‘I told you I’m not bothered,’ she laughed, and hugged him. ‘And I’d love to come with you.’ How she loved this man. He was the only person whom she would never dream of upsetting.
‘Right!’ He slapped her knee. ‘Get your togs an’ we’ll be off.’
‘May I just put this in a safe place?’ She had picked up the birthday present.
At his smile of assent she clomped upstairs and sought the privacy of her room. Ripping off the paper she dragged the huge doll from its box and, grasping the body between her knees, began to twist the head round and round, wrenching and contorting until, with a dying snap, it came away. Snatching a piece of paper from Rosie’s sketchpad she scrawled ‘Cecilia Ridley’ in bold letters and attached it to the decapitated torso. The head she kicked around the bedroom, dashing her boot into its prim face until it split open. Tossing it into the chamberpot under the bed she returned to join her grandfather with a serene smile.
* * *
Grandfather was right, there were a lot of rude words flying around and plenty of noise. But what he had omitted to mention was that the excitement which Lockwood generated among his supporters was highly infectious. Belle had never seen anything like this. When Lockwood appeared in the hall the place erupted. Hats were thrown into the air and wild huzzas almost shattered the windows. For the child it was frightening, the power that emanated from this assembly. Imagine he were not their hero; imagine that this mob was out to lynch him… but no, that was silly. Look at the admiration on their faces – on Grandfather’s face, as Lockwood took the rostrum.
While he made his address Belle sat on her grandfather’s lap and studied the listeners’ faces. What it must be to inspire such a following! She was not really interested in the content of Lockwood’s speech, more in the effect it was having on the crowd and in particular, on her grandfather. At the moment, the candidate’s talk centred upon the unsporting antics of a man called Sir Frederick Milner. Belle asked who he was.
‘He’s our opponent – a Tory,’ whispered Patrick. ‘Not only our main obstacle against Home Rule for Ireland but also the enemy of the Irish in this city – curs, he called us in a speech the other week!’
This was sufficient to damn the man in Belle’s eyes but there were other things she wanted to know. What was so important about Home Rule? ‘You live here,’ she pointed out. ‘What does it matter who rules Ireland?’
‘Belle, I live in England but I’m still an Irishman. It concerns me a great deal what happens to the folk left behind. Shush now, I want to hear Mr Lockwood – I’ll explain to ye later.’
Lockwood went on to suggest what the Conservatives would do if they got into power, reminding the crowd of a speech made by Sir Frederick Milner labelling Gladstone a murderer and a robber and asking who in their right mind would vote for such a slanderer.
‘And who in their right mind would support a bunch of Irish barbarians?’ called a Tory infiltrator to the rear of the Irishman and his grand-daughter. Patrick spun on him, but before he could voice a protest the man had added, ‘What about Phoenix Park last year? How can we permit those murderers to run part of the British Empire?’
‘Don’t tar us all with the same brush!’ called Patrick amid growls of annoyance. ‘The ordinary people don’t want violence, they just want to be able to run their own affairs without interference from absentee landlords and their extortionate rents.’
‘Hah!’ The heckler was struggling to keep his feet as Lockwood’s supporters dragged him towards the exit. ‘I doubt ordinary would apply to you! How did you manage to get your wealth? How many fellow Irishmen have broken their backs to put those fancy clothes on yours?’
Patrick set his mouth to offer an expletive, but remembering his grand-daughter’s presence shouted, ‘Won’t you give my regards to your mother? A fine woman… such a shame she never married.’ And the man was ejected to cheers.
Belle’s hands worked frantically with those around her who issued their appreciation of the taunt. Though she did not understand it, it was obvious these people held her grandfather in high regard – and she was sharing his moment of pride. Rosie would be so jealous!
* * *
Rosanna and Nick returned from the party bearing consolation parcels of sweets they had sneaked from the table. Rosanna, primed to award her hapless cousin her own pink balloon, looked around the empty drawing room disappointedly. ‘Oh, she’s not here.’
Nick threw himself down on the sofa, propping his boots on the arm. ‘Probably off sulking somewhere.’
But the triumphant entry of Belle some minutes later told otherwise. As Nick, thinking it was his grandmother, hurriedly swung his feet off the sofa, she came across the room in her tittupy gait and plonked herself next to him.
Rosanna furrowed her brow at the bright eyes and cheeks pink from the cold night air. ‘Where’ve you been? I must say you look awfully pleased considering you missed the party. Nick and I thought you’d be miserable.’ She came to sit on the sofa arm.
‘Gramps took me to a political meeting,’ said Belle airily.
Rosie snorted. ‘If he was just feeling sorry for you he could’ve taken you somewhere a bit more interesting.’
‘Hah! You’re only jealous because he didn’t take you,’ said Belle perceptively.
‘No, I’m not. You’re just being clever to make Nick and me feel sorry we went to the party without you – and after we’ve brought you these, too.’ She threw the sweets onto Belle’s lap. ‘I was going to give you my balloon too but I can see you don’t need cheering up; I think I’ll keep it.’ Belle hit out at the balloon, banging it against Rosie’s face until it burst. Tears formed in Rosanna’s eyes – not for the balloon, it was after all only a balloon – but for Belle’s spite in the face of her friendship. ‘I don’t know why you’re being so horrid to me. Just because you had to go to a boring political meeting instead of a party…’
‘It wasn’t boring, actually,’ replied Belle haughtily. ‘It was very informative – of course, you wouldn’t have been able to follow it because there were too many big words. It was all about Ireland and how the Irish people are repressed because of their faith and customs.’
‘What’s repressed?’ asked Rosanna.
‘Oh there you are, you see! What would’ve been the point of you going, you’re so stupid. You ought to pay attention to your lessons. It means, dummy, they get put upon and made to do all the dirty jobs and have low wages…’
‘Like me,’ said Abigail, who had entered bearing a tray of milk and biscuits – though it wasn’t really true, the mistress had hired another maid as she had promised. It was Helen who got all the dirty jobs now. ‘Now don’t be takin’ all night over that. I’ve orders you’ve to be changed for bed in fifteen minutes.’ She went out.
Belle continued whilst munching a biscuit, ‘And it doesn’t just happen in Ireland, they’re downtrodden here too, because the British rule them, see? Mr Lockwood – he’s our man, Gramps has been helping him to campaign – he’s in favour of Home Rule, which means the Irish running their own country. I must say it seems fairer than the way it is at present.’ The biscuit finished, she cuddled her knees and carried on talking, Rosanna listening jealously. ‘You ought to have heard Gramps telling the men to use their votes correctly – he got quite excited.’ She saw Rosanna pretend to yawn. ‘Naturally you wouldn’t be very interested. People always call things boring if they can’t quite grasp them.’
‘I do understand it,’ retorted her cousin, ‘in fact I shall ask Gramps to take me to the next meeting.’
Belle laughed scornfully. ‘That shows how ignorant you are of politics. There won’t be another meeting; the byelection takes place tomorrow and Mr Lockwood’s going to win.’ She yawned herself. ‘Oh dear, it’s so wearying the amount one has to do at election time. I think I’ll go up now. Do try not to wake me when you come up, won’t you?’
‘Goodnight, Belladonna,’ commented Nick as the door closed.
‘I wish
we hadn’t bothered to bring her anything.’ Rosie slid from the sofa arm into the seat Belle had warmed. In the quiet that followed she pictured her dear Gramps with Belle at the meeting. He knew how Rosie loved to hear about Ireland, so why hadn’t he offered to take her instead of making her go to that silly old party? She’d much rather have gone with him – but instead Belle had monopolised his affections. Oh she’d love that, thought Rosie acidly. She’s always trying to make out he loves her more than me. But he doesn’t, I know he doesn’t.
Chapter Eighteen
One slight triumph in Rosanna’s eyes – bad though it was for the Irish – was that York was robbed of its Liberal MP. This meant that Belle’s knowledgable predictions were made to look extremely foolish.
‘Twenty-one votes,’ breathed Patrick over the breakfast table. ‘Twenty-one bloody votes, that’s all there was between us. Dammit, after all I told them – use your vote, have a say in your own future – and look at the number that turned out. Sure, it wasn’t worth spoiling a good box by putting a slit in it. What a poor bloody show.’ He crumpled the newspaper and tossed it over his shoulder, drawing a sound of reproach from his wife who sat opposite.
‘Patrick, do try and constrain your language at the table.’ She glanced at the children. ‘And don’t be too disappointed, there’s always next time. It takes a while to hammer your point into a thick skull – I should know after putting up with the ambidextrous dealings of the council all these years.’
‘I mean, ye’d think they’d see it, wouldn’t ye?’ he persisted. ‘But no, all we get for our efforts is another dose of Sir Frederick bloody Milner.’
‘Belle said the Liberal was going to win,’ announced Rosanna brightly to a display of compressed lips from Belle.
The comment seemed to compound Patrick’s embarrassment. ‘Ah, that’s with listening to her old fool of a grandfather, I suppose.’ He sighed and continued with his breakfast. ‘But, ’tis nothing for you children to go worrying your heads about.’ What a let-down, though.
‘Next time there’s an election will you take me?’ asked Rosanna.
‘I’m not so sure I’ll concern meself any more.’
‘Never mind, Father,’ comforted Erin. ‘Ye’ve still got your Liberal Government.’
‘I suppose we should be grateful,’ responded Patrick miserably.
‘There must be some way we could help though, Gramps.’ Rosie wouldn’t let go. ‘At the next election…’
‘Rosanna, your grandfather has made it plain he doesn’t want to talk about politics any more,’ said a stern-faced Thomasin. ‘If you’ve finished your breakfast you’d better go and prepare for your lessons.’
Erin left with the children. When Abigail and Helen had taken the plates away, Thomasin leaned over the table to cover Patrick’s hand. ‘Don’t get too despondent, love. As I said, there’s always next time.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t see the point… the only thing that gets my backing in future will have four legs.’
She sighed at his defeatism. ‘Ah well, you will put your money on the wrong nag.’
He flared unexpectedly. ‘Oh, ’tis easy to see where your alliance would sit if ye were allowed to vote! Good customers are they, the Milners?’
‘As a matter of fact they are. I see no value in antagonising the man even if I do disagree with his politics – he’s made some abominable claims against your countrymen.’
‘Oh, ye surprise me! Ye’ve never shown much affinity for the Irish – especially the ones in this house.’
‘Do you know you get more childish with age?’ She rose stiffly and glared at him before making for the door.
‘All well, ye needn’t worry that I’ll be upsetting your customers,’ he shouted after her. ‘I’ve made a big enough fool o’ meself an’ that’s going to take some living down.’
Demoralised, disgusted and true to his promise this was Patrick’s only dalliance in the fickle world of politics, except to utter a month later when told that York’s MP was suffering an attack of neuralgia, ‘I hope ’tis a bloody bad one.’
For a long time Sir Frederick ‘bloody’ Milner continued to be the grain of sand which crept under the Irishman’s shell and formed a pearl of bitterness. He would read extracts from the press to his long-suffering wife: ‘Just listen to this! That bloody Milner is only trying to put the kibosh on Sunday boozing now!’ Occasionally his interest in politics was restirred as when the elections of ’eighty-five and ’eighty-six increased the number of Irish seats in the House. It began to look as if Home Rule was about to become a reality. Sadly, Gladstone’s Bill of the latter year proved too much of a concession to many of his party and this forced the great man to go to the country. Perhaps with the echoes of the latest bomb outrage still deafening their ears, the people chose the Tories. Besides angering Patrick, this had the effect of whipping up more trouble in Ireland. The extracts he read out now to his family were of evictions and trial without jury. The children – especially Rosanna – would see his face contort with helpless fury when reading of the treatment of his fellow countrymen, though his outbursts were usually staunched by their grandmother who did not want the children to be alarmed.
* * *
Four new calendars were in turn pinned up and taken down since the Irishman’s first political involvement. During that time, apart from the odd angry outburst, the Feeney household was relatively peaceful. In Belle’s thirteenth year a decision was reached to send her and Rosie to a young ladies’ college where they would receive a wider education. She was not certain she wanted to go. Rosanna, at sixteen, was more decisive – she definitely did not want to go. It was bad enough having to take lessons at home but at least here she could escape from time to time. For her, school would be like imprisonment. One small point for which she could be grateful was that she and Belle were not being sent to a convent. For this they had their grandmother to thank. Thomasin wanted her granddaughters to be accepted readily by society – and this would hardly come about by putting them in the company of nuns. Despite her staunch Catholicism, Erin agreed with this. She too wanted her daughter, above all, to be accepted. It was no betrayal, she told herself, Belle would still practise her religion at home.
The reasons for sending the two girls were totally different. Belle having outgrown her tutors, should go on to win a place at university from her new school. On assessing her outstanding talents the college had readily accepted the girl, noting that she would probably be ready to take the university examination well before the usual age. Sonny’s reason for sending Rosanna was not so much to benefit her education – though she was not unintelligent and would, with self-discipline, have had little trouble in getting to university – it was the simple hope that a smidgeon of the breeding held by her peers might rub off on her, showing her the way young ladies were supposed to behave. Sonny loved her dearly but oh, she was a tomboy. Naturally, her going away to college meant that he and Josie would see less of her than they did now – but then both she and Nick were approaching adulthood and their weekend visits to Leeds were becoming less frequent anyway. They preferred to spend any free time in the company of their young neighbourhood friends.
‘I hope you realise you’re to blame for all this,’ Rosanna was telling her cousin as they sat dolefully on their trunks with Nick, waiting to be packed off. ‘If you weren’t such a swot the idea of sending me to school would never have entered Father’s mind.’
Belle snapped back, ‘And do you imagine I enjoy being sent to live with a bunch of stupid girls, away from Gramps? If you can’t say anything sensible keep your mouth shut!’
‘No, don’t blame Belle,’ Nick interceded. ‘It’s Aunt Erin who says she must go. She’s hardly any choice in the matter.’
‘It’s easy for you to be charitable,’ said his sister waspishly. Nick was about to be apprenticed at Thomasin’s store. It had been deemed unnecessary to educate him further; much better for him to gain experience in the field. ‘Oh God, I’m
sure I shall absolutely hate it!’ She leapt from the trunk and ripped off her straw bonnet to lash irritably at anything in her way, prowling up and down the schoolroom like an ensnared vixen. The college was so far away, too – down south. Father, after an investigation, had said it was the best of its kind. ‘I’ll bet they never let us out of their sight – and what’s the point of sending me now? I’m almost seventeen, I could be married by next year.’ She paused to examine her ripening frame in the cheval mirror.
‘That, I believe, is their reasoning,’ replied her brother, winking at Belle. ‘They’re hoping to turn you into a young lady to improve your chances of matrimony. Personally I think they’ve as much chance of that as getting a navvy into a frock.’
She threw her hat at him, not caring when some of the decoration parted company with the beribboned crown. ‘You swine!’
Calm as ever, Nick retrieved the battered hat and remoulded the dent in its crown. ‘See what I mean?’ he asked Belle.
‘I’m sure I’ll hate it just as much,’ said their cousin, to which Rosanna replied, ‘But at least you’re able to do the things they’ll give you. I’m hopeless at arithmetic.’
‘I’ll help you,’ promised Belle in an unaccustomed burst of good nature.
‘Oh, it’s not just the work,’ moaned Rosie, ‘I shall feel so… hemmed in.’
Any further complaint was curtailed by the arrival of Erin who would be travelling with the girls. ‘Oh, Rosanna, I despair of you!’ She whisked the hat from Nick’s hands and set it back in position, briskly tying the ribbons and tugging at Rosanna’s clothes. ‘I leave ye for five minutes an’ ye look like ye’ve been caught up in a tornado.’ She turned to Belle. ‘Come along, dear, the cab is waiting. Nick, you can take Belle’s trunk. Your grandfather is… ah, thank ye, Father,’ she said as Patrick came in and swung the other trunk onto his shoulder, then hustled them along the landing. ‘Mind the stairs, Belle. Hang on to the banister – Rosie, do hurry or we’ll miss the train!’
Erin’s Child Page 29