Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  ‘Get out!’ She took a broom, struck the dog on the back and forced it to the door. When she had finally barred its re-entry she turned on Belle, hands over ears. ‘Belle, will ye please, please stop!’ She hunched there, trying to repel the noise from dog and child. Eventually she was forced to open the door again to the bitch who was hurling herself frenziedly at the timber, setting the latch a-rattle.

  Seeing Erin on the threshold she dashed away up the path, tail held banner-like.

  ‘I’m not playing silly bloody games!’ cried Erin, preparing to use the broom again. ‘Where’s that master o’ yours? Go find him.’ Suddenly the reason for the dog’s agitation struck home. Some nerve inside her leapt with the shock of realisation: the bitch wouldn’t want Erin if Sam were there – something had happened to him.

  Ignoring, for once, her daughter’s screams, she ran all the way to the outhouse where the other dog sniffed and pawed excitedly. The door was bolted from the inside. At once Erin set up a hammering. ‘Sam! Sam, are ye there?’ Her only answer was the snorting of the cow.

  There was a knothole in the wood. Erin pressed her eye to it, squinting. Despite the light from the lantern she could see nothing, but the dogs’ incessant barking confirmed that there was something terribly wrong in there. She banged on the door again, then looked round wildly for something with which to prise it open. There was nothing.

  She ran back to the house, supporting her large belly with her hands, skirts tangling around her flying legs, almost tripping her. Searching the bucket of tools which Sam kept in the house for indoor jobs she rejected everything her scrabbling fingers came across, damning them as useless and dropping them onto her spotless kitchen floor. Her heart was leaping into every crevice of her ribcage. She could barely breathe. Then her eyes fell on the axe by the fireside. Grabbing it she tore from the house, forgetting all about Belle who still screamed from her special chair, and returned to the shed where she wielded it against the door, time after time. Hardly able to see in her fury whether the axe was doing any damage she continued to bring it down with all her strength, sobbing with the effort, crying his name with each blow. ‘Sam! Sam! Sam!’

  Eventually she had chipped a big enough hole in the door to insert her small hand. She shoved it through, not feeling the splintered edges puncturing her skin. With difficulty she extracted the bolt from its casing, then withdrew her hand and paused. The door was open to her but she dare not go in, dreading what she might find.

  The dogs took the decision for her, Nip thrusting her nose between door and jamb and barging in, the younger dog, tail wagging, in pursuit. They entered with such force that the door flew wide open, banging against its other jamb. Erin uttered a low moan and clutched her stomach, falling against the doorpost for support.

  It didn’t look like Sam at all, that crumpled heap at the cow’s feet. His beautiful, cheery features were hidden under a mess of blood and bruises, streaks of dung, the blue eyes staring, the mouth sagging open in a last silent cry for help.

  She wanted to move, to go to him, but she couldn’t. She could only stand there, imprisoned by the horrific sight, watching the dogs dance round the cow, barking, weaving out of reach of those threatening horns, watching those great clumsy feet, cloven devil’s feet, stamp on Sam’s hands, his warm, loving hands. Oh, don’t, she begged the cow, shaking her head hypnotisedly. Don’t stand on him, don’t, don’t, then aloud, ‘Don’t!’ It came as a scream as the volcanic surge of pain shot up her spine to inhabit every nerve of her body. It grasped her stomach with indescribable ferocity, trying to wrench the life from her body. Her belly was like a solid lump of concrete, the child within crushed. No, it’s too early! her mind screamed as her arms hugged the ravaged body, recoil throwing her back against the hard doorpost where she whimpered in terror. ‘Somebody, help me please.’ Louder: ‘Help! Help me!’

  Nip came to her, licking at her face, only to dash back to the body of her master, nipping at the cow’s heels. Erin, clutching her screaming bulk, lurched back in the direction of the house, her skirts bogged down with the water that had cushioned the baby. White-hot pokers tore and shredded her innards. She staggered to the gate, fell, rolled over from side to side in her torment, then reached out and used the gate to haul herself up. Stumbling through it she made her way down the steps, tripped over her skirt and fell again, tumbling over and over like a pace-egg at Easter, bouncing off the cottage wall and coming to rest in the fragrant bed of lavender beneath the kitchen window.

  It was here, his poor, semi-conscious mother able to go no further, that Sam Teale’s perfect, but too-small son was born. He never drew breath.

  Part Two

  1878-1881

  Chapter Eight

  I must just be one of those people to whom bad things happen, came Erin’s bleak thought as she stared fixedly at the Rossetti print opposite her bed. There were people like that, their lives filled with one tragedy after the other. That was the trouble with lying in bed; it gave one time to think. By rights she should be up and helping at the store or around the house, anything to take her mind off her double loss. The first few days after the miscarriage it had been deemed unwise to move her so she had been forced to lie there in the big double bed; the bed where she had learned to love Sam with her body as well as her mind; the bed in which they had snuggled together on cold winter nights, making plans for the future. What future was there for her now? The cottage and its land had been put up for auction, the furniture with it. Here she was back where she had started with nothing to show for her marriage but a bewildered, cock-eyed child and her memories.

  After that crucial first week when, unbeknown to Erin, it was feared she might die, they had carried her out to the waiting carriage and brought her directly here to her parents’ home. The transition seemed so unreal. Given time she would have liked to wander through the rooms of the cottage, remembering the events that had taken place in each. Instead she had to visit the rooms in her mind: through that door she had returned to Sam after a brief parting to yield the physical love she had denied him for so long; through that open window he had presented her with a late-flowering rosebud when she had bashfully informed him that she carried their first child.

  But one place she didn’t want to revisit was the byre. Instantly her brain took her there, recaptured the image of Sam crushed to a pathetic shell, devoid of all the things Sam had been – kind, fun-loving, human. She wanted the cow to die, would have wielded the knife herself had she the strength to pull this wretched body from the bed. But first she would have wanted to kill the calf before its mother’s eyes, wanted the cow to know how it felt to be robbed of one’s child, to have it torn from one’s body and not be able to do a thing about it. The anger surged through her as she lay here, now. Under the crisp linen her fingers clenched into trembling fists. Her teeth clamped together. Her whole body was filled with a tension so overwhelming that she wanted to scream and scream, fill their nice, orderly house with her anguish, have them know what it felt like to listen to their stupid, well-meant comments of, ‘Time’s a great healer’ and ‘You mustn’t upset yourself.’ Why mustn’t she? She was bloody upset. She was devastated. But no one would let her show it. If she started to throw things, rant and rave like she had done once when the silence of her room grew too much to bear, they would dose her with laudanum. Didn’t they know that she had to work the sense of injustice from her system?

  Pain registered in her hand. Withdrawing it from beneath the bedclothes she stared at it dumbly. The action of clenching her fists so hard had drawn blood, her fingernails digging into her palms. Apathetically, she shoved the hand back under the covers. What was pain? She had grown used to it.

  Poor Dobby. Apparently he had been the one to discover the tragedy and raise the alarm. She pictured the look on his face as the carriage rolled past him in the lane, the imploring eyes that had met hers fleetingly then had dropped to the hands clutching the billycock hat. What about the funeral, had he been there? She didn
’t know, not having been there herself. That was what made the whole thing unreal, incomplete. Standing round a grave in a windy churchyard, watching your man being lowered into the ground, it all gave the situation credence. As it was there were too many loose ends. She had wanted to visit his grave before they had brought her here but Mother wouldn’t let her. It had probably been Thomasin who had organised everything – the sale of the house, the disposal of Sam’s clothes. Erin supposed she should be grateful that she hadn’t this heartrending task to do herself, but she saw it as one more comfort that had been denied her. To sift through Sam’s meagre wardrobe, to press his jacket to her face and breathe in his familiar smell… some might decry it as morbid but it would have comforted her, made her feel as though he was still here, instead of in Purgatory.

  I must stop dwelling on it all, she told herself, trying to concentrate on the Rossetti print. If I lie here much longer I’ll go mad.

  * * *

  ‘The doctor’s here, ma’am.’ Abigail stood before Thomasin and awaited the command. Patrick was there, too. It suddenly struck Abigail as odd that it was always the mistress whom one addressed first – probably because she was the more forceful of the two. The master didn’t seem to mind, he was an easygoing soul. Abigail felt sorry for him sometimes. Since the fire he and the mistress had not appeared so pally as they used to be. But of course that was no concern of Abi’s.

  ‘Oh good, bring him in, Abigail,’ replied Thomasin, rustling forward to meet the physician. ‘Then after we’ve spoken you can show him up to Mrs Teale. Good day, Doctor, I hope you’ll be able to give us some better news about our patient today.’

  ‘My sentiments too, Mrs Feeney.’ The doctor exchanged a perfunctory tilt of the head with Patrick. ‘Mr Feeney. Has there been any improvement since my last visit?’

  ‘That’s for you to say, I think.’ Thomasin gestured for the doctor to sit down.

  Hitching up his trousers the man sat on the sofa. ‘Actually I was not referring to her medical condition but her state of mind. Has there been any lessening of the violent outbursts?’

  Thomasin raised an eyebrow at her husband. ‘Well, I don’t think there’s been quite so many in the past few days, d’you, Patrick?’

  Her husband shook his head. ‘I don’t know which is worse, the mad rages or the doldrums that follow them. How much longer before she’s well enough to be on her feet, Doctor?’

  ‘Well, the miscarriage was of a very violent nature. It takes time and rest to repair damage like Mrs Teale has suffered.’

  ‘Will she be able to bear other children should she wish to remarry, Doctor?’ cut in Thomasin who, after her own miscarriage, had been left incapable of producing further children.

  ‘I believe so, Mrs Feeney,’ he responded. ‘As to your query, Mr Feeney, I should be able to give you the answer when I have made my examination.’ He rose and picked up his bag.

  Thomasin rang a handbell and Abigail entered from the hall where she had been waiting for the summons. ‘Take the doctor up, Abigail, then inform Mrs Howgego that we’ll take some tea in fifteen minutes.’

  Abigail bobbed and showed the doctor up to Erin’s room. While he was away making his examination there was another visitor. Thomasin answered the door herself. ‘Ah, hello, Liam! Come in, dear. Have you called to see Erin?’

  ‘I have.’ Father Kelly stepped into the spacious, oak-panelled hall and gave her his hat. ‘D’ye think she’s taking visitors today?’ He had tried several times to see Erin, never getting beyond the wrong side of her bedroom door. Her improving physical condition had brought with it a hostility towards those who loved her most. There had been some terrible language through that door. But it would take more than that to make Liam give up on her.

  ‘Eh, I don’t know I’m sure.’ Thomasin helped him off with his coat, then piloted him through to the drawing room. ‘She doesn’t seem to want to know anybody. Pat, Liam’s here.’

  ‘Hello to your good self.’ Liam clasped the proffered hand, then sank onto the middle seat of the sofa. ‘How’s the body?’

  Patrick went to the sideboard and took out a decanter ‘Pretty much the same – d’you want one, Tommy?’ She declined saying it was too early. He filled just the two glasses, handing one to Liam. ‘’Tis not too early for this fella.’

  The priest inclined his grizzled head. ‘May your still never run dry.’

  ‘Sláinte,’ said Patrick, then repositioned himself in his chair. ‘She may not see ye, Liam. I hope ye don’t take all this personal? ’Tis the way she’s been with all of us.’

  Father Kelly sighed. ‘Ah, the poor, poor child. Nothing seems to be smooth-going for her, does it?’ He sampled the whiskey again. ‘If I could only speak to her, if she’d only see me, I’m sure I could offer her some comfort.’

  ‘Well, ye may – just may, mind you – get a chance today. The doc’s up there seeing if she’s well enough to come down. If she is, then ye could catch her at the lunch-table. She’ll not escape so easily then.’

  ‘That makes me feel like a bailiff serving an eviction order,’ answered Liam. ‘I’d not corner her if she truly doesn’t want me poking my nose in.’ He saluted with his glass. ‘But I will accept your kind invitation to luncheon, if that’s what it was.’

  ‘You’re always welcome here, Liam, you know that,’ said Thomasin. ‘I’ll get Cook to serve an extra portion of tripe.’

  His face became uneasy. ‘Oh dear, I’ve just remembered Father Gilchrist has a job lined up for me – thank ye all the same.’

  ‘By God, that speaks volumes for how much he hates tripe,’ laughed Thomasin to her husband. ‘Oh, Liam, I was only teasing. I just wanted to see your face. I know tripe’s not your favourite meal.’

  ‘’Tis a terrible woman ye married, Pat,’ said Liam. ‘But I’m glad she can still joke with so much trouble on her mind.’

  ‘Well, it’s as I always say, Liam,’ sighed Thomasin. ‘You have to laugh else you’d cry.’

  ‘Ye would, Tommy, oh, ye would indeed.’ There seemed to be something else worrying the priest.

  Patrick thought he knew its source. ‘As you were the one to raise that unmentionable name,’ he said to his friend, ‘how is Father Gilchrist treatin’ ye?’

  ‘He doesn’t go in for treats,’ replied Liam, holding out his glass for a refill which was duly supplied. ‘In fact I hardly dare tell ye, knowing your hot temper.’

  ‘What’s he done now?’ demanded the other heavily.

  ‘He’s taken over my entire duties,’ replied Liam, then dropped his gaze to his whiskey and swilled it around the crystal tumbler.

  ‘He’s what?’ blasted Patrick. ‘D’ye mean to tell me ye’ve been given the sack?’

  ‘Oh, nothing so inhuman,’ responded Liam. ‘Retired is the word that was used.’

  Thomasin leaned forward. ‘But what about your house and everything?’

  ‘Father Gilchrist’s house,’ corrected Liam.

  ‘Oh, Liam.’ She put a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Why, the devious, black-hearted spatchcock!’ stormed Patrick, crossing the room in great strides and returning with the decanter to fill Liam’s glass almost to the brim. ‘I’m off round there an’ fix his teeth for him. D’ye think they’d suit, growing out of his forehead?’

  ‘And have me thrown out of my lodgings?’ asked Liam. Patrick digested this, then flew into more invective. ‘That pious prick of a poltroon.’

  ‘Patrick, if you’re going to use bad language I wish you’d lower your voice,’ scolded his wife.

  ‘I like that!’ Patrick directed himself to the priest. ‘Since I’ve been married to her I’ve had more Anglo-Saxon thrown at me than William the Conqueror.’

  ‘Not for some years,’ objected Thomasin. ‘And certainly not in the same house as my grandchildren. What if the doctor should walk in?’

  His temper ebbed. ‘Aye, ye’re right, I didn’t give it a thought. I’m sorry – I’m just so bloody mad.’

  ‘A
s I am,’ she answered. ‘But swearing’s not going to help Liam, is it?’

  Patrick seated himself once more. ‘So, ye mean to tell us, Liam, that you’re a lodger in your own house?’

  ‘As I said, ’tis Father Gilchrist’s house now. It goes with the job ye see, an’ not being the resident priest any more I’m not entitled to it.’

  ‘Not entitled, pfiff!’ Whiskey hit Patrick’s tonsils again. ‘However, Father G. very kindly said he’d not see me thrown out after so many years’ loyal service an’ me with no family to go to…’

  ‘Too kind.’

  ‘…he said I could stay on as his guest for he’d not need all that room for himself.’

  ‘Most noble of him,’ spat the other man. ‘God, Liam, ’tis criminal. How long have ye been in York – forty years?’

  ‘Forty-one.’

  ‘An’ all that time at the same church?’

  ‘Virtually,’ nodded Liam. ‘First the chapel, then the new church.’ Liam still called it the new church though it had been built fifteen years ago. ‘But that’s how things go.’ He sighed defeatedly. ‘I speak lightly of it but you being an old pal I must admit it came as a terrible shock. Oh, I knew he fancied my job all right. But…’ he groped for reason, ‘couldn’t he wait for me to die? I mean, look at me, Pat. Have y’ever seen a body nearer death? I can’t have more than a year or two to go. Though,’ he accomplished a chuckle, ‘I’ve been saying that since I reached my three score years and ten an’ here I still am almost a score later.’ The seriousness returned. ‘But I never envisaged retirement. I thought I’d be preaching till I dropped, that they’d have to scrape me up from the altar steps an’ drop me in the box there an’ then. I don’t know what to do with meself, Pat, an’ that’s a fact.’