Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  His answer came slowly. ‘All the way home I’ve been racking my brain… the little…!’ He gave a sudden roar of laughter at the audacity of his brother and threw himself back on the carpet, belly trembling with mirth. Josie fell to her knees beside him. ‘John!’

  He grabbed her and pulled her on top of him, still laughing. Her body shuddered up and down with his. ‘Oh, Jos! Remember what you told me all those years ago about Dusty Miller doing a moonlight flit to America?’

  ‘Aw… she wouldn’t?’ Josie was beginning to take him seriously.

  ‘Wouldn’t she? Well, we can soon find out, can’t we?’ She asked how. ‘If we find Dusty Miller we find Mr Richard William Feeney.’ He studied the gawping face above his. ‘Well, come on, woman! What’re you lying there for like a trollop?’ He pressed her from him. ‘Trying to get your wicked way with me – there’s work to be done!’ Laughingly, she smacked him for the insult as both got up from the carpet. ‘What’re you going to do now, then?’

  ‘Not me – you.’ He straightened his tie, then embraced her again. ‘I want you to go and see that girl who gave you the information about Dusty.’

  ‘Betty? Why, it’s years since I’ve seen her…’

  ‘D’you know where she lives?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘And d’you think she might still work at Miller’s wholesalers?’

  ‘More than likely. She’s a widow, she wouldn’t chuck a regular job up.’

  ‘Then she’d probably welcome a few quid for doing us a favour.’

  His wife asked what favour. ‘Don’t forget that Dusty doesn’t own the warehouse any more – don’t you remember your mam telling us it was up for sale, ooh… it must be all of ten years ago.’

  ‘I know Dusty’s sold up, but it’s just possible that her American address may still be on the files.’ He was asked if the warehouse would keep such old files, and puffed out his lips. ‘God… I hope so. It’s the only way we’re going to find him, Jos.’

  She held him close and put her lips to his cheek in an affectionate gesture. ‘Go put that poor blinking horse back in the shafts then – I’ll go see what I can do.’

  * * *

  When Josie returned from her visit to York it was growing late. The children had been put to bed and Sonny was reading them a story when he heard the jingle of the harness beneath the bedroom window. Kissing his daughters he pelted downstairs to hurl himself at his wife the minute she entered. ‘Does she still work there?’

  Josie said she did as she handed her coat to the maid and set off for the sitting room.

  ‘And will she do it?’ Sonny shadowed her to the sofa where both sat down.

  ‘She would’ve done – but they only keep files for the last three years. Ooh, ring for Sadie, love, will you? I forgot to tell her to make a pot of tea an’ I’m gasping.’ Deflated, Sonny moved to a strip of hanging tapestry and gave it a yank. ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t have done any good if we had found it – Dusty moved house after the sale of the warehouse.’

  Something in her expression alerted him. He narrowed his eyes. ‘And how did Betty know that?’

  ‘It seems,’ she said lightly, ‘that Betty had cause to search the files of her own accord. She tells me she got so fed up with the man that Dusty left in charge that she decided to write to her and complain…’ She laughed delightedly and held up her hand as Sonny ran forward, ‘Whoa!’ then fumbled in her pocket and brought out a piece of paper. ‘Dusty wrote back to say that she was selling up but that she had made sure Betty would keep her job, and if anything else went wrong she should write back to Dusty at her new address…’

  Sonny grabbed the piece of paper and held it to his face. ‘Oh, Josie, we’ve found him!’ He clamped his arms around her and rocked her from side to side in his rapture.

  ‘Not yet.’ The face that squashed against his reflected his joy. ‘But we will do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  He loved New York. It suited his character down to the ground – brash, colourful, ostentatious. His position in the shoe-shine’s chair lent him time to relax, set himself apart from the rumbustious city life and view the teeming streets as for the first time when he had set foot here, fourteen years ago. Whoever had named this city had never seen the old York, for there could be no two places so different – although, a wry smile creased his handsome features, he had managed to lift the more ancient city from its sedateness while he had lived there. But he would never go back now. He had found his place. This was home. He was an American… well, another grin, an Irish-Yorkshire-American.

  He wallowed for the moment in memories of his old haunts. A long, long time ago. Then he had been a boy – now he was a man of thirty-six whose looks and body were at their peak. He felt virile, magnetic… and bloody frightened. For a minute, the seething traffic disappeared as he saw himself as an old man. How much longer before he plummeted towards the trough, before the sap ran dry? It had begun to niggle at him more and more lately – four years and he would be forty. As yet the mirror didn’t betray him – apart from reflecting the wisp of silver hair at his temples which he quite liked – his jaw was still tight, his hair abundant. A large, square hand searched involuntarily for the paunch that wasn’t there, running over the pale-grey suit for signs of flab. But the thigh under his hand was still rock-hard. His eyes focused again as the hand divined a blonde hair clinging to his trouser leg, reinstating his grin. A very reassuring sight. He picked it off and watched it float away on the breeze. An attractive woman caught his eye. Her obvious admiration raised both his spirits and his hat. He winked at her, feeling good again.

  ‘They’s done, sir.’

  Dickie looked down at the shoe-shine boy who sat back on his heels. ‘Ah, God bless you, my son!’ Reaching down, he used a thumb to trace the sign of the Cross on the black forehead, then jumped from the chair and began to stride away. There was a cry of objection from the shoe-shine and Dickie looked back, feigning surprise. ‘Sure, ye don’t want payin’ as well, d’you? God love us!’ The Irish-Yorkshire accent had almost disappeared, but the phrasing of the words was the same. He tossed a coin which was whipped from the air by the shoe-shine, then, grinning, he adopted his characteristic swagger, hailed a cab and made for home.

  Home was a secluded colonial-style building set well back from the road behind a cluster of trees – Dusty’s choice, not his. But he had to agree with her that it made a welcome bolt-hole from the manic streets of the city. They had not lived here for the entire fourteen years – their first lodgings had been quite primitive, but Dickie was rather good at making money one way or another and with the sale of Dusty’s business the hardship hadn’t lasted long. Yet their prosperity was vulnerable, for Dickie could not settle to a regular occupation; his income came from gambling on the Stock Market, buying and selling property and other more dubious activities – a streak of bad luck and it could all be gone overnight. He quite liked it that way, but he understood why Dusty got mad at him sometimes. She needed security. He would have to settle down one day… but that could wait until he was an old man.

  As the cab wheels crunched to a halt on the gravel outside his front porch he alighted, paid the fare and went towards the house. Before his hand could grasp the knob the door was flung open by a maid, making him laugh as he stepped over the threshold. ‘I’ll manage to do it one o’ these days, Mary!’

  The girl grinned at the tall, good-looking man and took possession of his hat and cane. It was a kind of game between the master and herself – he would try his best to creep into the house without alerting her, but somehow her intuition always got her to the door before him. He ran a hand over his crisp black hair and made his way across the hall. ‘Is Mrs Feeney in here?’ He gave a flourishing gesture at the door towards which he was headed. At the maid’s, ‘Yessir!’ he applied the flat of his palm to the brass fingerplate and made a theatrical entrance.

  A petite woman was sitting by the window, light shining through the frizzy chestn
ut hair which obscured her face. At his cheery greeting she turned slanting green eyes on him, but didn’t reply and duly turned back to stare pensively at the lawn. There was a letter on the lap of her blue silk gown. Instinctively, Dickie knew he was in trouble again. Over which female he wasn’t certain, but he knew from his wife’s face that he needed an alibi. While his mind grasped for one he lit a cigar and babbled on about some shares he had just purchased, waiting for her to lay into him.

  But she adopted a different tack this evening. Still sombre, she told him to sit down and stop jigging about, which he did. It was another few seconds before she swivelled from the window to study him. Dusty’s insides flipped over at the sight. Fourteen years of marriage and he still had that same impact on her – the impact he had on just about every woman. She could have left him twenty times over for the pain he had inflicted on her – had tried to once but he’d come after her. Time had taught her that he would never change. If she wanted him she would have to accept his failings – as he accepted hers. Dusty was unable to give him a child, a child they both wanted desperately. So, in spite of the fights and the tears and the betrayals they stayed together, not the least reason being that the only family they had now was each other. And finally she had come to accept the other women – providing he didn’t flaunt them – knowing that he didn’t love them and that what he told her was true: she was his only love.

  She noticed the flicker of apprehension at the corner of his bright blue eye and knew that he had been up to his old tricks again. But she fought the pang of treachery, saying only, ‘I don’t know how to tell you this…’ and held up the letter.

  He wrinkled his brow. ‘Er, bad news, is it?’

  ‘Bad and good… it’s from your brother.’

  ‘Christ!’ The adopted nonchalance was discarded. He shot from his chair and raced over to snatch the letter which turned out to be addressed to his wife in her maiden name. After reading it avidly, he stumped back to the sofa and flopped onto it, cheek cradled in palm.

  She left her seat to take one by him, rubbing a hand up and down his thigh. Dickie gave a groan and let his head sag over the ormolued back of the sofa. The will – he had feared at the time it had been a mistake, but his need for money had overcome his caution. When he had written to his solicitor on his arrival here it had, initially, been to ask him to sell the house and transfer as many of Dickie’s assets to America as was possible. But on consideration this would have been risky; his parents would want to know what had happened to their dead son’s belongings and would find out that he was not dead, after all. He couldn’t have that happen. He had been ‘dead’ once before and his rebirth had caused great upheaval for all of them. He didn’t want to put them through it again… though the thought was not entirely noble: he had escaped serious charges in England, he could never go back. So, what was he to do? He could simply ask his lawyer to send what money he could lay his hands on and abandon the rest to his family. But there were two things wrong with that: firstly, his parents’ solicitor might delve too deeply into his financial accounts; secondly, his parents would be the natural inheritors. A will would settle both points. If Dickie’s belongings were allocated there would be no need for investigation and Sonny – who deserved it most – could be a rich man. So, after tearing up that first letter Dickie had instructed his solicitor to act upon the will. Sutcliffe had spouted off about it all being very unethical, but a bit of the old blarney and a fat cheque had soothed his conscience… until now.

  He lifted his head, stared first at the letter then at Dusty. ‘I’m gonna have to tell him, aren’t I?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’ Her lynx eyes held his. ‘I could always write and say I’ve no idea of your whereabouts.’

  ‘Give over, Dusty, he damn-well knows I’m here…’ He summoned up one of his devastating smiles and pictured his brother as the boy he had last seen in eighteen seventy-four. ‘Good old Son… Ye know, I’m rather glad he’s found me out – I wonder what set it off after all this time… an’ I wonder what he’ll say when he gets my letter.’

  ‘That’s rather naïve, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Dusty rose and glided away across the room.

  He laughed, smacked his leg and rose too, tucking the letter into a rack. ‘Aye, he’ll probably send me a gobful in his next letter.’

  ‘If he replies.’ She turned to him. ‘He just might feel like not corresponding after what you’ve done.’

  ‘Ah, he’ll forgive me.’ The old Dickie grin manifested itself again as he thought of all the occasions he had temporarily fallen from his brother’s affection.

  ‘Good! I’m glad about that,’ said Dusty in bright manner – then coming towards him delivered a hefty slap round his head.

  The big man was transformed into a chastised infant, his pained eyes holding hers bemusedly. ‘Dusty! What was that for?’

  ‘That was for whatever you were looking guilty about when you came in here!’ She flounced from the room and slammed the door.

  Dickie rubbed the point of contact ruefully, then directed his eyes once more to the letter in the rack and out slipped a laugh. Marching to a bureau he withdrew pen and paper and sat down to form a reply. ‘Oh, Son… I sure hope you’re in a good mood.’

  * * *

  Sonny had been unable to settle, waiting for that reply from Dusty. When he spotted the American postmark he waved the letter in frenzied manner at his wife, ‘It’s come!’ and immediately slit it open, reading out loud to her.

  Dear Sonny, If you haven’t recognised the handwriting yet you had better sit down before you flip over and look for the signature…

  Sonny donned a frown and automatically turned the page to look at the sender’s scrawl. It took his breath away and he shot upright. ‘It’s from him!’ He met his wife’s cry with a face that oozed exultation, then proceeded to devour the rest of the letter, picking out the odd line to fling at Josie in excitement. ‘He’s doing very well for himself!… Oh, he and Dusty haven’t got any kids yet – they’re still hoping…’

  I often think how bloody ironic it is, Son – me having sown so many wild oats all over the place and now everything’s legal I can’t manage the one. God’s judgment, our Dad would say. Still we’re happy with each other. She’s a grand wife is Dusty – though she can be a right bruiser when she has a mind. I’m sorry you had to find out about me like you did, Son. I had no wish to upskell things, that’s why I stayed dead this time. I thought maybe you wouldn’t forgive me for this one. I note from your address that you didn’t want to live at my place. Don’t suppose I can blame you, you wouldn’t want a constant reminder of this rogue. But I hope the money did you some good and you don’t hold me in too much contempt…

  ‘Oh, no,’ breathed Sonny, still in a whirl.

  I’m glad you found me. It’s nice to have someone in the family know I’m not dead and I’m glad it’s you. You know, I often think about the times we had as lads and wish we could share them again. If you ever feel like coming to New York me and Dusty would give you a real American welcome. I guess it’s best you don’t tell anyone else about this, don’t you?

  Sonny nodded, mesmerised by the letter.

  It’s all very well being disinterred once, but I don’t think Mam and Dad would be so resilyent this time…

  Sonny chuckled at the spelling.

  They must be getting on a bit now – aren’t we all? If you can stop your pen from dipping into poison I would love to hear how they are, and yourself of course. I know I don’t deserve it, but now I am alive again I’d like to keep in touch with how everyone is, especially Rosanna and Nicholas. Don’t take that the wrong way, Son. They’re yours and they’ll stay yours and it’s because of that I want to hear about them, not because I regard them as mine. It’s just that it’ll make me feel that my family is a bit nearer. I’d like to hear of any other kids you might have as well – did you marry Josie? I hope you are as happy as me. Well, you know I’m not a very good writer, that’s all I can
think of to say.

  Your loving brother

  Dick

  Sonny stood there for what seemed like an age. Then he crumpled the letter in his fist, swore loudly and threw it to the carpet.

  ‘I thought this was what you wanted?’ proffered Josie in soft confusion.

  He moaned and swung round to put his arms round her. ‘It is! It is, Jos. I’m so thrilled he’s still alive… but he’s landed me with a hell of a problem, hasn’t he? As he says himself I can’t tell my parents. They’re getting on, one of them might have a seizure or something…’

  She agreed that he must never tell them. ‘Can I read the letter?’ After doing this she looked anxious. ‘Are you going to give him the progress report on Rosie and Nick?’

  ‘I don’t know that I should even bother to acknowledge his blasted letter! The bloody little wretch!’ He screwed his hands into his red hair and scratched furiously to illustrate his indecision. ‘Tell me what to do, Jos!’

  ‘I think you know what you’re going to do.’

  He gave a resigned nod. ‘Oh… I wish I could see him.’

  Josie smiled reminiscendy. ‘I wonder if he’s changed much?’

  ‘I’m not bothered about his appearance, I just want to throttle him!’ Sonny paced the room, thumping a fist into his other palm. Then with a gasp of surrender he grabbed writing implements from a desk and planted himself resolutely on a chair. ‘I may as well scribble off a few lines now just to let him know…’ After forming, ‘Dear Dickie’ he paused and looked up at his wife. His grey eyes were full of torment. ‘D’you think we’re right to keep it from them, Jos?’

  ‘Your mam and dad? I don’t see as there’s anything else you can do.’ She came to place supportive hands on both his shoulders. ‘As you said, the shock would be tremendous.’