made his way over to the window, leaned his blond head against the curtained wall and watched the evening shower sluice down the pane.

  It had been this way since Erin’s own waters had broken in the early hours of the day. In fact there had barely been a week he could recall this year when it had not rained. The exceptionally wet summer would make for a poor harvest. That was not of personal concern to Sam – apart from the sympathy he felt for his neighbours – for his money was in cattle. Oh, for the sight of those lush green meadows speckled with red and white milkers instead of these dreary, rain-lashed streets. They had arrived at Erin’s parents’ home in York a week ago. Their own home had few facilities and with young Ralph Dobbins to take care of Sam’s herd of Shorthorns it had been decided that Erin should give birth to her firstborn here where it was safer, where the love and support of her family would be at close hand. Safe! He issued a silent snort of irony. As for love and support, well… he hoped they would still be forthcoming, for she would need both of them desperately now.

  His mind went again to his herd – his pride and joy. He thought of all the healthy calves that he had raised. Yet, when it came to his own child… That he was in possession of the herd plus the sixty acres of grazing land was thanks to his mother-in-law’s generous settlement on her daughter’s marriage. As the son of a poor farm labourer Sam would never have aspired to such grand ideas, but he was not too proud to accept this gift from Thomasin Feeney, seeing it not as charity as his father might have done, but merely commonsense. He loved his wife dearly, so why inflict hardship on her if it was unnecessary? He was glad now that he had taken the decision to go into dairy farming instead of growing crops. Sam had grown to love those cows – he liked the company of all animals. Some people might have considered this as rather an anomaly for an ex-butcher, but not anyone who knew Sam, who was a soft-hearted chap.

  He rubbed a hand around his unshaven jaw. There was barely a rasp as the hand travelled over a face much younger than its thirty-one years. He could have been taken for a lad with his ruddy complexion and cheeky grin – when it was in evidence. The reflection in the darkened window showed a man suddenly burdened with responsibility, one he found difficult to accept.

  The combined glare of oil lamp and candle on the windowpane turned the rain to liquid gold. He stood there watching its slithering journey to the sill. It made him feel lonelier than ever. How was he going to tell them? They were all waiting downstairs to hear the news – his parents-in-law, Grandmother Fenton, Erin’s brother… how could he go down there and say, ‘Your grandchild is a cripple.’

  With a sigh he turned back to the bed; the canopied bed with its pillars and headboard of polished yew, its expensive counterpane, its heavily-tasselled drapes, the embossed wallpaper… a far cry from his own modest accommodation. But the thought was not a resentful one. He was well-acquainted with the Feeneys’ humble beginnings – more humble than his own, truth to tell – and Erin’s parents deserved everything in their fine house. God knows they had met with some bad luck in their time – and now the young couple had landed them with some more.

  Erin pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and tore her face away from the child’s to watch his approach. Giving birth had made her more beautiful than ever, thought Sam, if that were at all possible. Though her eyes had always been the kind that rotated one’s belly just to gaze into them, maternity had added a glowing depth. She was like something unearthly.

  His wife was speaking. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, stretching and then sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘I was miles away.’

  Erin repeated her question. ‘What are we going to do?’

  He ran a finger over her cheek, then dropped his hand and shrugged hopelessly as he stared at the baby. ‘I don’t know… just love her, I suppose.’

  The tiredness had been miraculously displaced by her concern for the child, and this showed in the irritability of her response. She had expected something more constructive. ‘Well, of course we’ll love her! Everyone will – how could they fail to? Just look at her, Sam. She’s so gorgeous. But we must be more positive. She isn’t going to be able to live the rest of her days on our love. We won’t always be here. For one thing we must make sure we protect her from all the terrible things that people will say about her – the cruel names.’

  He cupped her face with his square hands and smiled into her hair as he embraced her. ‘You’re ahead o’ yourself. She’s nobbut ten minutes old.’

  But she reiterated her intent. ‘I’m serious, Sam. As the person who’s to blame for her condition ’tis up to me to make things right for her.’

  ‘Erin, don’t take this upon yourself. How can you be to blame? I had a hand in her creation too, y’know – more than a hand.’ His eyes twinkled but the smile that his wife returned was full of sadness. She covered his tanned fingers with her own cool ones and was silent.

  Then, ‘You’re not thinking she’s damaged because…’ The question trailed
off, unfinished, but they both knew its content. Erin and Sam had been married in name for more than four years, but the marriage had only been a physical actuality for the past nine months. A blissful nine months admittedly, but that was only just reward for the torment of the three previous years; a torment born from Erin’s sheer terror of the act of love. It was those remembered nights – the screams, the accusations, the revulsion – that now caused Erin to assume guilt for the child’s deformity.

  ‘That’s rubbish!’ he vociferated. ‘You’re not to blame, d’you hear?’

  ‘I can’t help it, Sam.’

  ‘No! It’s too bloody stupid.’ His blunt Yorkshire manner percolated his concern. ‘I won’t have you talkin’ that way. First you blame God, then you blame yourself…’

  ‘Somebody’s responsible, Sam, and it certainly isn’t you.’ Sam had been so good and kind even at the height of her childish fear. It had never crossed his decent Godfearing mind to force her.

  ‘For pity’s sake, why does someone have to be to blame? It’s just an accident of birth. Like I said, one of those things. Will pinning the blame on someone make our daughter any better? You’re not to feel guilty. I forbid it. You’ll only make yourself poorly, an’ then where will our little girl be?’

  They both looked down on her. She had fallen asleep, the tiny pink mouth working unconsciously.

  ‘She’s like a little fairy, isn’t she?’ whispered Erin who, behind her smile, could not banish the self-indictment. Whatever Sam might say it was all her fault. But she wouldn’t allow that to spoil her daughter’s life. The child would have what Erin had planned for a normal, healthy daughter: a first-class education, the thing which she herself had coveted above all else; the prize she had never managed to win. Of course it was not so important to Erin now, she had Sam and a good life, but this little one would never be denied the things her mother had. ‘You’ll not scrub floors like your mammy did, my pretty colleen,’ murmured Erin to the baby. ‘No one is ever going to look down on you.’

  Sam, feeling left out again, raised the question of names. They had chosen two before the birth – Dominic, after Sam’s father if the child had been male, and Thomasin, after Erin’s stepmother. Secretly, Erin would have liked to name the child Mary after her own dead mother, but knowing how this would hurt Thomasin had kept the thought to herself. Now it seemed to Erin that neither name was suitable for this baby. This ill-formed child with its exquisite face.