‘We’ll call her Belle,’ she decided on impulse. ‘She’ll be named for her beauty an’ be damned to anyone who cares to argue.’
And so, as his wife’s fatigue overcame her desire to nurse the child, Sam gently picked up his sleeping daughter and, swallowing his trepidation, carried her downstairs to introduce her to the family.
* * *
However, it was not left to Sam to dampen their expectations. The midwife, whilst not specific, had made it plain that there was something drastically wrong upstairs. When Sam appeared on the threshold of the drawing room bearing his daughter there was no rush of congratulation but a show of apprehensive faces.
It was a spacious room, untrammelled with the usual fashionable clutter. All the Feeneys’ assets had been lost in a terrible fire. Though it was not lack of cash that was responsible for the sparse furnishings – everything had been covered by insurance – it was simply that to fill a house of this size took time and that was one commodity which Thomasin Feeney could not spare. What few decorations there were gave a pleasing effect, however – deep blue velvet drapes drawn against the night’s downpour, the walls covered in silver-grey paper and edged with dove-grey architraving. Above, the crystal lighting arrangement was topped by an expansive and intricate ceiling rose. Sam wavered on the perimeter of the Persian carpet, unwilling to answer the collective question that was on their faces.
Erin’s father was the first to rise from a brocade-upholstered sofa on which he had been seated with his wife. Patrick Feeney, at fifty-five still as straight and tall as he had been at thirty, if perhaps a little more solid these days, came hesitantly towards his son-in-law, the query in his pale-blue eyes manifesting itself with difficulty. ‘It’s Erin, isn’t it?’ The Mayo accent was still detectable even after almost thirty years on English soil. ‘Something’s happened to her?’
Sam was quick to right the assumption as the others rose, too. ‘No, no she’s fine. She’s sleeping now.’
Patrick indicated the bundle in Sam’s arms. ‘We thought it was the baby at first… the midwife wouldn’t tell us – please, Sam, if it’s Erin I’d rather know.’
Sam came further into the room and moved through the network of chairs to the hearth where the log fire added false cheer to the gas-lit room.
‘Please, Sam, don’t keep us in purgatory.’ Thomasin ached to hold her grandchild, but could not touch it till she knew the fate of her step-daughter.
‘It’s not Erin,’ repeated Sam, staring into the flickering fire. ‘You can see her when she wakes up.’ He turned to face them. ‘It’s the baby. She’s…’ He examined each waiting face. ‘She’s deformed.’ What a bloody ugly word.
Thomasin put her hand to her mouth and exchanged looks with her husband and son.
‘Well, can I take it none of you want to hold her now?’ asked Sam defensively when the silence grew too much for him.
They were around him instantly. ‘Oh, Sam! Sam dear, of course we do.’ Thomasin lifted the baby gingerly while Patrick clamped a supportive hand to Sam’s shoulder. The deformity must be very slight, there was no evidence of it on her face at least. ‘Oh, she’s beautiful! Look, Mother.’ She held the child in the direction of Hannah Fenton who made a sound which no amount of charity could have construed as anything other than distaste and shuffled back to the circle of chairs, leaning heavily on her walking stick.
John Feeney, Erin’s brother, came forward. Still encumbered by the childhood nickname of Sonny he had now matured enough for it to be of no concern to him. He bent his auburn head over the slumbering baby. There was a sensitivity to his eye that was not evident in his build – Sonny looked more like a navvy than the artist he was. ‘She’s like her mother,’ he tendered, to which Patrick agreed.
‘Beautiful, Sonny,’ he murmured in his soft Irish brogue.
Sam was aware of three pairs of eyes flitting involuntarily over the concealed body, searching for the imperfection. ‘It’s her back,’ he provided quietly. ‘Her legs, too.’ And taking possession of his daughter he gently pulled aside the blanket to reveal just a portion of her twisted body.
Tears welled instantly in Thomasin’s grey eyes. Sam expected her to take the baby from him again, but instead she turned her back and moved away muttering, ‘The poor bairn.’
It was Patrick who held out his arms and said, as Sam laid the child in them, ‘We’ll call in the doctor first thing tomorrow. She’ll have the best attention money can buy. Sure, ye never know, it may not be as bad as it looks.’ He cringed as he realised he’d said the wrong thing, adding, ‘They can do all sorts these days.’
Unconvinced, Sam enquired after the midwife and was informed by his brother-in-law that she had left. ‘That’s just as well I suppose,’ sighed Sam. ‘I’ve orders from Erin not to let her back in.’
‘She didn’t look too pleased when she came down,’ said Patrick, cradling his new grand-daughter fondly. ‘I’ve seen more amiable gargoyles.’ Sam revealed what had taken place upstairs. ‘God dammit!’ stormed the older man. ‘It’s as well I didn’t know about that before else she’d’ve gone out feet first, the filthy bitch.’
‘Maybe she was just doing what she thought was right.’ The comment was Thomasin’s. Surprise and accusation met her when she turned back to the circle.
‘How can ye say such a thing, Tommy! Didn’t ye hear what Sam said? She was going to kill your grandchild. I’d’ve thought you’d’ve been the first to reach for the rope.’ Patrick knew his wife had been going through hell since the death of their eldest son Dickie several months ago. She had thrown herself into the running of her two general stores, dividing her time equally between them and leaving none for her husband. He saw less and less of her these days. It was only the fact that Erin’s child had chosen the Sabbath to make her debut that commanded Thomasin’s presence now. Any other day and Patrick doubted that the event would take precedence over such vital matters as her stocking, invoicing and planning. The business was her life nowadays; he accepted that, albeit unwillingly – but to go and voice a statement like the one of twenty seconds ago… he shook his head. The death of their son must have affected her more than anyone had imagined.
‘Take that look off your face,’ she muttered, coming back to take charge of the baby, rocking it tenderly. ‘I’ve not lost me marbles.’ Thomasin, like Sam, was a product of Yorkshire – though her broad accent was reserved for the family circle. The business world saw a more refined Thomasin, as did their neighbours. Years ago it had not mattered one jot what they thought of her, but she had learned quickly that the way one spoke could be either asset or hindrance to one’s financial success and had adapted accordingly. Respect had been a long time coming. The main cause of this delay was standing in front of her with condemnation in his piercing blue eyes. The Irish had always attracted a great deal of dislike and suspicion and naturally enough this rubbed off on one’s marriage partner. Like her own origins this hadn’t mattered in the old days, when there was just the five of them in the little courtyard hovel – Patrick and Thomasin, Erin, Sonny… and Dickie. She wished she could fix him in her memory as a bonny, twinkling-eyed child of five, when they were perhaps at their happiest despite the poverty, but the Dickie she saw every night when she closed her eyes was an immaculately-tailored twenty-one-year-old dashing into the burning house to rescue his sister-in-law… only to be killed by a huge fireball that had caused the roof to collapse on top of him. She assumed full blame. That was why she would not allow herself to be happy, saw less and less of her husband. The close relationship they had shared seemed to burn out with the gutting of the house. They still slept in the same bed – twenty-three years of marriage added to working-class upbringing made such habits hard to break – but their infrequent love-making was due to more than just advancing years.
Now, Thomasin appraised her spouse, a tall, distinguished-looking man with greying hair, trying to picture him as he had been on the day they had met. She had thought him incredibly handsome – a
s he still was. The greatest difference between then and now – age apart – was his clothes. Then, there could be no other name for them but rags. Patrick was one of the few Irish immigrants, flocking to the city in their thousands, who had made good. The filth, the cholera and typhus of those terrible, ramshackle hovels had all been left behind. Only his sing-song lilt served as a reminder of his heritage. Standing there in his well-cut apparel with neatly-trimmed hair and gold watch dangling from his waistcoat he would have been instantly accepted by society, had it not been for his name and his accent. Some years ago he had remarked that one of the reasons Thomasin’s business had enjoyed so much success was because when she had inherited the store she had not placed her husband’s name over the door but had left it as it was – Penny’s. She had denied the fact, but secretly recognised that he was probably correct; anti-Irish feeling was still as rife as ever. It was only respect for her business prowess that brought their new neighbours to associate with the Feeneys. They had moved here to Peasholme Green shortly after the destruction of their home in Monkgate. The house itself was very grand and stood among a select cluster of mansions, but not a stone’s throw away one could find the most appalling slums; it seemed the Feeneys could not escape from their origins.
Thomasin smiled down at the puckered face. Sonny was right, she was like Erin. She made an attempt to justify the extraordinary statement that had shocked them. ‘You see… I believe it’s wrong to tamper with nature, Sam. When animals are born like this they don’t normally survive more than a few days. The mother either abandons her offspring or it’s…’
‘Jazers!’ burst, in Patrick. ‘’Tis not an animal we’re on about – ’tis our grandchild.’
‘I know that, Patrick,’ she returned calmly before he jumped in again.
‘Your comparison isn’t valid! Belle wouldn’t’ve died naturally, that woman was going to kill her.’
‘But you must see it from the child’s point of view, dear. What sort of life is she going to lead? She’s not going to be able to run or jump or play like other children. People are going to treat her with suspicion.’
‘Well, that’s nothing new,’ Patrick laughed bitterly. ‘She’s half-Irish isn’t she? She had it coming anyway.’
‘Then in a way she’ll be doubly damned,’ responded Thomasin with what she saw as logic. ‘Isn’t it bad enough that the poor scrap will have to defend her parentage without the physical disability, too?’
‘What d’ye suggest we do then?’ snapped Patrick. ‘Call the midwife back an’ say we’ve changed our minds – here’s a pillow an’ get on with it?’
Thomasin argued on. Sam couldn’t believe that this was the same woman who had championed her husband’s cause as long as he had known her. ‘So, as Dad says, you think I should’ve stood by an’ let the midwife smother her, is that it?’ When she took her time in answering he gave a bitter exclamation and looked at Patrick. ‘Blazes, she’s not even bothering to deny it! You think that woman was right to try and murder my daughter.’ He seized the child from Thomasin, his cheery face disfigured with betrayal and outrage.
‘Sam, it sounds so callous when you put it that way.’ She watched the tragic figure pace the carpet, his thick forearms curled under the child, awkwardly protective.
‘I can’t think of any other way to put it! What gives you or anyone else the right to take this child’s life?’
‘I’m thinking of her, Sam,’ she pleaded. ‘It would’ve been in her best interests.’
‘Oh, I’ll bet that’s what King Herod said.’
‘That’s not fair. I am thinking of her.’
‘Are ye, Tommy?’ Patrick broke in. ‘Or is it that ye think this child is going to mess up your nice ordered life?’
‘That’s despicable, Patrick,’ came the wounded reply, even though she knew there was some truth to his accusation. People had just started to accept her, look up to her even – and now this. But she denied it strenuously. ‘What difference will this make to my life?’
‘None whatsoever.’ Sam beat Patrick to the reply. ‘But she will to ours, to mine and Erin’s – that’s your daughter if you hadn’t forgotten, the one who’s probably lying upstairs listening to all this. I can’t deny that I’d have preferred to have her whole and healthy, but I’m damned if anyone will tell me to discard her like the runt of the litter.’
Thomasin encompassed both him and Patrick with a look of helpless compassion, then flapped her arms and said evenly, ‘So, you’ve saved her life – what now? What’ll be the quality of that life, Sam? Who’ll be there to pick her up every time she falls – always considering that she will learn to walk in the first place with her gimpy little legs. Who’ll chase away the boys when they tease her and make cruel sport of her? I’ll tell you: Erin. It’s all very well for you to play the outraged father, but it isn’t Father who’ll be in the house with her twenty-four hours a day, is it?’
‘Both Erin and I will protect her,’ vouched Sam firmly. ‘You needn’t worry yourself on that score. I know my responsibility and none of it’ll fall on you.’ What had he said to Erin before – your mam’ll look after us?
‘Confound it, Sam!’ Thomasin grew angry. ‘I couldn’t give a toss about responsibility. I’m worried about Erin and how she’ll cope. How that bairn will manage when she’s ready for school – if she ever reaches that age. Eh, lad, you’ve landed yourself with a right load of problems. No one can be there every second of the day to see she comes to no harm.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ announced Sam. ‘Everyone, whole or otherwise, has to learn how to take knocks from the time they learn to walk. Belle will be no different. Mollycoddling would make it all the harder for her. I’m going to raise her as if she were – for want of a better word – normal. And why shouldn’t I? After all, it’s only her body that’s malformed, not her brain.’
How tempting for her to utter, ‘How can you know that? It’s too soon to tell.’ But the look of determination on Sam’s face dissuaded the remark which would have been an added cruelty, and her words had not been motivated by sadism. She just wanted him to have a taste of what his and Belle’s future would be like. ‘Belle.’ She smiled sadly at the baby and nodded. ‘It suits her.’ Then she clasped her hands in a businesslike gesture. ‘Considering that the midwife’s done a vanishing trick, hadn’t one of us better bath her and make her comfy?’
Sam, still hurt by her apparent rejection of his daughter, needed further prompting before giving up the child. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go snatch a bit o’ sleep.’
‘Aye, you do, lad,’ said Thomasin as she rang for the maid to order water and towels. ‘You look fair whacked – and Sam,’ he paused at the door, ‘I didn’t really mean all those things I said. I’m sure we’re all going to love this baby very much.’
He searched her eyes and, finding no duplicity, nodded his understanding and quietly closed the door. Before glancing back at the baby Thomasin caught her husband’s dubious expression and looked away swiftly. If Patrick had guessed the insincerity of her last comment she could only hope that he would keep it to himself.
* * *
The extent of the child’s deformity was rather worse than the fleeting glimpse had first informed them. When Belle, wide awake now and screaming with indignation, was lowered into the bathwater they were able to see that, presumably because of the twisted spine, one of her underdeveloped legs was considerably shorter than the other. Patrick, Sonny and Hannah sat in their separate chairs watching the red-faced child squirm about in her grandmother’s slippery hands as the streaks of dried blood and meconium were washed away.
‘Eh, it’s a long time since I’ve done this.’ Thomasin knelt beside the marble fireplace with no regard for her blue silk dress, not allowing her disagreement with Sam to overcome her strong maternal qualities. ‘Come here, you little devil, you’re wrigglier than a pint o’maggots.’ That she undertook this task personally was another giveaway of her lower-class origins.
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Sonny watched the scene and thought of his own perfectly-formed children asleep upstairs; motherless, but not for long if his plan went ahead. Their mother had been burnt to death along with Sonny’s brother. The children were aware of this. They themselves had only just been rescued from the fire before the house caved in. What they were not aware of – and Sonny had no intention that they ever would be – was that the man they called Father was actually their uncle. It would have been a very complicated relationship to explain to them even if he had wanted to. Both children had been sired by Sonny’s brother on different women – one of them Sonny’s wife. Both had been adopted by their uncle and raised as his own, and that was the way it would stay. After a decent interval he could marry Josie and they would be a proper family again.
‘The fire’s getting low,’ provided Patrick. ‘Shall I ask Abi to fetch some more coal? We don’t want the little’n to catch a chill.’ He rose, intending to ring for the maid but Thomasin replied that it was nearly bedtime and the baby was almost done.
‘If you ask me, catching a chill would be the best thing for her.’ It was Hannah who spoke, sitting like a wizened old dragon, one trembling, arthritic hand curled round the knob of her walking-cane, wearing the black dress that had become uniform to her widowhood. She had been invited to live with her daughter and son-in-law last year when her husband had died and not a day went by without either one of them having cause to regret it. If her eyesight and hearing were not as they used to be her outspokenness was still intact. ‘I agree with Thomasin, it would have been better all round if Samuel hadn’t interfered.’
Erin’s Child Page 2