Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  ‘Yes… that’s my daughter,’ said Sonny. Then, ‘Oh, Father!’ He broke down and wept as the cover was pulled over her face. ‘The bastards! The bloody murdering bastards.’ Crushing a handkerchief to his face to stifle the sobs, he escaped into the corridor then out into the fresh air.

  Patrick’s exit was slower. He looked down upon the shrouded figure for some seconds, still gripped by disbelief. Then he too resolved to find a fresher climate. The attendant, however, halted him.

  ‘I don’t like to add to your grief, sir, but we’ll need some particulars. Perhaps if you could give me them so we could spare the other gentleman?’

  Patrick nodded and slowly followed the man into an office. ‘Could I have the young lady’s full name, sir?’ The attendant had seated himself behind a desk, pen poised over a form. ‘Oh, please.’ He waved the pen at the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  Patrick made use of it. ‘Rosanna Feeney.’ Her last words came tumbling back: ‘Tim and I are married, Grandfather. We were married last week.’ Well, he’d be damned if he’d soil her memory by giving her the name of her murderer. To Patrick she was still a Feeney.

  The man asked her date of birth. That was another obstacle. Patrick couldn’t be accurate. He gave the date on which she had always celebrated her birth since she had come to live with the family. ‘Fifth of November, eighteen seventy-one.’

  ‘And was she single, sir, or married?’

  ‘Single,’ answered Patrick without hesitation.

  Well, that answers my worry whether I should tell him or not, decided the man as he scribbled on the form.

  Patrick completed the remainder of the paper, then went out to join his son, oblivious that along with Rosanna had perished his first great-grandchild.

  Part Five

  1892-1900

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  As was his habit, Dickie examined his clothes for convicting testimony of the afternoon’s dalliance. Satisfied that there were no rogue hairs he proceeded towards the house. His stealthy approach was useless. There was Mary at the door, ever vigilant. Gracing her with his crinkly smile he went to seek out his wife. It had just turned Christmas. The room he entered was still heavy with the scent of pine and other greenery. Dusty’s face smiled up at him – then seeing the dog at his heels she gave a groan. ‘Oh, not another one!’ Dickie was always bringing her ‘presents’ like this, a kitten or some other waif. She felt it must be his way of making up for her childlessness but had never put it to him – they didn’t talk much about that.

  Dickie bowed to the dog. ‘Bonzo, meet your mistress, Primrose Feeney!’ Dusty set her mouth at the use of her real name which she hated. Her husband swung across the room. ‘Come along an’ little Primmy will give you a kiss.’

  ‘Little Primmy will give him a kick – motheaten thing! What sort do you call that?’

  ‘It’s a lurker.’

  She tutted. ‘You mean a lurcher.’

  ‘No, a lurker – watch this.’ Dickie marched around the perimeter of the room. The dog clung to his heels like a limpet. ‘See? Lurker! I know I promised not to bring any more but I couldn’t get rid o’ the bloody thing – tossed it a candy an’ got a friend for life.’ He collapsed into a seat beside her. ‘’S a good feeling.’

  ‘Go give it to Mary and tell her to feed it! I don’t want fleas all over me – oh, there’s a couple of envelopes on the mantel from Sonny. I haven’t opened them.’

  He got to his feet and moved to pick up the letters, the dog with him. ‘Get away, Bonzo!’ he issued gruffly as he almost tripped. ‘Two, eh? Must have a conscience for forgetting my birthday.’ Dickie had just reached that dreaded forty years – and had been happily surprised to find he didn’t feel any different. ‘I hope there’s money in ’em.’ He grinned, ripped the knot from his tie and, after pouring himself a drink, opened one of the letters.

  Dusty had never seen her husband cry – not like this. Genuine sobs of grief assailed her as she sat there completely taken aback. Seconds passed before she could finally bring herself to utter, ‘For God’s sake, what is it?’

  Both letters fell from his grasp as he put his hands up to hide his distress. The only tears Dickie had ever shed had been those of self-pity or cowardice. He had never felt so utterly devoured by grief. He gave a huge shuddering sigh. ‘It’s Rosanna… she’s dead. She’s been shot!’ All of a sudden his big body looked decidedly shrunken, like a spider screwing itself into a ball.

  With a cry of sympathy she flew to him, fell at his knees and clasping his wet, distorted face between her palms dotted it with soothing kisses. And though she had never known Rosie she wept, too. The dog, unnerved, scurried about the room, finally coming to rest under a table from whence it watched as the couple tried to comfort each other. After the flood of sorrow had abated, Dusty sniffed and said, ‘I’m so bloody useless… If I could’ve given you a baby…’

  ‘Oh, no, no… no.’ He tightened his hold on her, pressed his hard cheek to hers. ‘If there’s anybody useless here it’s me. What sort of father would I have made, I ask ye? All I ever did for Rosanna was to get her born… it’s Sonny who’s done the job for me. Oh Christ, what must he be going through?’ He fixed his wife with despairing eyes. ‘An’ what the hell am I ever going to write? Will he even want to read it?’

  ‘He’s written to you, hasn’t he?’ She stroked and patted him. With her gentle words the dog sidled back to its former position at Dickie’s feet. Dusty ignored it. ‘He wants you to write.’

  ‘You know me… always say the wrong bloody thing. I can’t think of how to comfort him.’

  ‘There was a time when you wouldn’t have even thought about things like that. I’m sure you’ll manage.’ Her knees were hurting. She rose and transferred herself to his lap, both of them lying back in the chair contemplatively. ‘Dickie…’ she said finally, ‘how would you feel about adopting a child?’ She turned her face to his and saw that she had stunned him. ‘It’s not going to happen now for us, is it? I’m even more decrepit than you.’

  ‘I don’t mind…’ he began.

  ‘Yes you bloody do!’ She came alive. ‘Dickie, it’s no good pretending any longer! You do mind! I mind!’

  He studied her distraught features, then drew her back into his embrace. ‘We’ll think about it.’

  ‘We’ll think about it now!’

  ‘I’ve just lost my daughter!’

  ‘She wasn’t your daughter! She was Sonny’s daughter!’ At his moan of pain she grabbed his face. ‘We’re going to talk about it, damn you! I want a child!’

  ‘All right!’ he barked. Then, ‘All right…’ His tone lowered and he kissed her. ‘We’ll see about it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Dusty, I can’t think straight…’

  ‘When?’

  ‘My God, you’re a wee terrier…! All right, we’ll go tomorrow.’

  They both relaxed. After great pondering he heaved a long sigh. ‘What sort d’you want?’

  ‘Come on, Dickie,’ she chided softly. ‘Stop talking about it as though it’s a dog. I know you want a child – don’t you? I said, don’t you?’

  He accomplished a shaky smile, though the pain in his breast was still terrible. ‘Aye, you bugger… I want a child… a son. But I don’t know if the adoption society would consider an old reprobate like me.’

  ‘You, who could charm the…’ Dusty grasped for a simile. The knickers off a nun, Sonny would say. Dickie closed his eyes at the vision of his grieving brother. ‘It doesn’t have to be a baby. The Lord knows there must be plenty of older children whom nobody wants. We could have one or two.’

  ‘Oh God, steady on, Dusty! I’m a poor old bugger of forty.’ His downward glance caught the other unopened letter. Dusty noticed it too and reached for it, wondering what it bore. Dickie looked at the date on the front. It had obviously gone astray, having been posted long before the other. ‘My birthday card,’ he guessed – and it was, bringing the tears back to his eye
s. He fought them this time, but not for long. Enclosed in the card was a photograph of the family taken on Rosanna’s coming of age.

  ‘Ah, Dusty,’ he mopped his face and stared at the picture. ‘The old fella must be absolutely crippled with misery over this, ye know. God, I wish… I wish to bloody hell it’d been me instead o’ her.’

  * * *

  The old fella was slumped in a chair, staring out at the frost-furred garden. There was a glass of whiskey in his hand, the only thing that seemed real. Since Rosie’s death he couldn’t set his mind to anything. The pain of missing her was physical; it raked his mind, leaving it raw and suppurating. His liver-spotted hands gripped the arm of the chair as he stared at his memory of her. How on earth had she managed to get herself wed without any of them suspecting it? It must have been after her twenty-first birthday – probably when she had gone to visit Sonny for the weekend. He should have told Sonny about the liaison long ago. Poor Sonny… but his trial hadn’t ended at the mortuary: because Rosanna had been shot in a Republican house her whole family automatically came under suspicion. There had been a visit from the Special Branch. Patrick hoped he had convinced them how he detested that scum as much as they did. He had offered total assistance… not that it would help Rosie now.

  He couldn’t understand how the rest of his family could go about their daily habits when he himself was still incapacitated weeks after the funeral. He knew that Thomasin was hurting as much as he was – they had cried bucketfuls together – but now she was back at the store and working as normal. Patrick still needed to cry and to talk about his dead grandchild, but everyone else seemed too busy getting on with their own lives. And then he had thought of Molly – she would listen to his sorrow, would cry with him. He had gone across the field to where Joseph was working and asked if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience to the man’s wife if he called to have a jaw with his old pal. ‘She’ll not chew me head off, will she, Joe? I know us Feeneys are none too popular.’

  ‘Why, I’m sure ’twould be fine enough, sir,’ Joseph had answered. ‘But sure, I thought somebody woulda tellt ye – Molly’s been dead this past half year. She took one too many and got herself drowned.’

  Deeply shocked, he had offered garbled condolences, then retreated, gone home, where he had remained ever since. Stephen Melrose was a good enough foreman and could run the business quite ably. He didn’t need for Patrick to be there… come to that, who did need Patrick? His chest heaved. God, I’m seventy-three years old. Why didn’t Ye take me, eh? Why did Ye take Rosie who was so young and vital, who meant so much to me, who made me laugh…

  He was about to raise the glass, then, feeling eyes on him, rotated his head to find Belle standing in the doorway. ‘Now how long have you been standing there spying on me?’

  She smiled and limped her way carefully between the furniture, carrying a tray which bore a jug and glasses. Poor Grandfather, how badly Rosie’s death had hit him. Nobody could seem to hold his attention for long. One minute he’d be listening and the next his eyes would mist over and you’d know he was thinking about Rosie. Belle could not say that she felt the same depth of bereavement, for she had never been close to her cousin, but she did feel sadness for her grandfather, left behind to grieve. She put the tray on the table. Small puffs of steam billowed from the jug. ‘There’d be no need for spies if you left the whiskey bottle alone.’

  ‘Ah, you’re as bad as the rest.’ Again he swilled his throat with whiskey.

  ‘They’re only concerned about you, Gramps.’ She pushed an armchair next to his and sat to watch him.

  ‘I know, darlin’, I know.’ The glass visited his lips again.

  ‘You’re not going to find her in there.’

  ‘It numbs me a little,’ he said tiredly.

  ‘That’s all right for a while… But sitting here dwelling on your sorrow in this fashion isn’t going to bring her back.’

  A spark. ‘Christ! She hasn’t been gone two months. Y’expect me to be laughing like a hyena?’ The glass was depleted. He reached for the bottle. Quicker than he was, she whipped it away and went to pour two glasses of hot lemon and honey. ‘I’m not havin’ any o’ that pitchwiss,’ he told her as she handed him the warm glass.

  She placed it on the table. ‘It’s that or nothing. You’re not having the whiskey back. I won’t be accomplice to your suicide.’

  ‘God dammit – give me that whiskey!’

  ‘No!’ As he struggled to rise she went to retrieve the bottle, but instead of giving it to him she took the cork out and poured it into an aspidistra pot.

  ‘You wee bitch!’ His fingers clawed at the chair arms.

  ‘And you’re an old misery!’ she flung back. And was horrified to see tears begin to roll down his face. She was at his side immediately. ‘Gramps, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to bring some of your old fight back.’

  He shook his head and pulled out a handkerchief to mop his face. ‘’S not you. Oh God, Belle, will it ever go away, this bloody awful pain?’

  She sat on the chair arm and cradled his head, while he continued to weep. ‘Gramps, you said yourself it’s only been a few months. It’ll go in time, I’m sure. I wish there was something I could do to help you.’

  He blew his nose and screwed the handkerchief in his fist. ‘There’s nothing anybody can do. I feel so bloody alone.’

  ‘You still have me, you know,’ she said in a small voice.

  He raised bloodshot eyes. ‘But I don’t, do I, Belle? You’re going away, too.’

  ‘I haven’t found a house yet.’ This was untrue, but the anguish in his old eyes had produced a rare pang of conscience. She would have to go back on her word. She couldn’t leave him like this. ‘Anyway, I’m sick of tramping round in the cold. I thought I’d wait until the weather got a bit kinder… that’s if the children won’t be too much?’

  ‘Ah no, I like to hear their noise. It reminds me I’m still alive. God knows I need reminding sometimes.’ He fumbled for one of her hands. ‘I’d love nothing more than for you to stay, Belle, but I’d not interfere with your plans.’

  ‘Just because I accused Mother of that doesn’t mean I think the same of you.’ She leaned over and hugged him. ‘I’ll stay for as long as you like – anyway, as everybody keeps trying to tell me, it’ll put a few years on my back, won’t it?’

  For the moment the pain was lifted and he grunted his content. Then he said, ‘Harking back to your previous sentiment there is one thing you can do to make me a little happier. Make it up with your mother. There’s been enough heartbreak in this house.’

  ‘I’d love to oblige, but she won’t speak to me and I’m not about to throw the children out, which is what she would like.’

  ‘Jaze, I don’t know what’s wrong with this family. It’s composed of a load o’ goats. You’re as bad as any o’ them. There’s a grand young fella who can’t take his eyes off ye…’

  ‘You mean Brian?’

  ‘Ye couldn’t do much better than him for your husband.’

  ‘Now, Gramps, I’ve told you I have no intention of marrying – even to suit you. And I think you’re got the wrong idea about Brian – our friendship is based on mutual interest. He’s as little plan of marrying as I have.’

  ‘Open your eyes, Belle. The fella’s in love with ye.’ Belle had the idea that her grandfather was right, but she wasn’t going to admit it.

  ‘Well… if that’s true then I’m sorry but I can’t return his emotions. I just feel that men can’t be trusted.’ She noted his expression. ‘Oh, I don’t include you in “men”, Grandfather.’

  She had managed to make him laugh, but it was a brittle sound. ‘Ah God, that does wonders for my masterful image.’

  A light tap. ‘You know I meant no disrespect. Apart from you I’ve found no reason to rely on men. There was that business with Ti…’ She pulled up swiftly, but too late. ‘Oh, Gramps, I didn’t mean to bring his name into it. How stupid I am.�
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  His old head moved wearily. ‘Ye were right it seems not to trust Timothy.’ He sighed. ‘So, I must rely on Nick to provide me with great-grandchildren?’

  ‘If it’s natural ones you refer to, yes. Those upstairs are the only ones I can give you.’

  ‘Ah well, they’re grand wee bairns. I shall miss the sound of their chatter when ye finally go.’

  ‘That won’t be for a long time yet.’

  ‘You’re not just doing this for me? I should hate to feel like one o’ your charity cases.’

  ‘Pff! Who’d be charitable towards a grumpy old devil like you?’ She found a tartan rug and tucked it round his knees, pressing the still warm drink into his hands. ‘And if you think that my reason for staying is that I feel sorry for you then just you wait until this weather perks up and I’m dragging you round York to look for a house. I’m going to need your expert advice if I’m not to land myself with a load of dry rot.’

  ‘Rot is the word,’ he replied cynically. ‘Ye’ve never needed anyone’s advice – an’ ye still haven’t answered me about your mother. Please, Rosie…’ Belle’s heart went out to the poor old fellow – he was getting so confused. ‘Put your independence aside for once and be the one to stuff the baccy in the pipe o’ peace.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she sighed. ‘But you know Mother doesn’t smoke – and if I do this then I want something in return. You must stop this silly drinking.’

  ‘Tut! Haven’t I always been the hard-drinking man? I don’t know why everyone’s so concerned all of a sudden.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so concerned if you were getting drunk for enjoyment, but you’re not, are you?’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry, Belle. I always had a tendency to hit the bottle when things got rough… your mother will tell you that. It’ll pass.’

  ‘It will if you make the effort.’

  He pondered, then nodded.

  ‘Right! I’ll talk to Mother when she comes in if it will make you happy.’