Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  Patrick gripped her hand, saying sincerely, ‘If anyone can make me happy, then it’s you, my pet.’ But my God, it’s going to take some time, came his silent cry.

  * * *

  If Patrick had assumed that because the rest of the family had returned to their normal habits they had recovered from Rosie’s death then he was very wrong. Thomasin grieved for her vivacious grandchild as much as he did, but she would not allow her sorrow to destroy her like it was destroying Patrick. Much as she sometimes felt as if she were in a trance she forced herself to carry on. It was the way it had been with Dickie. She couldn’t sit still for one moment. As soon as she had eaten dinner she’d be out and away to some meeting or other. For to stay in that house would be fatal. But there were times when she was alone in her counting house when she would think of Rosie and her eyes would swim. The vision that came was not the one that gave Patrick nightmares, but that of the girl’s stunning appearance the day she had gone to visit Sonny… the bloom on her face. Had Thomasin’s suspicions been well-founded? Had she indeed been pregnant? She tried to convince herself otherwise, for to imagine thus only made things worse. And if Patrick had been told then he had made no mention.

  She damned her husband’s weakness. Why did it always have to be her who was the strong one? What would become of the family should she seek remedy in the whiskey bottle? Oh, it wasn’t just the drinking that irritated her but his whole attitude – he didn’t seem to consider that she or anyone else might be suffering as acutely as he was. He viewed Nick’s lack of tears as coldness, but Thomasin didn’t need tears as evidence of her grandson’s hurt. Nick was flattened by this, though he managed to cope with it better than his grandfather. To help the lad over this terrible bereavement she had considered sending him to the Leeds store as manager, but felt it might be too great a burden. Besides, had she swapped places with him and returned to look after the York shop that would mean more time in her husband’s company and in his miserable state he was the last companion she wanted. She decided to wait another few months. Maybe by the time he was twenty-one Nick would be ready for the responsibility. Twenty-one… she hoped that the boy’s coming of age would see Patrick’s emergence from his depression.

  For all Thomasin sensed Nick’s hurt she had not the vaguest inkling of the guilt that partnered it. He held himself as much to blame for his sister’s death as the person who had pulled the trigger, for only he had known she was meeting Rabb. He could have put a stop to it any time with one sentence to his grandfather, but in this one crucial instance his perceptive brain had miscalculated. Hear all, see all, say nowt: the one who knew everything about everybody had failed to see the danger his sister was in. At this moment he couldn’t give a damn about the Leeds store or anything else. He could only imagine his pretty Rosanna cowering from the assassin’s bullet… and perhaps the biggest penalty to pay was that he was unable to share his guilt with anyone else – not even Moira, for she had left him as well, in search of someone who would offer her marriage.

  For Sonny, too, the grief was overpowered by guilt. All these years Rosanna must have been meeting with her killer under his nose. Yes, his father was partly to blame for not telling him – but if he had been any kind of father he would have questioned her comings and goings instead of attributing them to her tinker blood. Thank God he had Josie and the girls to get him through this.

  Erin was equally affected by Rosie’s death, though her guilt took the form that might normally follow any bereavement. In the wake of the murder she had scourged herself for all the times she had blamed Rosanna for some childhood prank when Belle had been the real culprit. Oh, it was a futile, destructive practice to hark back so many years, but she couldn’t help it. And being met by the sight of her inebriated father every evening when she came home from work didn’t help matters. Here he was again tonight, slumped in his chair with a near-empty bottle on the table. Standing in the doorway, about to enter, Erin felt the temper boil up around her. How many times had she scolded and begged him to ease off this habit and here was the room stinking like a brewery. He must have been shut up in here all day for it to smell like this. She just could not bear to put up with such a depressive atmosphere this evening. Instead of waiting for the others to arrive for their supper she would ask for a tray to be sent up to her room.

  ‘Are you going in, Mother?’ Erin started as her daughter approached from behind, but made no move nor comment, just cast her eyes back on the drawing room scene. Belle strained to look over her shoulder, then groaned. ‘Oh, Lord… I see he’s found another bottle. I took one off him this morning and he seemed to be doing all right the last time I looked in. He must have decided to see if I kept my part of the bargain before embarking on his.’ In explanation she added, ‘I told him I’d offer you the pipe of peace.’

  ‘Well, I trust you’re not intending to light it in here? With these fumes the place would go up like a volcano.’

  Well, that was a start, thought Belle. At least she’s responding. ‘He said if I made it up with you he’d make the effort to stop drinking.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re going to be the one who’s to have the honour of saving him from himself where all of us less important folk have failed,’ said Erin coldly. ‘All right, then, I’m listening. Are you going to tell me you’re prepared to go back to university?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘Then you may as well go in there and top up his glass for him!’ Erin brushed past her and continued up the stairs, ignoring Belle’s plea for her to talk about this.

  As angry at Patrick as at her mother, Belle pitched into the drawing room, delivering a vicious jab to Patrick and, when he woke, brandished the whiskey bottle at him. ‘You didn’t even give me the chance to put my side of the bargain to Mother before welching on your own, did you?’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t go waking a man like that…’ Patrick moaned and screwed a hand round his sleepy face. ‘What’re ye spouting about?’

  ‘This!’ The bottle was thrust at him again. ‘You said you’d dispense with it if I made it up with Mother.’

  ‘An’ did ye?’ He began to come awake, stretching his old limbs.

  ‘No – but that’s no reason for you to renege! I humbled myself on your account.’

  ‘I never asked you on my account!’ retorted Patrick. ‘I was thinking of you an’ your mother – an’ humble? Hah! That’s hilarious.’ Then he took time to study her angry face and expelled a sigh. ‘Ah well… I suppose I wasn’t showing very much faith in your bargaining power.’

  She vibrated her lips. ‘And you’d be right – Mother wouldn’t listen unless it was to hear that I was going back to university. So! I’d better do as she suggests.’ She tipped the whiskey bottle at his empty glass. He asked what she was doing. ‘As Mother said, if I can’t bring my half of the deal into practice then I can’t expect you…’

  She broke off as he pushed the bottle away before it had wet the glass. ‘I’ll try,’ he said quiedy.

  * * *

  Belle fully expected to see a bottle at Patrick’s side when she looked in on him the following morning, but was delighted to see that there wasn’t. Nor did she spot one at any time during the day whenever she popped her head round the door to check up on him. Towards the time when the others usually arrived home for supper she looked in one more time. He put down his book and fluttered his hands. ‘Look – no glass.’

  ‘Taken to drinking from the bottle, have you?’ She smiled at his mock outrage.

  ‘I’ll have you know I haven’t touched a drop since you laid the law down – not even my usual quota.’ She asked what his usual quota was. ‘Oh, two, three glasses on an evening.’

  ‘Well, as you’ve been so good I’m going to let you have one glass.’ She poured this out and handed it to him.

  ‘Oh, Belle, I can just see the kindness and compassion oozing out o’ ye.’ But he accomplished a smile before sipping at her offering.

  ‘That’ll be your daily allowanc
e from now on,’ she instructed. ‘And mind you adhere to it.’

  While the winter months persisted it was a hard pledge for him to stick to – the days were so long. Thinking of Rosie made it difficult to sleep, especially with the recent news that her killer had escaped – probably to America. He rose very early. After breakfast he would fill in as much time as he could by reading the newspaper from back to front, then maybe take a walk before lunch. The presence of Belle’s children helped to fill in a portion of the afternoon, but they could not be expected to keep company with an old man for more than an hour. Belle spent what time she could with him, but she had her own commitments. With little else to do but read, his ‘evening whiskey’ began earlier and earlier.

  However, when the summer came Belle was grateful to see her grandfather return to his fields, relying more on work than whiskey to dull his pain. Even Nick’s leaving to manage the Leeds store didn’t set him back as she feared it might. By autumn the re-emergence of his self-respect led her to the decision of looking for a house again. It really had been a sacrifice having to stay for so long, the way her mother behaved towards her and the children.

  Alas, Belle’s plans were thwarted once again by the anniversary of Rosanna’s death, when Patrick returned to the anaesthetising properties of the whiskey bottle. Thank goodness, she thought, that these bouts of drinking tended to ebb and flow. When her grandfather had his family around him – as at Christmas – he was able to behave perfectly sensibly. Only when Sonny and his tribe went back to Leeds and everyone else was at their respective occupations did his loneliness conquer his better judgment. Belle resolved to ensure that he did not spend another winter like the last, but was equally determined that this wasn’t going to mean her staying for another year either. So, fifteen months after her original decision to rent a house she finally made the move.

  Within a week she found a place large enough to meet her needs, with a rent she could afford. The latter was due to the house’s neglected state; it seemed that the landlord preferred to take the same money year after year instead of putting any work into his property. However, Belle was to use this to her advantage. Who better to bring it into shape than her grandfather? And so, during those bleak months Patrick was given a reason to stay off the liquor, pointing brickwork, plastering, painting… It was a great shame, thought Belle, that the house had not been more dilapidated so that the repair work could have lasted until summer. But once she was settled in she would try to involve him somehow until he was able to get out to his fields again.

  With the house ready for its new occupants she was today sorting all her belongings into packing cases ready for the move. It was in this pose that Brian came upon her when paying one of his frequent visits to the house in Peasholme Green.

  ‘Oh, Brian, what a time you’ve chosen to socialise,’ she bemoaned as he caught her with hair a-riot and dirt smudges on her face, her belongings spread all over the drawing room floor. ‘Come in if you must, but don’t expect me to break off and send for tea.’ The sorting continued, book on that pile, picture on another.

  ‘How odd, I could have sworn I saw “welcome” on that doormat, Belle.’ Showing just how at home he felt here, Brian walked straight to the bellrope, ‘I’ll ring for my own tea, thank you very much,’ then sat down to watch her. ‘Anyway, what makes you think I want to spend an afternoon in the company of a scruffy old scold?’

  Used to his ways by now, she didn’t need to see the grin to know he was joking. ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘I thought we might take a trip.’

  ‘In this weather?’ She indicated the window, though it was impossible to see through the layer of condensation, which of course spoke for itself. ‘I’ve a thousand and one things to do. If you really want to make yourself welcome you can load these crates onto your carriage and transport them to the new house.’ She selected a piece of crystal which had previously stood on her dressing table and wrapped it noisily in newspaper. There was a piece missing; Vinnie had initially been helping but after smashing the crystal had been banished.

  ‘Delighted to help. We can do that when we go on our trip.’

  The scrumpling of paper ceased. ‘For goodness’ sake, what trip?’

  ‘Our trip to Walmgate. I’ve someone I’d like you to meet. We can do both jobs at the same time.’ The house Belle had rented was in Lawrence Street, just outside Walmgate Bar.

  She resumed her packing. ‘And just who is this important personage?’

  ‘She’s a prostitute,’ said Brian as Vinnie entered. ‘I thought she might be a suitable candidate for your clan.’

  God love us, thought the little maid, the house is going to be turned into a knocking shop. She bobbed at Brian’s order of tea. ‘And some of those delightful cakes of Mrs Howgego’s,’ he added. ‘The ones with the coconut on.’ The maid departed.

  Belle had ceased packing again to stare at him.

  ‘Good Lord, I do believe my words have had an effect. Don’t worry, Belle, she’s really a very small prostitute.’ His expression became grave and he made a move to help her pack, spreading out a sheet of newspaper on the carpet. ‘It’s not at all amusing, I don’t know why I make a joke of everything.’

  ‘Things don’t hurt so much if you can joke about them, do they? What’re the details?’

  He folded the paper around an ornament until she stopped him. ‘Leave that and tell me.’

  ‘She was brought to my surgery last night, unconscious. A young fellow had found her lying in the street. Several people had stepped over her before he came to her aid. It transpired that she’d been beaten by a customer.’

  ‘Goodness.’ Belle gave up all idea of packing, sitting beside him on the carpet. ‘Is she recovered?’

  ‘In a fashion. I patched up her wounds, gave her a superficial examination and made her sleep on the couch for the night. It was in the morning, after she’d breakfasted with me – Mrs Whiteside almost died, I might add – that she confided the problem I’d overlooked.’ He faltered. This was where it became slightly embarrassing.

  Belle guessed. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  ‘Would that she were, I could do something about that. No, it’s much worse. She’s diseased – do you know what sort of disease I mean, Belle?’

  ‘I think so,’ she replied carefully. ‘I believe it’s a risk of her profession?’

  He was glad and slightly surprised that he did not have to explain. ‘Where did you learn about such things?’

  ‘There’s a medical dictionary in Grandfather’s library. I read it from cover to cover when I was six. Naturally none of it meant much then, but over the years things fell into place. I remember Gramps being awfully embarrassed when I asked why a certain “lady” kept approaching men while we stood waiting for Nan in town one day. Being a voracious reader of the newspaper I’d be forever asking him what certain words meant and noticed that his cheeks would go pink when the word prostitute was spoken from my infant lips.’ She laughed. ‘Well, when words have that effect it makes a subject extremely interesting. I decided to find out more and in time associated the disease with the profession – though of course I realise it isn’t restricted to prostitution.’ Another smile. ‘I suppose nice girls aren’t meant to talk about those kinds of things.’

  ‘True – but then that wouldn’t apply to you, Belle, would it?’ He ducked at her swipe.

  She became serious once again. ‘What I can’t understand is, if they know they risk this dreadful disease why do these women choose such a trade? I should like to ask this woman of yours.’

  ‘She’s not a woman, Belle. She’s thirteen years old.’

  ‘But that’s illegal!’

  ‘That doesn’t seem to have counted for much,’ said Brian. ‘Anyway, when the man refused to pay after he’d taken his go she had taunted him about her disease and he’d gone crazy.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ demanded Belle, preparing to leave.

  He hoisted himself from the carpet. ‘
She’s at her mother’s house in Walmgate.’

  ‘Good Christ, she has a mother? What sort of woman would allow her child to lead such a life?’

  ‘It appears it’s a family business,’ sighed Brian.

  ‘And you permitted her to go back there?’ yelled Belle, eyes flashing.

  ‘I could hardly restrain her against her wishes,’ he protested. ‘But listen, I’ve told her all about you and she said she’d think about coming here.’

  ‘You should’ve made her do more than think, Brian.’

  ‘Ah well, I leave that sort of thing to you. You have a more persuasive manner than I.’

  ‘Is there any chance of her infection spreading to the other children?’

  ‘She has no open sores. The disease is in the early stages. I’m attempting to contain it with mercury. She’ll be no problem to you. So, after we have our tea do you wish to take a ride to see her?’

  ‘Tea? We’re not waiting for any tea. Come along.’ She hauled him after her. ‘You must take me there at once.’

  * * *

  The young girl, whose name was May, needed rather more persuasion than might have been expected to leave her way of life. She had heard tales of the Refuge at Bishophill where once they got you in you couldn’t get out again.

  ‘But it wouldn’t be like that if you were to come and live with me,’ said Belle, appalled at the state of the house and its occupants. ‘My home isn’t a prison. You may come and inspect it first, if you wish. I’m sure you’ll find it to your taste, and there’ll be other children there for you to play with.’

  ‘I’m not a kid,’ replied the girl scornfully. Each item of her clothing was badly crumpled and all composed from the same piece of drab. The only bright thing about her was the pheasant plume she had stuck in her hatband: it added a certain defiance to the glint in her eye. She was about four feet ten in height and weighed, Belle would guess, maybe four stones. The boots on her feet, being obviously meant for a much bigger person, gave her a comic look; the lank bedraggled hair, pathos.