Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  ‘My wife’s really branching out,’ murmured Patrick, eyes surveying the new fittings that smelt of sawdust. ‘How many has she working here now?’

  George counted on his fingers. ‘There’s me an’ three apprentices, Cook what works in the back – I’ll show you round there next, two lasses to help her, three in the shop an’ those two women in the stockroom…’ A hefty wagebill, thought Patrick. ‘An’ then o’ course there’s Mr Farthingale,’ added George. Patrick asked what position this man held. ‘Oh, he doesn’t work here, sir – I thought you’d know him, him being a business colleague o’ the missus’. Nice chap. There’s talk…’ he broke off, realising he had gone too far, but Patrick made him go on. ‘Tut! The mistress’d kill me if she knew… Oh well, I heard talk that the mistress was thinking of taking Mr Farthingale on as a partner.’

  Patrick thought aloud, ‘Why should she do that if she’s doing so well?’

  George didn’t know. ‘You won’t let on I’ve been tittle-tattlin’, sir?’

  ‘No… no, ’course not.’ Patrick was still thinking. As they went down again he continued to question the young man until they reached the counting house where Thomasin had just completed her work. Patrick thanked the young man for the guided tour, nudging Belle who thanked him for the sweets – the sweets she had consumed entirely by herself, Rosanna noticed.

  Thomasin agreed with Patrick’s observation that George was a nice young chap. ‘Yes. It’s a pity he hasn’t more up top and then I could delegate a little of my responsibility sometimes – that’s why I wanted to get this finished before we left, so’s he wouldn’t have much to do.’

  ‘When I grow up I’m going to help you, Nan,’ announced Nick.

  ‘Well, you’ve obviously enjoyed what you’ve seen,’ smiled Thomasin, threading her arm through the handle of a fringed bag. ‘I must say, I look forward to that, Nick. I wondered who was going to take over when I die – nobody else seems that bothered.’

  ‘Oh, I am! I want to sit in a counting house like this and build big piles of money.’

  ‘Oh, with an outlook like that you can come and work for me anytime.’

  ‘Today?’ asked the boy hopefully.

  ‘Don’t ye yvant to go to this fair, then?’ enquired Patrick.

  The children began screaming excitedly. ‘Ssh!’ ordered their grandmother. ‘You’ll frighten away all my customers and then where will we find our big piles of money?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘We should take more time off to do things like this,’ said Patrick as they wandered amid the bustle of the fairground, having to raise his voice above the clamour of hurdy-gurdy, vendors’ cries, yapping dogs and general hullabaloo.

  Thomasin smiled at him abstractedly over the heads of their grandchildren as they edged their way through the crowd, paying more attention to the window displays of her competitors. ‘What?’

  Though piqued at her distant expression he kept his smile. ‘For heaven’s sake will ye take your mind from your work for once.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I genuinely didn’t hear what you said,’ replied his wife. He repeated his statement. ‘Oh yes, lovely,’ she responded unconvincingly.

  ‘Roll up and see the freaks!’ shouted a raucous voice as they moved into the thick of the festivities.

  ‘What’s freaks, Gramps?’ asked Rosanna.

  Patrick answered with a question. ‘How would ye like a toffee-apple?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’ chorused the children, jumping up and down.

  ‘Come on then, let’s go get one.’ He held out his arm to slice a passage through the crowd, steering them away from the offending sideshow.

  After the toffee-apples had been consumed, leaving sticky red rings around mouths: ‘I want some silkworms,’ said Belle.

  ‘I want never gets,’ reproved Thomasin, pulling aside her skirts from sticky fingers.

  ‘Oh, let them have some,’ said her husband. ‘They’re only a penny.’

  ‘Patrick Feeney, if those children asked you to jump in the river I think you’d do it. You don’t build reputable characters by giving them everything they ask for.’

  She might just as well have saved her breath, for Patrick poured out handfuls of copper. The owner of the stall handed each a jar of silkworms – presumably they were there among the bunches of leaves – and collected the three pennies.

  ‘Mine are going to spin you some material for a dress, Nan,’ said Belle.

  Thomasin smiled. She had become quite fond of this child now that she was able to talk with her – even if she could be rather precocious. ‘They’ll have to put in a bit of overtime, there’s only half a dozen of them.’

  Rosanna was examining her own jar worriedly. ‘There’s none in mine.’

  Patrick reassured her, pointing. ‘They’re just hiding from ye. Look – there’s one.’

  ‘That’s not a worm,’ reproached his grand-daughter. ‘It’s a bit of fluff. The man’s a cheat.’

  ‘Now, you mustn’t say that about people, Rosanna – not without good reason anyway.’ Thomasin patted her head. ‘We’ll have a good look when we get home. If there are none in I’m sure Belle won’t mind sharing hers.’

  Belle clutched her jar to her chest, saying nothing but making it perfectly clear to her cousin that there would be no sharing.

  ‘Who’s Mr Farthingale?’ asked Patrick out of the blue as they meandered. There was the slightest stiffening of the arm linked with his but Patrick noticed it immediately. After almost thirty years of marriage he knew when a remark had disturbed Tommy.

  ‘Mr Farthingale?’ She repeated the name as though reacquainting herself. ‘He’s a friend of mine from the YAS. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Ye’d surely think it strange if I didn’t take an interest in your friends,’ replied Patrick lightly. He kept one eye on the children as they danced ahead of him. ‘How long have ye known him?’

  ‘Only since I joined the Society.’

  ‘A short time to establish one’s trust in a man who’s going to join forces with ye.’

  ‘I can see that George Ackworth has been letting his tongue run away with him,’ said Thomasin stiffly. ‘I shall have to have words with him when I return about breaches of confidence.’

  ‘Breach of confidence?’ He stopped dead and turned to her. ‘I’m your husband, not a business rival.’

  ‘That’s not the point. You could’ve been for all George cared. I won’t have my employees blabbing their mouths off – especially when they’re not supposed to know about it in the first place.’ She set off again, he with her. ‘Anyway, nothing’s definite. Francis and I have been…’

  ‘Francis?’

  She returned his swift examination. ‘Francis Farthingale. We’ve merely mentioned the possibilities of him joining me as a partner. Nothing’s been signed.’

  ‘Ye might’ve “merely mentioned” it to me. I felt a bit of a fool when young George was spouting away there assuming I knew all that went on in the store.’

  ‘But you’ve never shown much interest before – why now?’ It was a superfluous question; she knew very well why.

  He responded to her query with a question of his own. ‘Why haven’t I met this Mr Farthingale? If you’re on first-name terms with him I would’ve expected ye to have invited him for dinner.’ She was always throwing dinner parties, making him feel cloddish with her genteel friends.

  Thomasin didn’t like where this was leading. ‘He’s not my lover, if that’s what you’re suggesting, Patrick!’

  He let go of her arm in order that they might pass through a narrow gap, making sure the children were within a safe distance. ‘Did I say he was?’

  She chose not to take his arm again. ‘You didn’t have to. I can tell what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ The noise of the fair was beginning to aggravate. ‘Why haven’t I met him, then?’

  ‘Have you met Mr Sledwick?’ she threw at him. ‘Mr Graves? Mr Castleford? You’re surely not im
plying I bring home all my business associates so my husband can inspect them?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I was just trying to show an interest. I thought maybe that’s where I’d been going wrong. If I’d shown more interest in your work then perhaps ye’d be more inclined to tell me things an’ wouldn’t have to jump down my throat when I ask an innocent question.’

  She stopped and faced him, the crowd snaking round them, nudging them. ‘But it wasn’t innocent, was it? You do think Francis and I are more than just friends.’

  ‘I didn’t say it.’

  ‘No, but you damn well thought it!’ The old Tommy spirit flared, then just as quickly turned to exasperation. ‘Oh, I’m not wasting an afternoon being put through interrogation when I’ve plenty of work I could be seeing to. You can manage the children on your own – I’m sure they won’t miss their stuffy old grandmother. I’ll see you this evening.’ She began to walk away.

  He put out a restraining hand. ‘Tommy, this is the first time we’ve spent together in ages…’

  She turned on him. ‘And you’ve gone and spoilt it with your childish, jealous probing! Look to the children, they’ll get lost.’

  He flung a hectic glance at the children who were being enveloped by the crowd. When he turned back she had widened the gap. ‘Tommy!’ He hailed her with a desperate look at the children, then, ‘Oh!’ He dashed after them.

  ‘Where’s Nan got to?’ asked Belle when he caught up.

  ‘She says she’s sorry but she got called back to the store. There’s a crisis.’

  ‘What’s a crisis?’ Rosie wanted to know.

  ‘It’s… oh, it’s when something important goes wrong,’ said her grandfather. Doesn’t it always?

  ‘Who came for her? Was it George?’ Rosanna found herself being dragged after her brother.

  ‘Quiet, ninny!’ he hissed in her ear. ‘They’ve had a row and Nan’s gone off in a huff.’

  Patrick, overhearing but pretending not to, marvelled at the observance of his young grandson. Nick never said much but noticed everything. He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade any o’ yese to have a ride on them gallopers?’

  This was met by a general clamour for money which Patrick supplied and the three rushed off to claim a seat on the carousel, Patrick following. He stood and watched with the crowd as the merry-go-round rotated, thinking of his wife’s words, wondering what this Farthingale man was like. He knew it was crazy to be jealous – oh yes, Tommy had been right there – jealous of this one man among all the others his wife met in connection with her work. But it was when she had said his name – Francis. Until then his query had been harmless enough.

  The roundabout stopped. Patrick stepped forward to receive his grandchildren. They must have disembarked on the other side. He strolled around the collection of painted horses until he found them.

  ‘May we have a go on the lucky bag, Gramps?’ asked Rosanna, leaping off her golden steed into his arms, flying skirts revealing her drawers.

  He gasped laughingly as she thudded into him, placing her on her feet. ‘Aye, I suppose so. Just let’s get Belle down.’ He held his arms out to his other grand-daughter.

  ‘I can do it, Gramps!’ She swung her right leg over the horse’s back and slithered down to the platform.

  ‘Careful now. Good girl.’

  ‘I want to jump off.’

  ‘No!’ He snatched her up before she had the chance. ‘Your mother’d have me planted alongside the praties.’ He put her down beside Nick. ‘Now then, what did Rosie say she wanted to do?’ He looked around for her. She was nowhere to be seen. ‘Nick, where’s your sister?’

  ‘She’s already gone to the lucky bag,’ Nick pointed. ‘Over that way.’

  ‘Ye oughtn’t to have let her go,’ reproved Patrick. ‘Come on, Belle.’ He hurried them through the crush to the nearest lucky bag holder, but when they arrived Rosanna wasn’t there. ‘Is there another lucky bag besides this?’ Patrick asked the man.

  ‘What’s up, isn’t this’n posh enough for yer?’ was the stallholder’s reply.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man, I meant no offence.’ Patrick was irritable. ‘I’m searching for my grand-daughter an’ she said she wanted the lucky bag. Is there another besides yours?’

  The man tossed his hand to the right. ‘I think there’s two more over that road.’

  Patrick turned to the children and spoke to them seriously. ‘Look, you two’d best stay put. I can find her better on me own. Here, take these pennies an’ have a go on this stall – but don’t budge, d’ye hear?’ He pelted off, excusing himself as he jostled people in the crowd.

  Rosanna was not at either of the places the man had indicated. Patrick’s concern grew. The long street was packed, he could be going round in circles all afternoon and still not find her. He searched about him frantically, then dashed from stall to stall, bombarding the vendors with questions as to her whereabouts. Then he spotted a brief flash of pink bow-ribbon through a parting in the crowd. Straining on tiptoe for a better look he finally saw her – holding the hand of a rough-looking character. The Fallons! The tinkers had come back to claim her!

  No excuse-me’s this time. He barged roughly through the squash, eyes firmly fixed on the lank head of the tinker whose hand Rosanna held. ‘What’s yer bleedin’ rush? Oy, yer clumsy bastard!’ He ignored the abuse at his bad manners and forged on. There she was! He stumbled the last few steps, grabbed her and swung her into a protective embrace. The tinker pivoted swiftly. ‘What the bleedin’ hell’s this, mister?’

  Patrick’s mouth fell agape as the little girl struggled and kicked in his arms. ‘Oh, Mother o’God, I’m sorry!’ Rapidly he put the child on her feet where she escaped to her father. The wrong child! The girl who now clung to the tinker, glaring at him, had Rosanna’s long hair with the pink bow-ribbon in it but that was the only resemblance.

  This child’s attire was distinctly more poor. He felt his neck redden and swiftly apologised again. ‘I’ve lost my grand-daughter, ye see. I thought ’twas her…’

  ‘And why would I want her?’ asked the tinker dangerously.

  How could Patrick tell him the truth? That he himself had kidnapped Rosie from her tinker grandparents and brought his son’s child to live with him and Thomasin where she might have the best of everything. The crowd pressed the men closer together. He held out a coin to the tinker, apologising profusely. The man played him with challenging eyes for a few worrying seconds, then snatched the sovereign and moved briskly away, dragging the child after him. Patrick ran a palm from his forehead over his hair, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was getting as bad as Erin. Where the hell was that child?

  * * *

  Belle was scowling imperiously at the urchin who openly inspected her. ‘What are you staring at, boy? Go away this instant.’ It had not taken long for them to dispose of Grandfather’s pennies and now they must wait here enduring the unwelcome company of this ragged tyke.

  ‘Free country, I can stand where I like,’ replied the snub-nosed offender.

  ‘Not if you’re making a nuisance of yourself,’ corrected Nick.

  ‘I’m not makin’ a nuisance of meself, I’m just looking at her.’ The boy scraped a finger round the crease of his ear, eyes adhered to Belle.

  ‘You’re staring,’ said Nick. ‘And it’s rude to stare.’

  ‘Why’s she gorra bent back, then?’ demanded the other, doing a tour around Belle who moved her head to follow him. Long before his observation she had come to understand what her mother had meant when she said ‘you’re different’. If the experimental hands and the mirror had failed to tell her, the stares had not. What she could not grasp was why this physical disability should draw forth scorn. Wasn’t everyone different from everyone else? Then why did Belle come in for all the adverse attention?

  ‘Mind your own business. Take no notice of him, Belle.’

  ‘I was only askin’ a civil question.’

 
; ‘You were being bloody rude.’ It made Nick feel older – surer – using the swear word.

  ‘And who’re you to call me rude, Lord Muck?’ The boy looked him up and down derisively.

  ‘I’m one of your betters,’ replied Nick airily. ‘And if you don’t stop hectoring my cousin I shall have to give you a mashed nose.’

  The urchin sized Nick up and, seeing that the boy would most probably be well able to fulfil his threat, decided to concentrate on the girl. Who did these people think they were, calling him names? Just ’cause they had fancy clothes didn’t mean they were any better than him. He continued to stroll around Belle, making comments.

  ‘Why’re you being so rude?’ she questioned. ‘What have I done to you?’

  ‘I can look if I want to. I haven’t seen nobody like you before.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him, Belle,’ warned Nick. ‘Don’t let him upset you.’

  ‘Upset, by an upstart like him? Pooh!’

  The urchin returned her level stare. Just look at her, Miss Hoity-Toity. He suddenly wanted very badly to see her cry for looking at him in that superior manner. ‘You’re ugly,’ he told her bluntly.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ returned Belle, a pulse in her neck starting to pound.

  ‘He’s just being a pig,’ said Nick. ‘Shall I bunch him for you?’

  ‘I don’t need you to stick up for me. I can deal with rubbish like him myself. Besides,’ she tilted her nose in the air, trying to look nonchalant, ‘he doesn’t bother me in the least.’

  Annoyed at her calmness the boy humped his shoulders and started to imitate her, prancing up and down and making weird noises.

  ‘I don’t know who he thinks he’s supposed to be,’ said Belle to Nick.

  ‘This is what you look like.’ The boy’s arms swung low like a gorilla’s.

  ‘No, it isn’t. Only monkeys look like that.’ Belle stared at him dispassionately though inside a furnace raged.

  Nick marvelled at how calm she was for a six-year-old when he, three years her senior, was hopping mad. He stepped forward but she caught his sleeve. ‘I said I don’t need your help, Nicholas. He’s just making an ass of himself.’