‘An’ Ireland’d love to see you, I’m sure,’ said Patrick, rubbing his cheek to hers.
Just then the door opened and Erin came in. There was the usual chorus of protest. ‘Never mind all that,’ she told them. ‘Bedtime. Come on now, before Nan gets in. She’ll be cross if she has to put up with your chattering after a hard day’s work.’
‘Could I go out with Grandfather tomorrow?’ asked Belle hopefully. ‘Just for a little while.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Ye’ll need to catch up with the work ye missed today. Mr Ingleton wasn’t too pleased, I can tell ye, when he found ye’d skipped lessons to go the fair.’ Belle turned to Patrick for support, her eyes pleading, but Patrick merely kissed her. ‘Go on now, be a good girl for your mammy. We’ll have another outing one o’ these days.’
Belle looked up at her mother. ‘Is my father dead?’ Erin was startled. This was the first reference Belle had ever made to Sam. True, she herself had not wanted to remind the child of her loss and so had not mentioned him, but once Belle had gained the power of speech Erin had been expecting some query. There had been none.
When her mother did not answer immediately the child added, ‘Gramps’ father died – did mine die too?’
Erin glanced at Patrick, then, after a second, nodded and gave a quiet, ‘Yes.’
‘Will I get another one?’
‘No.’ Her mother was quite definite.
Belle was used to getting what she asked for. ‘I want one.’
‘Well, ye can’t have one!’ When the little girl demanded to know why, Erin said, ‘Some people have fathers an’ some don’t. That’s all there is to it. Now come on to bed.’
Belle didn’t appear to be too perturbed at this refusal and wished her grandfather goodnight.
‘Goodnight, my pet. Goodnight, Nick. ’Night, Rosie darlin’. Sleep tight.’
Left alone with only his pipe he began to chew over his memories, pretty soon feeling downright maudlin. Where was Tommy? Was she out with that Farthingale fellow? Damn, it was no good sitting here wondering, she’d do as she pleased anyway. He would pay Liam a call. He wasn’t due to visit until Sunday but was sure he would receive a warm reception from his old friend.
* * *
Poor Father Kelly, bedridden for some time now due to his ulcerated leg, was enormously pleased to have any company, especially Patrick’s. He slapped his newspaper on the bed in delight as the housekeeper showed the visitor in.
‘Pat, me boy! Ah, God love ye this is a surprise. ’Twasn’t till Sunday I was expecting to see anybody. Sit down, sit down.’ He watched fondly as Patrick hauled a wicker chair up to the bedside and lowered his bulk into it.
‘Ah well, I can’t be accused of philanthropy, Liam, I’m afraid,’ said his guest, smiling. ‘I have an ulterior motive for coming.’
‘If it’s my money you’re after then ye’ve wasted your shoe leather,’ Liam told him. ‘I’ve not seen so much as a half-farthing for weeks. Father Gilchrist sees to all my wants – or so he’d have ye believe. Have ye ever seen a man suffering from unrequited thirst? Well, you’re looking at one now. Not a drop have I tasted since last Tuesday. He’s forbidden Mrs Lucas to bring me any liquor, says ’tis bad for the leg and my soul, the hound.’
‘It came to my ears that ye’re also suffering great pain from colic.’ Patrick tugged a flask from his pocket. ‘So I brought ye a bottle o’ Yellow Mixture. ’Tis very efficacious for the windipops, so they tell me. I never touch the stuff meself.’
Liam crossed himself. ‘Oh, chivalry beyond expectation,’ and untopped the flask. ‘Go have a spy on the landing, Pat, will ye? See if Funny Franks the Laughter Manufacturer is about.’
Patrick opened the door a crack and peered to right and left. ‘You’re safe, old lad. Oil your tonsils.’
‘Sláinte.’ Liam gave the flask a brisk upwards tilt, then gasped as the whiskey stung the back of his throat. ‘Ah, God, that’s wonderful.’ He leaned over to his bedside table and took up an empty glass, using that for his next measure and handing the flask back to its owner who employed the tiny silver cup that went with it.
‘I’ll just take a drop, I’d not deprive a parched man.’
Liam watched over his glass. ‘A veritable martyr. Now, ye said ye had an ulterior motive for coming.’
Pat gave a crooked smile. ‘Ah, not really. ’Tis just that I was sat there all on me own an’ it made me think of you. So, I thought us two old soaks ought to get together.’
‘Less o’ the “old” business.’ Liam held out his glass for a refill. ‘Tommy still as busy as ever?’
‘Aye.’ Pat spoke into his drink, then rolled the whiskey around his tongue, savouring it. ‘Ah, hell, Liam, ’tis no good, I’ll have to get it off me chest. I think… well, I think it may not be just work that’s keeping her out late.’
‘Another man?’
Patrick nodded glumly and leaned his elbows on his knees. ‘We were going to have such a lovely afternoon at the fair. I persuaded Erin to let Belle out of her manacles for an hour an’ we all went off to collect Tommy at the store. It was when one o’ the boys there mentioned the name… I’d never heard Tommy mention it herself. When I asked her about the man I nearly got me ears chewed off.’
‘Did she admit to having a relationship with this man?’
‘She’d hardly do that, would she?’
‘Was there any hint from the boy who divulged the man’s name – what was it by the way?’
‘Farthingale, Francis Farthingale. Sounds like somebody out of a bloody nursery rhyme. No, as far as anybody else is concerned – me too at first – he’s just a business colleague. But the way she flew at me when I broached the subject made me think there’s more to it.’
‘What d’ye intend to do?’
‘I’m buggered if I know. I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for the bunching stakes.’ Patrick stared out of the window at the beautiful summery evening.
Liam syphoned his glass and picked up the flask again, swilling it about to test the volume of its contents. ‘It’s no good, ye’ll have to get a bigger flask than this, Pat. ’Tis a spit on a sponge to one so desiccated. May I?’
Patrick indicated that the priest was welcome to take whatever there was, his own glass barely touched. Liam placed the replenished glass on the bedside table showing, he considered, great restraint.
‘I’ll have to make that last. It’ll probably be the only one I get for a while. Funny how the stuff hits ye when ye’ve suffered so much enforced abstinence. I feel quite impish. Now then, about this woman o’ yours. Ye say ye’ve not met the man?’ Pat shook his head. ‘Well, I’m pleased to say I can enlighten ye.’
‘You’ve met him?’ Pat was instantly alert.
‘I have – though it was two years ago an’ only the once. But ’twas enough for me to form an impression. He presented himself as an intelligent and sensible chap, a little older than yourself I’d hazard. I had quite a long confab with him about the state o’ the city’s churches. I recall his deep concern at the amount of mediaeval architecture that was being indiscriminately razed. Got quite passionate about it.’
‘That would follow,’ mused Pat. ‘She said she’d met him at the Architectural Society.’
‘He also spoke briefly about his wife…’
‘He’s married, then?’
‘He was at the time, but I doubt he will be now. She was dying, poor woman. I never heard anything afterwards but I should say he’s almost certainly a widower. Though I made him to be a man of the utmost integrity, I doubt he’d stoop to stealing another’s wife. ’Tis my thinking you’re doing them both a dishonour.’ Liam’s hand shot out in a playful cuff at Patrick’s bent head. ‘Come on, Pat, ye know where your jealousy landed ye before.’
Patrick remained grim-faced. ‘I had just cause to be jealous that time.’
‘Perhaps, but I think in this instance ’tis your wild imagination leaping to conclusions – the wrong ones. Why don’t ye invite the m
an to your home? Ye’ll soon see if there’s anything going on.’
Patrick grinned then. ‘That’s a novel idea: a man inviting his wife’s lover to dinner.’
‘He’s not her lover an’ you know it, otherwise ye’d not be sat there laughing.’ Liam used his last drink sparingly.
‘D’ye know, I believe I’m getting worse with age,’ proclaimed Patrick. ‘I sat there at home visualising all sorts o’ things. Thank God I’ve still a friend like you to knock some sense into me. Ah well now, less o’ me. How’s life treating you these days?’
‘Diabolical,’ replied Liam tartly. ‘That man has taken my every pleasure – well almost.’ He waved a newspaper at Patrick. ‘I still manage to pick a few winners. Mrs Lucas helps in that quarter by taking my slips round to Danny Molloy’s. Doesn’t realise o’ course. Poor soul thinks she’s been entrusted with ecclesiastical missives.’
Patrick laughed heartily and consulted the paper. ‘Let’s see what himself is tipping for tomorrow.’
‘Don’t waste your eyesight, the fella couldn’t tip a bucket o’ slops.’
‘Have ye had any winners yourself lately?’
Liam replied that he was due to pick up four pounds ten. ‘Listen, if I pass on the benefit of my knowledge of horseflesh for tomorrow would ye crave me a boon, kind sir?’ He pulled a piece of paper from beneath his pillow. ‘Take this to Danny’s an’ collect me winnings. I think Father G. is getting suspicious of all Mrs Lucas’ comings an’ goings.’
‘I’ll fetch it on Sunday,’ promised Patrick, leaving the betting slip where Liam had dropped it on the bedspread.
‘Don’t bother. Ye can stop off at the King Willie an’ exchange it for a month’s supply o’ gripewater.’
Patrick smiled reflectively. ‘My, I haven’t been near the place in years. I wonder if it still has the same clientele.’
‘It must’ve been hard for ye, breaking off with all your old pals,’ ventured Liam, referring to the year the Feeneys’ inheritance had taken them into a more favourable district. ‘D’ye never see Molly Flaherty or any of the old crowd now?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Not since she turned up unexpectedly at Erin’s wedding. I daren’t show me face after the reception she got. Mother o’Mercy that’s ten years ago.’ Another shake of head. ‘I expect you still see her from time to time though, an’ Ghostie an’ the others. How are they all?’
Liam’s face looked its true age as sadness took over. ‘You know as much as I do. I never get the chance to talk with them now. If my leg does allow me to get to Mass Father G. keeps me well out o’ the way. Molly’s still with us as far as I know. Ghostie passed on, God protect him, and Jimmy Ryan, Michael Flynn, Thomas Grogan… the list’s endless. Isn’t it strange? Here’s me nudging ninety and still going, an’ none o’ them a day over sixty – some much less – all dead an’ gone.’
‘I wonder if their grandchildren have it any better than they did,’ meditated Patrick. ‘God, when I think o’ some o’ the places they lived in…’
Liam was grave. ‘’Tis no better. They’re still living in hovels that should have been condemned forty years ago. Ye can imagine what they’re like now.’
‘’Tis time they blew the whole bloody place up,’ said Patrick strenuously. ‘Somebody ought to do something about it.’ He caught the slight arch to Liam’s brow and hung his head sheepishly. ‘Aye, you’re right, Liam, I’ve no cause to be shouting the odds. Me, with my big fancy house an’ full table, my servants, strong, healthy grandchildren who’ve never known hunger like we did. If anybody should be doing something about it then ’tis me; me who upped an’ left my friends fifteen years ago an’ never spared a thought for them since. I blamed that on Tommy wanting to act like a lady, but if I’d really given a damn about them I wouldn’t’ve let that stop me.’
‘Your trouble, Pat, was that ye felt ye didn’t fit in anywhere. Am I right?’ Pat nodded. ‘Your old friends saw ye in your smart clothes an’ felt awkward with ye, as ye did amongst them. Yet ye’ve not quite managed to make the same transition as your wife. Her friends intimidate ye with their impeccable manners and conversations about finance, stocks an’ shares, things ye have no interest in. So you’re left in a state o’ limbo with only a poor old priest who’s got death-watch beetle, rising damp… an’ terminal wind.’ With these last words he grinned and examined his glass.
Patrick covered the wrinkled hand that lay on the counterpane. ‘An’ I’m glad I’ve got you, Liam. You’re as dear as a father to me.’
‘Stop it, you’re making me cry.’
Pat slapped the hand affectionately. ‘Ah, didn’t we used to have some times? ’Twas hard but it was good. Everybody looked after each other. We might not have had much money but at least we were happy.’
‘An’ you’re not happy now?’
Pat shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly unhappy; the children see to that. God, I love those bairns, Liam. I do wish Erin could be more flexible; she’s driving that child much too hard. Matter o’ fact we had a bit of a set-to over it this morning… Sam’s death altered her, ye know. I often wonder, if Belle’s intelligence hadn’t come to light, just how long Erin would’ve lasted. She seems to live for nothing else but to see that child through her education.’
‘Education’s no bad thing.’
‘Thomasin’s words, and I’d agree – but in moderation, Liam, not the way Erin’s been going about it. Belle never gets a moment to play unless it’s on an instrument. No childish pastimes, her mother says.’
‘Listen, ye’ll have to bring the girl along some time. Tell Erin I’ve asked to hear the old harp – it’d not be a downright lie, I’d love to hear the girl play like her mother used to, but maybe we’ll find time to indulge in a little childish pastime, too.’
The two men sat in silence for a spell, Patrick’s lower lip jutting out as he mused. ‘Ye know, I think ye got it right when ye said I was in limbo. I can’t come to grips with meself lately. Don’t know what it is. I can only describe the feeling as restless. I feel as if I’m not doing an honest day’s work, just overseeing the men. There should be something more… an’ then there’s this business with Tommy. I see less an’ less of her these days, Liam. Ever since the fire when we lost Dickie she’s taken to wearing this armour. Ye can’t see it but sure as hell the minute ye put out a hand to touch her ’tis there. It’s so obvious ye can almost hear it clanking. ’Tis as if she blames me for Dickie’s death.’ He tossed the remainder of his drink into his mouth. ‘Oh come on, don’t get me on that one again. I came here to be cheered up.’ He snatched up the paper again. ‘Are ye going to let me have those winners for tomorrow, then?’
Liam winked and rummaged under his pillow again. ‘Get those copied out.’ Another slip of paper floated onto the coverlet. ‘An’ ye can put my money on at the same time, take it out of my winnings.’
Patrick rubbed his hands, then reached into his pocket for pipe and tobacco. ‘Will ye join me, Liam? I’ve a spare one here some place.’
‘Patrick Feeney, you’re procuring this young fella to evil ways.’ Liam accepted the clay pipe, plugged it with his friend’s tobacco and lit up. The room was infused with a perfumed haze. ‘Ah, heaven indeed.’ Liam sighed contentedly, pipe in mouth, glass in hand, and relaxed against his pillow. ‘Ye’re a good pal, Patrick, I shall miss ye when I go-’
Patrick continued the conversation as he copied Liam’s tips into a notebook. ‘Is there anything else you’re in need of, apart from more medicine?’
‘If it’s in your power to order a thunderbolt for Father G. I’d be in your eternal debt. My powers of persuasion seem to be failing me lately. God, the man gets worse. He’s well-named I can tell ye: Gilchrist – servant of Christ. Sure, I’ve never met anyone quite so pious. I’ll bet he even pees Holy Water, God forgive the blasphemy. ’Tis a real eye-opener to see him working on the Bishop, Pat. I got a visit from himself the other day, just to see if I’d expired or anything. Father G. didn’t dare let the man out
of his sight, crawling round his ankles like a fawning dog. I tell ye, the Bish wouldn’t need his shoes cleaning for a week after he left here. Ah,’ he relented slightly, ‘he’s not such a bad bloke himself, ’tis just this aching leg making me say all these uncharitable things. He brought me some books to read, seemed genuinely concerned about my state of health. No, ’tis Father G. that poisoned his mind, making out he was worried about the job being too taxing for me. The Bishop is an artless soul, he didn’t realise he was being manipulated.’
‘He’d best watch out,’ said Pat. ‘Father G. will be having his job next.’
‘Well, that’s the odd thing about the fella – oh, if it were only the one – he’s not ambitious. Well, when I say that you’re to take it very loosely. No, I don’t believe he has any wish to go further up the ecclesiastical ladder because promotion would detract from his role of humble parish priest, sacrificing his all for the sake of his God. D’ye know the man’s never off his knees. There’s a great dint in front of the altar where he kneels. Every Mass the hollow gets more worn an’ he sinks lower an’ lower. Won’t be long before he’s taking Mass from the crypt. Sure, we’ll have to start a fund for the restoration of the church. D’ye know, Pat, he makes me feel like Barabbas he’s so bloody good.’
‘Nobody’s that good, Liam. Ye can be sure he’ll come unstuck one o’ these days.’
‘Aye, that’s what I keep telling meself. Ye can cover a pile o’ horsemuck with roses but the smell will always creep through to tell ye ’tis still a heap o’ shi… ah, hello, Father Gilchrist! Weren’t we just discussing your good self.’ The subject of Liam’s discontent had made a sudden entry, nostrils quivering at the clouds of tobacco-smoke that swirled like fog around his head.
‘I was unaware that you had visitors, Father.’ The younger priest’s eyes alighted on the flask and glasses.
Liam saw the look of disapproval. He stuck his pipe between amused lips and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I’m sorry ye didn’t come sooner, I’m unable to offer you any sustenance now.’
Erin’s Child Page 23