Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  ‘I did,’ he answered. ‘After the initial charade Father G. became unaccountably affable and showed me into the parlour. “He’s in here today,” he told me.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘Oh aye, he was in there,’ said Patrick, then took a deep breath and held her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘In a bloody coffin.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Though the anticipated police visit did not materialise it came very close to doing so after Patrick and Father Gilchrist crossed swords at the church service for Father Kelly. The Irishman still attended the same church, determined not to be driven out and equally determined to carry out his friend’s final wish that he be taken home for his burial. After much violent abuse and several visits to higher clergy from both parties, Patrick was granted permission and today had gone to Liverpool to see his old pal’s earthly body safely onto the ferry. Liam had no relatives to meet him at the other end but all that had been carefully organised by Patrick, who had sent a letter to the priest of the parish where Liam was to be interred.

  ‘Poor Gramps,’ said Rosanna, twirling a pen between inky fingers as she and the others sat awaiting their tutor. ‘He looked so sad when he left this morning. I wish there was something we could do to cheer him up.’

  Patrick had put their minds at ease over the silkworm incident, revealing that the box containing them was still as they had left it on Hannah’s bedside table. She had not been poisoned, after all. ‘But it was very naughty to play such tricks on an old lady,’ he had chastised gently. ‘Ye must never do anything like it again.’ When they had solemnly promised he had given his guarantee that no one else would hear of their mischievous deed. The box of suffocated silkworms had been committed to the dustbin.

  ‘He must be awfully lonely without Father Kelly to talk to,’ said Belle. ‘He hasn’t any other friends besides us, has he?’

  ‘It’s not just Father Kelly’s death that’s upset him,’ put in Nick knowingly. The others eyed him with interest. ‘It’s that friend of Nan’s who’s coming to dinner on Saturday – Fartingale or whatever they call him.’

  The girls giggled, Rosanna rolling on her back in a most unladylike posture.

  ‘Don’t go calling him that to his face,’ warned the boy. ‘I just made that up because I don’t like him. His real name is Farthingale. It’s him that’s making Grandfather such a misery. That’s what he and Nan were arguing about at the fair when Nan went off in a huff.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ complained his sister.

  ‘Oh, you really are a dunce! Grandad’s frightened that this Fartingale fellow is going to steal Nan from him.’

  This gave rise to uproarious ridicule. ‘But Nan’s old! Old people don’t elope.’

  ‘Don’t believe me, then,’ replied Nick airily. ‘I’m only repeating what I heard.’ He turned his back and began to leaf through an atlas.

  Rosanna chewed her lip and glanced at Belle. ‘D’you think he could be right? It’d be awful if Nan left us.’

  Nick spun round in his seat. ‘Of course I’m right! It isn’t just because of what I heard Nan say to Grandad, I heard this fellow’s name mentioned at the store, too.’

  ‘Who by?’ asked Belle.

  ‘George whatsisname.’

  ‘Oh, I liked him, didn’t you?’

  ‘You like anyone who feeds your face,’ scoffed Rosie, then adamantly, ‘We’ve got to do something; help Gramps get rid of this man.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Belle with a calculating smile. ‘I’ll think of something good.’

  They grinned with intent, then stood to attention as their tutor came in.

  * * *

  Saturday arrived.

  ‘Mr Farthingale’s here, ma’am.’ Abigail took the visitor’s hat and cane as he stepped past her into the drawing room.

  ‘Francis, do come and meet my husband.’ Thomasin took the guest’s hand and introduced him to Patrick, who sized him up warily before accepting the handshake. There was nothing here to suggest any physical attraction on Thomasin’s part. Farthingale was an extremely thin man, emaciated one might even say, and his face held great cavernous hollows beneath the jutting cheekbones. The mouth was weak, the chin shallow. Yet the glowing sherry-coloured eyes belied all the other features; they mirrored an inner strength, reflecting Patrick’s scrutiny with never a waver. The handshake was firm but brief. When it broke the two men continued to inspect each other for so long that Thomasin grew embarrassed and felt the warmth spread upwards from the low-cut neck of her dress.

  ‘And this is my son John.’ She directed Francis towards Sonny, acquainting him with the family nickname to save confusion during later exchanges. ‘His wife, Josie.’ Farthingale smiled politely and inclined his head over Josie’s hand, doing the same with Erin when introduced to her. Following this appetisers were passed around and Francis offered his condolences on the death of Thomasin’s mother. ‘I should not have taken offence, Thomasin, you know, had you sent word to cancel our dinner engagement. I hope my presence is no intrusion on your grief.’ Thomasin shook her head and spread out the skirts of her black dress. ‘My mother was an old lady, Francis. Her death, though a shock, was not unexpected. One has one’s own life to lead. Besides, it isn’t as if this is a roisterous occasion, merely a quiet evening among friends and family.’

  Francis inclined his head sympathetically, then trained his still warm eyes sharply on Patrick, who had been watching the couple closely. ‘Your wife tells me that you are responsible for her store’s supply of fruit and vegetables, Mr Feeney – or may I call you Patrick?’ Patrick was unshaken at being caught in his open inspection. ‘Please do. Yes, that’s correct, fruit, vegetables and oats.’

  ‘You raise cereal too?’ Francis sipped his drink.

  ‘Only in a modest way. I did try growing wheat at one time. Trouble was I chose the wettest year I can ever remember to embark on my experiment. Lost the lot. But I have to say that oats’ve been pretty successful, even though I’ve only had the one harvest so far.’

  ‘And what of your other crops?’ asked the guest.

  ‘Apples – cookers and eaters – currants, gooseberries, potatoes, carrots…’

  ‘A wide variety, then. I expect it keeps you extremely busy. How many men do you employ?’

  ‘Five – and seasonal extras. I don’t know about it keeping me busy. They’re the ones who do all the work.’

  ‘But they require supervision,’ said Francis. ‘There’s the administration, the rotation of crops to be worked out, fertilisation…’

  ‘I don’t regard lookin’ after a bunch o’ men as work,’ corrected Patrick. ‘Work is when you’re holding a shovel in your hands.’

  ‘You underrate yourself, Patrick. I should find your responsibility terribly exacting. All that worry about whether the elements were going to be kind this year, waiting for signs of leaf-rot and whatever. Oh no, I think you are too hard on yourself.’

  Patrick slanted an eye at Thomasin whose face gave nothing away. It was as if she had said to her guest before his arrival, ‘Butter him up, he’s feeling sorry for himself.’ He said aloud, ‘What exactly do you do for a living, Francis? Thomasin mentioned you were a business colleague.’

  ‘Of sorts – but not in the same league as your dear wife.’

  ‘She also mentioned some sort of merger,’ began Patrick, but the conversation was aborted by Abigail’s entry. Dinner was served.

  ‘Francis.’ Thomasin gestured that she wished him to escort her to the dining room, which he did. Sonny and Josie followed with Erin and her father bringing up the rear.

  ‘He’s very charming, isn’t he?’ said Erin as they passed through the hall.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ murmured Patrick, frowning, and meant it. He hadn’t intended to like Farthingale but dammit the man was so very nice it had happened without Patrick being aware of it.

  Francis assisted his hostess into her chair, then took his own, to her right. ‘I must confess it is very pleasant
to sit down at a family table after so long dining alone. Thank you so much for inviting me.’ This mainly to Patrick.

  ‘My wife’s friends are always welcome at my table,’ answered Pat. ‘Have ye no family at all, Francis?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Francis arranged his napkin. ‘I have four grown-up children with families of their own. Unfortunately, they all live some distance away and our meetings are not as regular as I would wish.’ He looked around the table. ‘You’re most fortunate to have your family under one roof.’

  ‘I doubt Abigail would agree with you there.’ Thomasin smiled at the maid who hared round the large table. ‘I really must get around to hiring another maid. It’s ridiculous to employ all those assistants at the store and keep the house understaffed.’

  ‘God love us an’ save us!’ Everyone’s eyes were drawn to Patrick whose hand was wafting furiously at his mouth. ‘I think ’tis a new cook we need, not a maid.’ He snatched up his wine glass in an effort to douse the appalling taste of the soup he had been the first to sample.

  ‘Patrick, whatever…’

  ‘Don’t eat the soup!’ Patrick held up his hands warningly. ‘Don’t anybody touch it.’

  Contrarily, Thomasin sipped a little from the edge of her spoon and immediately made a face. ‘Oh, good heavens, that’s appalling!’

  ‘I told ye not to touch it.’ The twist of Patrick’s lips showed he had still not rid himself of the taste.

  Abigail looked from one to the other in consternation until Patrick ordered the bowls to be taken away, whence she hurriedly came to life.

  ‘Let’s have the next course, Abigail, and forget all about it,’ said her mistress, then turned to a bemused Francis. ‘I’m so terribly sorry, Francis. Cook’s so good normally. I can’t understand it.’

  He asked her to think nothing of it and commented upon the meal which Abigail laid before him. ‘This looks absolutely delicious.’

  Unfortunately Francis, the first to taste this course, found that it was quite the opposite. The piece of succulent-looking beef in gravy tasted absolutely revolting. He gagged, unable to help himself and covered his face with his napkin, eyes streaming.

  The others muttered solicitously over their untouched plates whilst Thomasin rose from the table to pour some water for her guest. Abigail stood there, mesmerised.

  ‘Abigail,’ Thomasin’s voice made the servant tremble, inform Cook that I wish to see her here immediately.’ The maid scuttled off to the basement, reappearing minutes later with a puzzled and apprehensive Cook.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Howgego!’ said Thomasin tartly. ‘I wonder – would you care to sample the roast beef? It appears it is not up to your usual standard.’

  ‘It was fresh this morning, ma’am,’ said Cook. ‘Lest that butcher’s boy was lying to me.’ She took a sliver of beef from Francis’s plate. Instantly her bemused expression changed to one of disgust and, lacking her superiors’ manners, spat it straight out into her cupped palm. ‘Bloody Hell! Ooh, begging your pardon, ma’am, but it’s revolting.’

  ‘I quite agree, Cook, and I’m sure our guest does, too.’

  ‘But, ma’am, I can’t understand it!’ bewailed the poor woman. ‘It smelt lovely while it were roasting an’ it was a good colour. I’m sure it wasn’t off.’ She dipped her fingertip into the gravy and licked it masochistically. ‘Why, it’s not the meat! It’s that there what’s the trouble – but I swear, ma’am, I don’t know how it got to taste like that.’

  ‘It wasn’t only the gravy, Cook,’ said Thomasin sternly. ‘The soup was not up to your usual standard, either. I’m very annoyed to say the least. For this to happen at any time would be off-putting but when we have a guest it is unforgivable.’

  ‘Please don’t concern yourself about me,’ Francis managed to say through his discomfort.

  ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ offered Mrs Howgego.

  ‘So am I, Cook. I trust there’ll be no more disasters like this?’

  ‘Indeed no, ma’am.’

  ‘Very well. Oh, and before you go,’ she pointed to the lemon soufflé, ‘can you put our minds at ease by testing a little dessert.’

  Cook did so, informing her mistress that it was untainted, then left the room with Abigail.

  ‘You haven’t been messin’ about with that food, have you?’ she demanded as she marched across the hall. Abigail denied it strenuously. ‘Well, summat funny’s going on here an’ I’m off to find out what it is an’ when I do…’ Her voice tailed off as she and Abigail took the stairs to the kitchen, but the children peering through the banisters caught the gist of it.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ hissed Rosie to Belle. ‘Cook’ll never let us in her kitchen again if she finds out.’

  Belle gripped a banister in each hand and peered concernedly through the gap. ‘It’s not working. He should’ve been going home by now.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t even get to taste it,’ suggested Nick. ‘Maybe it was one of the others.’ It would be awful if it were Grandad who had got the mouthful of Belle’s concoction. ‘I told you not to put it in everything, just his portion.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ snapped Belle. ‘How could I do that when it was all in the same bowl? Anyway, it hasn’t worked and we’ll just have to think of some other way to get rid of him. Something more drastic.’

  * * *

  ‘I can’t imagine what you must think of us, Francis,’ said Thomasin when the unappetising meal was over. ‘I really can’t apologise enough.’

  ‘Thomasin, Thomasin, do stop,’ laughed Francis. ‘The company alone is such a welcome change that the meal was purely incidental. I’m not about to break off our friendship just because of a little spoilt beef.’

  ‘You’re so understanding,’ replied his hostess, then began to rise. ‘Erin, Josie, shall we go and take coffee in the drawing room and leave the men to puff off their smoke?’

  When the men were left alone Patrick poured out three glasses of port and produced a box of cigars. ‘Can’t say I normally use these, Francis. I’m a pipe and whiskey man myself, but Tommy likes me to do things properly.’ Francis took one, rolled it between thumb and forefinger and smiled at the man’s lack of artifice. Thomasin could be a little pretentious at times, which was a shame for she was at heart a very kind, warm person and he liked her immensely – as he was warming to her husband.

  Patrick leaned back in the dining chair, sipped and puffed alternately, then said, ‘So, about you joining forces with Tommy… what can you offer that’s so attractive it makes my wife consider sharing an already flourishing business with ye?’

  ‘A question I’ve asked myself,’ smiled Francis and tasted his port rather apprehensively, the terrible meal still adhering to his palate. ‘But Thomasin seems to think we’ll do well together and who am I to argue with such a shrewd, far-thinking lady as your wife?’

  ‘She was the one to broach the proposition?’

  ‘She was, though I must admit to putting a few idle hints on the efficacy of such a venture. You see, our aim would be to continue on your wife’s theme and delete more and more middlemen. You don’t need me to tell you that much of the produce in the store comes from your own efforts, the fruit and vegetables from you, all the bread and cakes are manufactured at the store, the coffee beans are roasted there. We want to spread production to, say, preserves, biscuits, as much as possible so we can pass on the benefit to the customer – and of course make more profit for ourselves. Naturally there are still many items that by reason of their nature cannot be home-produced, like tea and the more exotic fruits for instance, but it seems stupid to pay high prices for goods which we could just as easily produce ourselves given the space. So, if we do go ahead with the proposal, which is more than likely, our first step would be to obtain some building, a warehouse or whatever, that could be used for such a purpose.’

  Thomasin Feeney, factory owner, thought Patrick. What next? Does she never stop? Despite his own abhorrence of risk he had to admire her. She’d eve
n maintain her firm footing on quicksand. ‘More port, Francis?’ He held up the decanter but the other covered his glass. ‘Well, ye seem to have it all in hand, the pair o’ ye.’

  Francis sensed the tiniest hint of jealousy but made no reply, merely shrugging modestly. Sonny caught it too and, feeling that his presence checked their willingness to speak plainly, diplomatically finished his port and excused himself.

  Again Patrick offered the decanter to Francis and again it was refused. ‘I will, if ye don’t mind.’

  Francis gave unspoken permission and watched the man carefully. He was plucking up the courage to say something, Francis could tell. He also knew what that something was and thought it expedient to offer assurance before Patrick was forced into a corner. ‘You are so very lucky, Patrick, in Thomasin. I envy you, and I want to thank you for permitting her to befriend a pathetic widower like myself. Many men, I know, would be extremely incommoded by the friendship, unlike you who wisely see it for what it is: a kind woman’s pity for a lonely man. I don’t know if Thomasin has told you anything of my wife?’ Patrick moved his head and Francis proceeded. ‘The manner of her death was painfully drawn out. It was as agonising for me to watch as for her to endure. Even though we knew she could not get well the end still came as a blow. We were so very close. I could never feel that way about another woman. My senses tell me that you are of a similar disposition.’

  Patrick ground out the cigar in an ashtray. ‘I take your meaning, Francis,’ came the quiet response. ‘Thank you.’ It should have eased his concern, knowing that Farthingale had no designs on his wife, yet it didn’t. There was so much she shared with this man that she could not share with her husband: her love of ancient architecture and the will to keep the city’s heritage intact; the excitement of a business deal. Patrick was unable to converse with her on either of these levels, at least not out of genuine interest. But this man could.

  He finished his port. ‘Shall we join the ladies?’

  Francis rose with him and the two men went for the door.