‘You are quite familiar with my views on alcohol, Father,’ replied the other sternly, coming further into the room and addressing himself now to Patrick. ‘Mr Feeney, if your visits to Father Kelly are to continue might one request that you do not pollute his sickroom with tobacco-smoke?’ He crossed to the window and flung it open. ‘And I must also protest strongly at my house being turned into a taproom. I specificaUy asked Father Kelly to discontinue his unworthy penchant for liquor. He is a very ill man. You are, I believe, supposed to be a friend of his? Then you will do him the utmost benefit by restricting your habits to your own home.’ He was about to move on when he spied the betting slip on the bed. His face turned white as he picked it up between thumb and forefinger. ‘And what, pray, is this?’
‘Sure, you’re holding it as though I’ve wiped me arse on it,’ slurred Liam, the whiskey coarsening his tongue. ‘’Tis only a list of horses’ names.’
‘I can see very well what it is,’ replied Father Gilchrist, his face advertising his repugnance of the gutter language employed by the old man.
‘Oh, you use Danny Molloy too, d’ye?’ asked Liam mischievously. Patrick, biting his lip, sat awkwardly between the two.
‘Father Kelly, I regard this as a serious matter! I refuse to allow my house to be used for immoral purposes.’
Liam feigned shock. ‘God, don’t tell me Mrs Lucas has taken to peddling her body?’
The young priest turned on Patrick. ‘Mr Feeney, I must insist that you leave as you are obviously the instigator of Father Kelly’s unseemly behaviour.’
‘Just a moment, Father…’ began Patrick.
‘Do you deny that it was you who smuggled tobacco and liquor in here?’ demanded Father Gilchrist.
‘That’s an odd choice of word, Father. I merely brought them as gifts for my old friend. He doesn’t seem able to obtain them in his own house.’
The priest tucked in his chin. ‘Mr Feeney, what sort of a man is it that encourages a sick and ageing priest in these demoralising pastimes?’
Patrick laughed uncomfortably. ‘Father Gilchrist, ’tis only a pipe an’ a glass o’ good whiskey.’
‘And what of this?’ Father Gilchrist flourished the betting slip. ‘Will you deny that this is yours?’
Before Patrick could answer Liam slurred gaily, ‘’Tis mine, Mr Feeney was simply doing me a good turn by collecting my winnings.’
‘The devil’s disciple reaping the harvest of vice.’ Father Gilchrist’s voice was an accusing hiss. ‘Are you both not ashamed to admit to such dealings? And you, Father Kelly, a man of the cloth.’
‘Not any more,’ replied Liam, losing his befuddled smile, becoming hard. ‘’Twas you who robbed me of my bit o’ cloth, Father.’
‘That is most unjust of you,’ returned the other in a hurt voice. ‘You are a sick man, Father. It would be inconceivable that you be expected to carry on with your ministerings in such a condition.’
‘I am sick, yes!’ spat Liam. ‘Sick to bloody death o’ you telling me that all this is for me own good. There’s only one person gained from me being stuck in this bed – an’ that’s you.’
‘Father Kelly!’ The other priest lost his calm and his voice rose above the normal low disapprobation. ‘I would ask you to remember that you remain in this house at my intervention. You would have been at the workhouse, were it not for me. It is my home which you defile with your ungodly pursuits.’
Liam turned to Patrick. ‘If this is what we get for having an innocent tête-à-tête we might as well make it worth our while an’ have a couple o’ women in here next time.’ Father Gilchrist surrendered the last shreds of self-control. He launched himself at Liam, calling him a worthless priest and a disgrace to his vocation. ‘I will no longer honour you with the title Father! You will burn in Hell for your defilement of the cloth. I am going to speak to the Bishop about this. My charity does not extend to seeing my house so ill-used.’ He turned to go.
‘Oh, Father,’ called Liam pleasantly. The priest spun round. ‘Don’t be forgetting to take your hammer and nails.’
‘God, you’re a terrible man,’ said Patrick as the door slammed. ‘I hope you’re well-stocked with asbestos.’ Liam sighed at his empty glass, then put it aside. ‘A few years ago his words might’ve frightened me but not any more. When I throw myself on Our Lord’s mercy I trust He’ll be the same person I’ve been taking orders from for the last seventy years. He’d not commit a man to the eternal flame for enjoying a couple o’ glasses o’ fine whiskey.’ He took his friend’s hand. ‘Pat… I want ye to make me two promises.’
‘Anything.’ Patrick squeezed.
‘After I’m gone…’
‘Aw, Liam…’
‘No, listen. After I’m gone I want ye to promise that however much Father Gilchrist annoys ye, ye won’t let him drive ye from the church. It took me a long time to coax ye back into the fold after the last upset, I’ll not be here to do it again. Please, Pat, promise me ye won’t give up on the faith. Change your place of worship if ye like. The priest at St George’s now is a lovely man, nothing like McNaughlty. Do this for me, son.’
Patrick inclined his head with a quiet promise.
‘Ah, that’s good.’ Liam slapped the captive hand in gratitude. ‘Now the other thing: I’ve always wanted to go back to my birthplace but the church has commanded my life. The only time I’m likely to get back there now is when I die. The favour I ask of ye is, will ye ship my body home when I’m gone? I’ve little money, as ye know…’
Patrick swiftly waved aside the need for money. ‘But ye’ll be with us a long time yet, Liam. Sure, I thought ye were trying for the century.’
‘Maybe, maybe, but I’d rest easier in my mind if I knew I was going home to the place I love.’
‘Sure, I’m more worried about the present situation,’ said Patrick. ‘The bugger won’t jib at throwing ye out. Still, ye won’t be short of a place to go, and yes, I’ll do what ye ask, Liam.’ He shook the liver-spotted hand, then chuckled. ‘Has it crossed your mind that I could go first?’
‘What, an’ you a mere youngster of sixty-one? I don’t think.’ Liam smiled and kept a grip on Pat’s hand, holding him also with a fond eye. ‘Have you no itch to see the Old Country again, Pat?’
The other sighed. ‘I have – desperately sometimes. But I’ll probably be like you an’ only go back in a box.’ He released the old man’s hand and began to rise slowly. ‘I’d best make a move, Liam. ’Tis getting late.’
‘Aye, your good lady’ll likely be there to meet ye when ye get home.’
‘Beat me, ye mean. I’ll be round on Sunday with the old Yellow Mixture.’
‘You do that. This colic o’ mine seems to be getting worse by the second.’
Patrick gave the old priest a farewell smile and went downstairs to collect his hat from the hallstand. Father Gilchrist intercepted him before he reached the front exit.
‘Mr Feeney.’ Patrick turned unsmiling eyes on the priest. ‘It is regrettable that I must ask you not to call on Father Kelly any more. I feel that you are an adverse influence.’
Patrick had to laugh, but the sound was not one of amusement. ‘Ye can ask all ye like, Father, but I shall still be here on Sunday all the same.’
‘The door will be barred to you.’
‘Then I’ll just have to break it down, won’t I?’ answered Patrick breezily. ‘Goodnight to ye.’
* * *
Thomasin was not in the drawing room when he arrived home. At first he thought she was still out and his temper returned, but on his way up to their room he spotted the jacket she had been wearing tossed carelessly over the mahogany stand. His entry to the bedroom brought her sleepy eyes to the door. He closed it gently and moved across the flowered carpet to disrobe.
‘I thought you were in bed,’ she disclosed. ‘That’s why I came up. Where’ve you been?’
He glanced at her but said nothing as he tugged the dark-brown cravat from his neck.
S
he was quiet for a while, watching him undress, then said, ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon, Pat. I had no reason to go for you like that.’
‘Didn’t ye?’ He sat on a chair to pull off his boots which he left where they had fallen. ‘Will ye tell me there’s nothing between you an’ this Farthingale?’
‘No, I won’t tell you that,’ she responded honestly. ‘But it’s riot what you’re imagining. Francis is still in love with his wife – she’s dead, by the way.’
‘I know, Liam told me.’ Patrick continued to disrobe.
‘Oh, you’ve been discussing me.’ The statement bore a spattering of annoyance.
‘I was worried about ye. I needed to discuss it with a friend.’
‘That’s something we all need; a friend to tell our troubles to. Patrick, I’m fifty-five years old, isn’t it time you stopped regarding every male I talk to as if he’s going to steal my virtue? Francis is my friend as Liam is yours, nothing more.’
He was naked now. She thought what a marvellous physique he had for a man of his years and wished her own body had weathered so well. There was no loose flesh on his stomach, no pouches of fat to hang over his waistband. His limbs, if not as muscular as they had been at thirty, nevertheless were still firm; when he moved there was no tripe-like wobble. He climbed into bed. Choosing not to lie down he jacked himself on one elbow and looked down at the small face on the pillow. ‘There used to be a time when we didn’t need anyone else to talk to but each other.’
Her grey eyes remained fixed to the ceiling. ‘That seems like a long time ago.’
‘It does. Liam an’ me were just going over old times tonight.’ His fingers selected a piece of ribbon on her nightgown which he used as a plaything as he talked.
‘How is Liam?’
‘The leg’s still troubling him but not as much as Father G. does. I’ve been warned not to go again.’
She perused him sleepily. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, ’tis just Father Gilchrist’s way o’ showing his authority.’ He had a sudden urge to cup her cheek in his palm and gave in to it. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘I’ve been at a YAS meeting.’ She frowned. ‘I hope all this fund-raising we’re doing for Saint Crux will put paid to the gossip about pulling it down. Francis is very worried.’
He stroked her cheek with a leather-like thumb. ‘Is that why you’re so fond o’ this Farthingale, because he shares your passion for preserving history?’
‘Partly,’ she divulged. ‘But also because he’s a very nice man. He’s been a tremendous help to me. You’d like him, I’m sure.’
‘Then why don’t ye invite him for dinner some evening?’ he suggested.
She smiled, grateful and not a little surprised at this softening. ‘Why thank you, I will.’
He kissed her then. She folded an arm round his neck and stroked the hair at his nape with a forefinger. His lips became fired and his hands moved under the blankets to wander over her body. They made love then, not with the passion of their youth but with an unhurried languor born of familiarity. Afterwards, listening to Thomasin’s soft snores, he experienced the act again in his mind. She had denied him nothing – as loving as ever – but he was troubled.
He might still be in possession of her body, but her mind belonged to someone else.
Chapter Fifteen
Abigail sighed noisily as one of the bells on the rack jingled for the third time in thirty minutes. ‘Don’t tell me, Mrs Howgego.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I don’t have to look to see it’s Mrs Fenton’s bell. I’m gonna be hearing bells in me sleep if this goes on much longer. I mean, how do they expect to have their luncheon on the table if I’m up and down stairs like a jack-in-the-box? I wouldn’t mind if it were a genuine request she had, but when I get there all she’ll want is to know what we’re having for lunch an’ what time it’ll be served.’
The tendons on Mrs Howgego’s arms stood out as she lifted the goose from the oven to baste it. The mistress had asked for a special luncheon to welcome back Mr Sonny and his wife who had come home for a weekend break. ‘I don’t know why she’s bothered what’s on the menu. All she does is push it round her plate and make a mess of it. You watch, this goose’ll be too tough for her. A waste o’ good food, I say.’
‘You have to feel sorry for her though,’ relented Abigail. ‘Her teeth are that rotten. You can barely tell what she’s sayin’ what with all those cloves stuck in her mouth. Oh, all right!’ Her impatience flared again at the persistent jingle. ‘Keep your hair on. But if she asks me once more is the goose ready I swear I’ll swing for her.’ Puffing and sweating she worked her way up the numerous flights of stairs to Hannah’s room, grasped the knob and pushed open the door. ‘Yes, Mrs Fenton, what can I do for you this time?’
Hannah squinted short-sightedly. ‘Is that goose cooked yet?’
Abigail swore under her breath. ‘No, but yours will be if you keep draggin’ me up an’ down these bloody stairs for nowt.’
‘Speak up, girl!’ snapped Hannah. ‘And come in. How do you expect me to hear you when you dangle about the threshold?’
‘It’s nearly ready, Mrs Fenton,’ shouted Abigail, demurring the invitation, ready for flight. ‘Can I get you anything else while you’re waiting?’
‘I’ve a raging toothache,’ whined Hannah pitifully, her face wrinkled in pain. ‘Bring me some fresh cloves.’
‘I only brought them fifteen minutes ago, Mrs Fenton. They should still be effective.’
‘Well, they’re not, you impudent girl! Bring me some more, I tell you. And before you go you may pass me my sewing.’ She indicated a half-finished garment on a bedside chair.
Abigail, biting back the sigh, went across the room to obey. ‘Making anything nice are we, Mrs Fenton?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘My shroud,’ replied Hannah. ‘You may go now and on your way you will kindly ask my great-grandchildren if they will pay me the courtesy of a visit. They are back from church, are they not? Oh! and I should like my sheets to be changed when you bring up the cloves. These haven’t been changed for a fortnight.’
Yesterday, more like. Abigail compressed her lips. They were going to have to do something about that bladder of hers.
‘And while you are in the linen cupboard,’ added Hannah, ‘you may as well fetch me a clean cap and nightgown. I think I shall take a bath before lunch.’
Abigail’s heart sank. ‘Would you like me to prepare the bathroom, Mrs Fenton?’ she asked without optimism.
‘Use a bath that every other member of the household has used? Certainly not. I shall take my bath in here as usual.’
‘Well, you may have to wait a while,’ said Abigail as she made her escape before there were any more demands, and under her breath, ‘I’m not lugging any baths up till I’ve seen to lunch.’
‘I shall expect my bath in fifteen minutes,’ said Hannah. ‘Now kindly inform my great-grandchildren I require their company.’
Abigail flounced off to the schoolroom, ‘Oy! Mrs Fenton wants to see you lot right away,’ then disappeared, highly ruffled. As if she hadn’t enough to do.
‘Oh no, I hope she doesn’t know it was us who stole her chocolates,’ said Belle, hand over mouth.
Nick shook his blond head. ‘No, all she knows about is how to piss the bed.’ He had overheard Abigail saying this to Cook yesterday and had been waiting for an outlet for this knowledgeable remark.
‘I wonder what she wants then,’ said Rosanna, sitting on the window seat, legs bent under her, the Sunday-best dress crumpled from the tree-climbing expedition she had just undergone. They were supposed to be sitting here reading, but that was much too boring for Rosie. ‘D’you think if we keep her waiting she’ll forget about us?’
‘I hope so,’ replied Belle, running a thumbnail down the corner of the wall, thereby splitting the flowered paper. ‘I can’t bear the way she insists on calling me Isabelle, and the smell of her nearly makes me sick.’ She reached the
top of the skirting board and stood up, her eyes searching for a corner that had hitherto escaped her vandalism. ‘Still, we could have some fun.’
‘How?’ asked Rosanna.
Belle’s face was saturnine. ‘We’ve got our silkworms from the fair, remember? We could put them in the box that held the chocolates and slip them back on her table.’
Rosanna was already anticipating the shrieks this would cause and wasted no time in helping put Belle’s plan into practice. The dirty deed completed, the trio composed their expressions to that of dutiful angels and made for Great-grandmama’s chamber.
‘Ah, children!’ exclaimed Hannah at their entry. ‘How nice of you to come and see Grandmama. I see so little of my family now. There they all sit downstairs enjoying themselves but do they think of poor Hannah in her exile? They do not. Ingrates. Well, no matter when I have you! Come and sit by me and tell me how your schoolwork is progressing.’
Down in the steaming bowels of the house Abigail was giving vent to her outrage. Hannah’s bell had sounded yet again. ‘Well, I’m not answering it, Cook. She can hang on to her wet sheets for a while. If I don’t get this veg. done they’ll have no bloody lunch up there and then there will be fireworks.’
‘I can’t think how the old biddy manages to last so long,’ said Cook, slapping away at the Yorkshire pudding mixture. ‘She’s had chill after chill. She had that bad do with her insides last year. There’s been time after time when we all swore she was at death’s door and still she comes bouncing back. She must have the constitution of an ox.’
‘Perhaps a pole-axe might do the trick,’ said Abigail darkly. ‘By, if anybody said to me, give us a year’s wages an’ I’ll do away with her for you, I swear it’d be money well-spent.’
‘Oh, Abigail, you shouldn’t wish anybody dead!’
‘Well, God forgive me, but I do her.’ Abigail still fumed. ‘She’s a bloody old nuisance an’ for two pins I’d help to fill that bloody shroud she’s sewing up there.’
* * *
Erin’s Child Page 24