Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  Yes, she must have yours, Joseph, thought Rosanna grimly as Patrick ended the conversation rather abruptly and helped his grand-daughters into the carriage, whence he whipped up the horse. No mention of the subject was made on the uncomfortable journey home, causing Rosanna to hope that perhaps Grandfather hadn’t picked up that idiot’s blunder. But directly they were in the house and Patrick ordered her to come alone to his study she knew this was it.

  He spent a considerable time in lighting his pipe, forcing her to stew while he scrutinised her through the emerging clouds of tobacco smoke. Finally he sat down but did not offer her a seat. ‘Well now, Rosanna, would ye care to tell me how come Joseph says he sees ye near his home on Sunday when you’re meant to be takin’ a walk in the garden?’

  She nibbled at the skin on her lower lip.

  ‘I expect the rigor mortis is affecting your tongue. Isn’t your face as white as a corpse? Which leads me to thinkin’ that this interview is making you uneasy. Take a sip o’ that lemonade,’ he gestured at the jug on a nearby table. ‘It might help to grease your conscience – I assume ye’ve got one?’

  She showed great reluctance to come near him, then her dry mouth got the better of her and she moved to pour a glass of the lemonade. He waited until she had consumed three-quarters of it before beginning again. ‘Better? Then we’ll try again. What were ye doing down Walmgate unaccompanied?’

  She looked into her glass and whispered, ‘I went to see a friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  She cleared her throat and said again, ‘I went to see a friend.’

  ‘A friend? Sure that’s a most unlikely area to have yourself a friend if ye don’t mind my saying so. An’ what’s this friend’s name? I may know her – I assume it is a her.’

  ‘Tim.’ She looked up. from the glass to see his reaction, then at his intent glare dropped her gaze.

  ‘I believe Tim is a boy’s name, is it not?’

  She nodded, both hands clasped tightly round the glass.

  ‘Would I make a guess as to his surname?’

  There was no response.

  ‘It wouldn’t be Rabb, would it?’

  At her nod his hands clamped down on the chair-arms and he pushed himself slowly upwards, pipe clenched in teeth. ‘I thought there was more than a philanthropic interest when ye were asking me not to sack him,’ he breathed. Then sharply: ‘Come on now, let’s be having it all!’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Dammit, Rosanna, I said let’s be hearing it all an’ I mean all. I want to know how long this has been going on, where ye meet him, what you think you’re bloody playing at.’

  ‘I’m not playing! Tim and I love each other.’ She put down the glass, using her freed hands to do her pleading.

  ‘Oh, ye do, do ye?’ he barked. ‘An’ d’ye know what sort o’ man ye’ve pledged your love to? Didn’t ye listen to anything I said when I fired him?’

  ‘Grandfather, I know what you said about him, I recall every word but it’s not true.’

  ‘You’re calling me a liar?’

  ‘Oh, no, no! But Tim isn’t what you think. He’s not dangerous. He’s sweet and he’s…’

  ‘Oh, aye – like aloes are sweet!’

  ‘… he’s gentle. I mean, you’re always going on about how you love Ireland so much. Well, Tim feels that way, too. I thought you’d be glad that I’d chosen someone who’s a patriot like yourself.’

  ‘Patriot?’ bellowed Patrick, obviously incensed at the comparison. ‘Then the definition of the word must’ve changed since I learnt my letters.’

  ‘Grandfather, that’s most ungracious of you. They’re kind and loyal…’

  ‘They?’

  She hesitated. ‘The Brotherhood.’

  He gave a groan and swiped at the air. ‘Don’t tell me he’s managed to lure an intelligent girl like yourself into his skulduggery.’

  ‘He didn’t need to lure!’ Rosanna matched his temper. ‘I joined willingly because I feel as they do.’

  ‘Then you’re more of an eejit then ever I took ye for. Ye talk about patriotism and loyalty. Ye’ll find more loyalty in the pigsty at feeding time. And the word is not patriotism but power, Rosie. Ye could read about these people any day in the paper if ye took the time, trying to force ordinary peace-loving folk into their dastardly organisation and when they decline beating the… living daylights out o’ them.’

  Rosie spoke energetically. ‘But you of all people know how the newspapers distort things. Haven’t I heard you say it myself? Depicting the Irish as drunken work-shy idlebacks, saying they are filthy…’

  ‘And a host of choicer insults. Yes, I am aware of it, Rosanna. But in this instance the descriptions are fitting. I know most of the names that appear in print; they’re out and out bullies with not one ounce o’ patriotism between them, an’ their fathers were bullies before them.’

  ‘But Tim’s not one of that kind!’ cried Rosanna. ‘You could never accuse him of violence when he worked for you.’

  ‘There’s more than one sort o’ violence, Rosanna,’ responded Patrick. ‘There’s the physical sort and the spoken kind, the type that incites others to do the dirty work. Tim is obviously a speaker, but he’s no less dangerous… that’s why I’m forbidding you to see him ever again.’

  She was furious. ‘You can’t forbid it! Tim and I love each other, you can’t keep us apart!’

  ‘Rosanna,’ he tried to temper the tone of the argument. ‘I know it’ll be hard if, as ye say, ye love the fella…’

  ‘I do! I do!’

  With her intensity he had a terrible thought. ‘He hasn’t… taken your honour, has he?’

  She blushed furiously and lied, ‘Of course not – he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, thank God he has some decency. Look, ye must believe me when I say ’tis for your own good…’

  ‘Oh, that’s always the excuse people give when they don’t approve of one’s choice of marriage partner! You think Tim’s not good enough for me because he’s poor.’

  ‘Not because he’s poor,’ insisted Patrick. ‘Because he’s bad.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes! And ye can shove any idea o’ marriage from your head. Rosie darlin’, I’ve met his sort so many times. He’s dangerous an’ I won’t have you consorting with him. I’ve been around a lot longer than you and…’

  ‘Oh!’ ejaculated Rosanna, flinging her arms up. ‘Just because you’ve been around a lot longer doesn’t mean in my book that you’re wiser – it could just as easily indicate senility.’

  ‘Rosanna Feeney!’ He showed a face his granddaughter had never seen before, the pale-blue eyes devoid of any warmth.

  She was rightly afraid of this stranger and made immediate attempts at conciliation. ‘Oh Gramps, I didn’t mean that!’ She flew at him, hurled herself into his arms.

  ‘I love you, you know I do, more than anyone else in the world apart from Tim. Please, please say you forgive me. I couldn’t bear it if you stayed angry with me.’

  There was a period of tearful appeasement, after which Patrick kissed the top of her dark brown head and patted her kindly. ‘Ah sure, I know it was only frustration speaking. Of course I forgive ye. How could I stay mad at my little Rosie for long?’

  The light of hopeful expectancy came to her eye. ‘Then you’ll change your mind about Timothy?’

  Solemnly, he put her from him and went to light a taper from the fire; his pipe had gone out, smothered no doubt by the heavy atmosphere. ‘No, I’m afraid I’ll not be swayed on that one, Rosie. I’m sorry for ye an’ I wish I could let ye have this favour but ’tis far too important an issue.’ She drew on the ploy that had always worked when she was a child, coming to sit on his lap and tickle him under the chin. ‘Ple-ease, Gramps,’ she wheedled.

  ‘No, Rosie. I refuse to budge this time. ’S no good wasting all that charm, the matter will be finished with after I say this one thing: I want your faithful oath that ye’
ll not try to see Timothy again.’

  She was shattered. ‘How can I promise such a thing? Don’t you understand how we feel about each other?’

  ‘Rosie, d’ye love your father and mother?’

  ‘Oh, naturally I do but…’

  ‘An’ you know how much they love you. D’ye believe that your father would ever grant his consent for you to marry Tim?’

  ‘He might do,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Rosanna, ye know very well that this silly old devil here is the only one who’ll kow-tow to your flannel – usually, but not this time. Now, ye can go to your father if ye want an’ ask him… but ye know what the answer will be, don’t ye?’

  She nodded her woe. ‘Are you going to tell him and Mother?’

  He shook his head. ‘They have enough worries with four little girls without being burdened by the daft antics of their big one. Don’t you see? They think you’re an adult, Rosie, can be trusted to behave in an adult fashion, that’s why they let ye stay here… Of course, if you were to disobey me an’ continue to see this fella…’

  The pipesmoke, always so sweet, suddenly provoked great irritation. She deserted his lap. ‘Grandfather, you’re taking advantage of my loyalty.’

  ‘Your prime loyalty is to your family, Rosanna!’ Then his voice caught. ‘Please, please give him up before we all get hurt. I love ye so much I can’t bear to see ye troubled like this an’ I’d never go against him for any other reason than he’s caught up with the wrong sort. They’ll not love ye an’ care for ye as we do, Rosie. Please, say it for me.’ She stared into his pleading face – such a dear face. Then, though they brought the vomit to her throat, she voiced the words that would put his mind at rest. ‘All right, Gramps… I’ll do it just for you,’ and burst into tears.

  ‘There, there.’ He went to her, tried to ease the pain with his arms. ‘I know how bad it hurts. Ye think ye’ll never get over it, but ye will, believe me. Listen,’ he pulled out his handkerchief to tend her runnelled face, ‘what ye need is to get away from that little office o’ yours where the memory of him will keep on dragging ye down an’ make the wound harder to heal. How would ye like to take a holiday? You, me, Nick an’ Belle – your Nan too if we can persuade her. Somewhere special where ye’ve never been. We could start in France an’ work our way round…’

  ‘Abroad?’ Her breast shuddered with the aftermath of tears.

  ‘Why not? Think I might kick me clogs with the exertion? There, I’ve managed to draw a smile from ye. Ah God, my poor wee colleen.’ He held her comfortingly. ‘I know it must be terrible for ye… but you’ll see, we’ll get out on them Swiss mountain tops an’ dine in the poshest hotels, an’ it’ll make ye forget all about him.’

  And Rosanna pressed her wet face into his shoulder, thinking how little her grandfather really knew her. For the tears she shed were not because she must forget Tim – but that she was going to have to deceive this dear man.

  * * *

  Nicholas sat in his own leather chair in his own counting house, hands stroking the desk behind which he was seated, a look of conceit on his face. The Goodramgate store was a poor comparison to its sister in Parliament Street but nevertheless had no rival in the thoroughfare and he had sole charge of it, which was what he had been gunning for all these weeks. Here he was boss, with three assistants to bow and scrape – and he intended to make full use of them. He was, at this moment, celebrating with a cup of coffee made from his own beans, though not by his own hand, which was a great step up in itself. The reason for his self-congratulatory smile was that he was awaiting the arrival of his grandmother, who was today calling at closing time to inspect his first week’s takings. Anticipating praise, he was more than slightly disturbed when her first words were in the fashion of a rebuke.

  ‘I thought I might find you sat here on your backside.’ Thomasin swept into the office and threw her gloves on the desk as he scrabbled to his feet. ‘Can you tell me just what is going on out there while you’re drowning yourself in coffee?’

  ‘Sorry, Nan – is something wrong?’ He straightened his collar and tugged at his clothes as he noticed her eyes moving over him.

  ‘Come here.’ She tugged him to the open door of his lair and pointed. ‘Do you see that girl there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, good. I was beginning to fear you were losing your sight. Then would you care to go over to where she is standing – yes, right there – and look underneath the counter.’ Bemused, Nick stooped. ‘Right down!’ said his grandmother. ‘Hands and knees.’

  ‘Nan…’

  ‘Do it!’

  Grimacing at his subservients’ amusement he got down on all fours.

  ‘Now, tell me what you see.’

  ‘Only a lot of dust.’

  ‘Only, he says! What’s it doing there, that’s what I’d like to know?’

  He rose, brushing the knees of his trousers. ‘I don’t know, Nan.’

  ‘Well, I do.’ She wagged a digit. ‘That girl has just swept it there with a broom.’ The culprit shrank into the white collar of her dress. ‘Come here with me.’ She grabbed him again and piloting him through the door dragged him along the street until they came to a similar store. ‘See that? It’s got everything going for it: prime situation, good frontage… then tell me why the man who owns it has long gone home to his bed while we’ve just nicely finished being rushed off our feet?’

  He doesn’t have a bloody old dragon like you on his back, thought the young man tiredly, but of course said nothing.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you. For a start that window display – well, I can hardly credit it with the title, can I? A mound of green oranges and a few bruised bananas – always providing you can see it for the six-inch layer of muck that’s darting up his glass. Not very tempting, is it?’

  She expected an answer. ‘No, Nan,’ he mumbled.

  ‘No. Not very much there to coax a customer to his window, never mind through the door. Cleanliness and presentation are half the battle, Nick,’ she told him as she led him back to her own store. ‘If there’s dirt on the window or someone sees one of the assistants brushing all the bits of bacon and spilt tea under the counter they’re going to ask themselves what the quality of the goods is like or if the assistant has just been picking his nose before serving them. You do understand what I’m trying to say, don’t you?’ The latch was dropped as they went inside, the sign turned to ‘closed’.

  He nodded apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Nan, it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Another lesson learnt, Nick – and a lesson for you too,’ she pointed at the culprit responsible for Nick’s tonguelashing. ‘Everybody’s allowed one mistake in my shop – and only one. If I catch you performing any more tricks like that you’ll be looking for another position! Keep on top of them, Nick,’ she told him as they retired to the counting house. ‘Don’t think that because you’re in charge you can relax. If anything, management brings even harder work. Now, let’s have a spez at your accounts.’

  He handed them over. Any praise now would be an anti-climax. How could he have even expected it from this hard taskmaster? ‘Your figures need a bit of seeing-to. Try to keep them in line, tens under tens, units under units. It makes it much simpler to add up – and look at all those crossings out, for pity’s sake! It looks like a game of noughts and crosses.’ She tapped the bottom of the page with a thumb. ‘But, all in all, Nick, I’d say you’d not done a bad job for a learner. Not bad at all.’ And this was as much praise as he was likely to receive.

  ‘Next week I’ll do better,’ he promised.

  ‘Not to worry, Nicholas.’ She went to discharge the assistants and lock up for the night. ‘I’ll be getting rid of this place shortly.’

  He felt as though he had been run down by an express train – and all on top of that public scourging. ‘But Nan, you’ve given it to me!’

  ‘Not given, Nick,’ she corrected pleasantly. ‘I simply wanted to see how you coped on your
own, that’s all, for future considerations.’

  ‘But it’s a grand little shop, Nan,’ came his protest.

  ‘Little being a word no longer in my vocabulary, Nicholas. Big, that’s what we want and that’s what we’re going to get; the money from this shop will help see to that.’ And with her next brief explanation Nick’s short career in management took a retrograde step. ‘I’ll be bringing you back to the Parliament Street store – and the assistants, of course. There’ll be no sackings.’

  ‘When?’ was all he could force himself to say.

  ‘Pretty soon. Francis is doing a tour of the big northern cities. It was his idea to sell the Goodramgate store.’

  Well, thank you, Francis, fumed Nick and when they reached home, proclaimed he could not stomach any supper and went straight off to bed.

  ‘What’s up with the boy?’ asked Patrick at bedtime, which was one of the few occasions he seemed to catch his wife alone. He had been wanting to pose the subject of the holiday all evening but couldn’t offer a full explanation with Rosie present.

  ‘Oh, he’s a bit niggled ’cause I’m selling the Goodramgate shop and I’ve only just put him in charge.’ She spoke to the mirror, pulling a brush through her hair. ‘I think you’ve something to say, haven’t you?’ A smile for his expression. ‘Well, I noticed you were a bit preoccupied at supper.’ He told her of his plan. ‘The Continent, eh? Taking up globe-trotting in your old age.’

  Sitting on the bed to watch her he outlined his reason for wanting this holiday and his wife’s face grew serious. She laid down the brush but did not turn, still addressing herself to his reflection. It’s as though she can’t even bring herself to spend this short time with me face to face, thought Patrick. The mirror was just another obstacle she had placed between them. ‘And d’you think a holiday will cure this infatuation?’

  His eyes followed the brush which had started to move again. ‘I can’t say, but she knows how I feel and she’s promised not to see him again. A month or so away may help to push him from her mind. It would also provide a good opportunity for you an’ me to take a holiday.’