Erin’s Child

by Erin's Child (retail) (epub)

  On his arrival home he entered by the kitchen in order to get the information he needed from one of the maids. Discovering that all were out save the girls and old Mr Feeney, he marched determinedly to the drawing room.

  Patrick was about to apply a piece of cutlery to the drinks cabinet when his grandson came in. ‘Ah, God, I thought it might be your father!’ The old man reviewed the cupboard again, then banged his fist on it in defeat. ‘Don’t suppose you have a key for this thing, d’ye?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to see what colour it is on the inside – why d’ye think, eejit?’

  ‘You need a drink?’ Nick came to stand beside the crouched man.

  ‘I don’t need it, but I’d like one if it wouldn’t be like trying to squeeze charity out o’ Father Gilchrist.’

  ‘Unfortunately I don’t have a key, Grandfather.’ Patrick cursed. ‘But,’ Nick grinned and from the inside pocket of his coat brought out a bottle wrapped in tissue, ‘I have brought you a present.’

  ‘Ah faith, the man should be canonised.’ Patrick held out his hand.

  ‘I’ll pour,’ said Nick, going for glasses.

  ‘I thought ye said ’twas a gift?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then I’ll use my gift the way I see fit.’ Patrick snatched the bottle. ‘I’ll pour. I want no fairy thimblefuls, thank ye very much. Where the hell are the glasses?’

  ‘In the cupboard.’ Nick laughed at Patrick’s groan. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll ring for a couple from the kitchen.’ He pulled the rope.

  ‘A couple – who said I was sharing it with you?’

  ‘I was the one who came to the rescue.’

  ‘So ye were, son. I was only joshing ye. Ye’ll be welcome to keep me company.’

  ‘Well, I’m really supposed to be at the store.’ Nick seated himself in the easy chair opposite Patrick’s. ‘I only came to collect a few papers I forgot this morning and then I thought, I’ll bet poor Gramps is sat there all on his own again, so I nipped into the off-licence on the corner and purchased that.’

  ‘You’re a good lad to think of your old grandfather.’ Patrick looked at the door. Sullivan had entered and was looking most disapprovingly at the bottle. Pat threw him a look of triumph. ‘Would ye be so good as to fetch us two glasses, my man?’ Sullivan’s lips seemed glued together. ‘Er, could we be having them now?’ asked the Irishman, ‘or did ye think I meant next Christmas?’ He winked at his grandson as the butler went to unlock the cupboard.

  With the two glasses supplied and Sullivan gone, Patrick poured generous samples. ‘Hey, Grandad, go easy!’ Nick snatched a glass away before the whiskey reached the rim. ‘I’ve to cash up yet.’

  ‘Sláinte.’ Patrick consumed the drink immediately, then poured another. After slaking his need he tossed a question to Nick. ‘Can I ask why you haven’t joined the conspiracy?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Nick hid behind the glass.

  ‘The drink, boy, the drink. All of ’em on at me, nag, nag, nag – “You’re drinking too much, Patrick, ’tisn’t good for ye”… why not you?’

  ‘Maybe I understand why you need it.’

  ‘I’ve told you I don't need it.’

  ‘Well…’

  Patrick wrinkled his brow and flapped a hand. ‘Aye… it could be true. I’m all right when I’ve plenty to occupy me, s’just when I get bored – an’ then I come here an’ find that my own son is treating me like an alcoholic…’

  Nick dipped his finger into his glass, stirring at the liquor.

  ‘It’s over three years since Rosie went… and I still feel such pain.’

  This was going down the wrong track; the whiskey was intended to put Grandfather in a more benevolent state of mind. ‘D’you fancy going to the theatre next week, Gramps? I thought you and me might go up town, then have a bite to eat and a few jars.’

  ‘Ah, it’s good of you to try an’ cheer me up, son… but I don’t know if I can be bothered to drag me body out. I’m never in the mood to go far these days.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to cheer you up, I wouldn’t have minded going myself… still, never mind.’

  ‘There must be a young lady who’d make better company.’

  ‘Are you fishing, Grandfather?’ smiled Nick.

  ‘Well, I can’t deny I’d like to see one o’ my grandchildren married before I meet my Maker. Belle shows no inclination, though that doctor makes it pretty plain what his feelings are.’

  ‘Well, as you know, the store is my sweetheart, Gramps. It would have to be an exceptional woman to displace her in my favour…’

  ‘That bloody store! You’re as bad as your grandmother. Invite me to spend Christmas with the family an’ where are they all – out working for the bloody store!’

  ‘We do have to earn a crust, Grandad.’ Nick cursed the old man for changing the subject.

  ‘Aye, I know, I know. I’m just being a grumpy old shit. I’m sorry, boy, don’t think I don’t appreciate you popping in to see me with this.’ He picked up the bottle. ‘’Course I do, ye saved me life – well, ye saved your father’s fine bit o’ furniture anyway. D’ye know, do you know what that child said?’

  ‘What child?’ It was often hard to interpret the old man now; he hopped about from subject to subject like a frog with St Vitus’ Dance. ‘Annie… Amelia – oh, I don’t know! The one with the blonde locks. She said, “I hate that man.” She meant me – me!’ He stabbed his chest in disbelief.

  Nick tried to make light of the matter. ‘She’s always saying things like that about everybody. Yesterday it was Father when he wouldn’t allow her to stay up half an hour later.’

  ‘’Twas a bit more serious than that,’ confessed Patrick. ‘I killed her mouse.’

  ‘Oh…’ Nick scratched his head, then dismissed the matter. ‘Oh, well, she’ll soon forget it. I’ll buy her another. Don’t take it to heart, Gramps.’

  ‘She said it with such feeling.’

  ‘She’s a very dramatic child.’ Nick stole a glance at the clock. He must not be here when Nan returned. Damn and blast. The whiskey on which he had spent his paltry funds had been meant to make the old man all jollified, not take one step nearer the grave. ‘I suppose I’d better be getting back to the shop… some use I am in cheering folk up.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, son. Don’t worry about me. See y’at supper then?’

  ‘Probably… actually,’ Nick uttered a tight laugh, ‘I had hoped to be dining out this evening, but with Father organising this reunion…’

  Patrick brightened. ‘A young lady, was it? Well, don’t put her off just ’cause o’ this reunion, son. I don’t mind in the least.’

  ‘No, it’s all right, Gramps, the money I have wouldn’t have provided her with much of a night out, anyway.’

  ‘Sure, if money’s your only hurdle stop fratching.’ Patrick leaned on the chair arm and hoisting one buttock dug deep into his pocket, throwing a fistful of notes onto the table. ‘Take what ye need an’ be buggered this reunion. Never let it be said that Patrick Feeney put the dampers on a budding romance – an’ your Nan would feel that way too, I’m certain.’

  ‘Really, I couldn’t… I don’t want that much, Gramps.’

  ‘Take it! What use are all them bits o’ paper to me?’

  ‘If you’re sure…’ Gently, Nick disentangled the crumpled notes and smoothed them lovingly. God, there must be about forty pounds here. The neatened pile totalled forty-five.

  ‘Don’t bother, just take the bloody lot. I’ll get your Nan to print some more.’

  ‘But if I take this you’ll be left with nothing.’

  ‘Take it, damn ye!’

  ‘No,’ said Nick firmly. ‘I’ll only take what I need.’ He folded thirty pounds into his pocket – that should give the peer a good old do – and pressed the remaining fivers back into Patrick’s hand. ‘Thanks, Grandfather. I hope Father won’t be mad at you for this.’

  ‘If there’s anybody going to be mad ’tis me – loc
king the drink away from his own father! Go on now, away to your store before Nan gets back an’ gives ye a scalpin’ for bringing me this – oh, an’ I expect ye to bring this girl to see me before ye go fixing the date.’

  ‘Don’t fret, Gramps,’ grinned Nick on his way out: ‘I will – oh, but don’t say anything to Nan. I want it to be a surprise.’

  * * *

  Erin rolled up in the early evening, Vinnie travelling with her. Shordy afterwards Belle arrived, accompanied by Brian whose visit was to be fleeting as he was on call over Christmas. Belle’s progeny – never shy – introduced themselves to Sonny’s brood and were soon pelting about the hall and up the stairs until Belle called a halt. By the time unpacking was over the clock had worked its hands around to supper time. After everyone was seated at the table Thomasin eyed the vacant seat.

  ‘I see Master Nicholas won’t be joining us for supper.’

  ‘By God, d’ye know who you just sounded like then?’ ejaculated her husband with a broad grin. ‘Your mother.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Thomasin, ignoring his observation, ‘that Nick was asking me for money this afternoon which I refused. I wonder where he acquired his loan.’

  Patrick reached nonchalantly for a bread roll.

  ‘It really is quite thoughtless of him to do this when we’re all together,’ said Josie. ‘John, you should’ve made sure he was here.’

  ‘I wasn’t to know, was I?’ replied Sonny. ‘I’m never privy to his arrangements. He seems to come and go as if this were an hotel. You say he was touting for money, Mother?’ The soup came. He broke a bread roll onto his side plate.

  ‘He was but he didn’t get any. I presume he wanted it for this evening out.’

  ‘I hope he hasn’t been getting round you, Dad?’ asked Sonny.

  Patrick made no reply, pretending not to hear and spooning up his soup.

  ‘You don’t really need to ask, Sonny, do you?’ said his mother frostily.

  ‘All right, I gave it to him,’ admitted Patrick. ‘’Tis no great sin, is it?’

  ‘Here’s Sonny trying to organise a family reunion and you paying members of the family to stay away.’

  ‘If the lad would rather be somewhere else – an’ I can’t say I blame him – why should we force him to sit here with us?’

  ‘Because that’s what family reunions are supposed to be for,’ snapped Thomasin.

  ‘Oh, so that’s why ye cleared off an’ left me this afternoon.’

  Sonny looked at his wife. He hoped they hadn’t been brought together just to argue. ‘Nick’s doing quite well at the store, don’t you think, Mother?’

  ‘He’s doing exceedingly well,’ affirmed Thomasin. ‘He’d show even more promise if he wasn’t indulged by people who are old enough to have learnt the difference between good and bad manners.’

  ‘I think she means me,’ Patrick informed the others, scraping his bowl. He laid down the spoon and smacked his lips.

  ‘I do hope this isn’t going to carry on throughout the holiday,’ said Belle. ‘Because if it is I’m going home.’ She turned to one of the children. ‘Don’t think that dawdling over your soup will keep you from an early night, young man. You can just as easily be sent to bed without tasting Cook’s excellent dessert. I believe it’s peach meringue, isn’t it, Aunt Josie?’

  ‘I don’t see why we have to go to bed early,’ objected Eddie.

  ‘I’ve told you, it’s been a long journey and you need to catch up on your sleep or you won’t be able to come to the pantomime tomorrow.’

  ‘I should’ve thought ye’d seen enough o’ pantomimes,’ ventured her grandfather, then put a hand over his mouth like a caught-out schoolboy under Thomasin’s glare.

  ‘Are we allowed to come?’ asked one of Sonny’s girls.

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Belle. ‘The more the merrier. Grandfather can come and help me keep you all in tow.’

  ‘I shan’t come then,’ said Amelia flatly.

  Everyone stared at her. Whatever Patrick was to the adults children always warmed to him. ‘Whyever not?’ Belle asked.

  ‘He killed my mouse,’ Amelia informed her.

  ‘Amelia, that’s no way to refer to your grandfather,’ rebuked Sonny. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ retorted the child. ‘He was drunk.’

  ‘Amelia Rose!’ Josie took control. ‘That’s a very rude thing to say. You must say you’re sorry to your grandfather.’

  ‘I won’t! He was drunk. Nanny said so. I heard her say it to Sullivan. He killed Benjamin.’ She began to sob.

  Everyone’s eyes were on Patrick; some sympathetic, others – notably his wife’s – accusing. ‘Sure, I wasn’t drunk, Tommy. I swear it. For God’s sake wasn’t the drink locked away? I’d never…’ He did not finish. His wife had looked away in disgust.

  ‘I’ll just take Amelia upstairs for a while,’ whispered Josie, excusing herself. ‘Carry on, everyone. I won’t be long.’

  The meal was uncomfortably resumed, but without Patrick who had lost his appetite. The maid was about to place the main course in front of him when he rose, almost knocking the plate from her hands. ‘Sorry, girl,’ he muttered. Then to the others, ‘If ye’ll excuse me I’m not feeling so good…’ He made for the door.

  ‘Have one for me while you’re there, Patrick.’

  He checked at Thomasin’s loud instruction, looked back at her, but there was no sparkle in her eye. In fact she wasn’t even looking at him. A few minutes later the diners heard the front door slam.

  Thomasin flopped back in her chair and raised her glass. ‘Merry Christmas, everybody. It is Christmas, isn’t it?’

  Sonny was not the only one to notice that the glass never touched her lips.

  * * *

  ‘Did you know,’ slurred Patrick, ‘that I once struck a priest?’ The public house in which he was sitting – or slumping – was the fifth he had visited that evening. In each of the other four he had managed to get himself thrown out before anyone had taken him up on his fighting stance: ‘Get on with yer, owd lad, back to yer granny before yer turn up in tomorra’s stew.’ In this one there had already been some sort of fracas going on and he had tried to join in, until the barman hauled him out of the way of swinging police truncheons with, ‘Away now, don’t get involved in all this at your age. You don’t know what you’re at.’

  ‘I do! Leave me be or I’ll shred your bloody nose!’

  ‘Eh.’ The barman wagged a finger. ‘Just behave yerself an’ sit here while that little lot get sorted out.’ Then the priest had come in and had sorted the matter in no time at all and now sat with a humiliated Patrick drinking his reward.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ he responded to Patrick’s provocative statement. ‘An’ tell me, is this a habit with you? Am I to prepare some sort o’ defence?’

  Patrick swayed and patted the priest’s arm to show he was safe. ‘’Twas just the one. Father Kelly was his name. Did ye know him by chance?’

  ‘Kelly? That’s an uncommon name.’ The priest smiled and took a drink.

  ‘Ye never heard of him? Faith, there’s not a sinner in York that the man didn’t help.’ The priest reminded Patrick that he was in Leeds. ‘Ah, sure I was forgetting. I wish I could forget about other things so easy.’

  ‘You’re from York, then?’

  ‘I sometimes wonder where I am from.’ A loud tap on the bar for another drink.

  The priest asked what part of Ireland Patrick came from, sparking a lengthy piece of dialogue about what they both missed about the country, also about the famine. After several drinks the priest said he should go. ‘I’ll not be able to perform Midnight Mass should I take any more. Would you be walking my way?’

  Patrick blinked and wobbled on his stool. ‘No, I think I’ll stay a little longer.’

  ‘Won’t they be worried about you at home?’

  ‘Nup.’ Patrick shouted at the barman to provide more whiskey. ‘They know where I am.’

  �
�Well… don’t drink too much o’ that stuff,’ warned the priest.

  ‘Jazers, is the bloody needle stuck?’ bawled Patrick. ‘That’s all anybody seems to be able to say.’

  The priest had a word with the barman on his way out. ‘Keep an eye on the ould fella. He’s well kettled. If he goes down he’ll never get up. Goodnight, lads!’ He hoisted his arm. ‘Don’t let’s have the Law in again before twelve. I want no broken heads at Mass.’

  Alone at his table Patrick began to sing, disjointedly at first, tapping the table with his glass, then, when the others picked up the rebel thread he came to full cry. They sang long and vociferously, taking it in turns to keep the old man’s glass filled – a songbird was always popular – until the rousing words and the drink drove Patrick to picking another fight and he was slung out.

  The street was deserted. Patrick wondered over this for a moment, then remembered it was Christmas Eve; most folk would be home with their families. Home – now where was that? He staggered, took a step backwards. ‘Home is where the hearth is,’ he proclaimed loudly, then looked both ways. ‘But how do I bloody get there?’ He used his finger like a metronome to decide which direction to take. ‘Eeny meeny macker acker, aero domino, alley wacker, judy acker, om-pom-push! This way.’ He headed to his left, weaving drunkenly about the pavement.

  Unfortunately the route proved to be the wrong one as Patrick found out after two miles, when the buildings started to give way to open fields. Puffing and wheezing with the cold the old man flopped his buttocks onto a low wall and dropped his head to his chest. ‘We’re lost.’ Stupefied, he hoisted himself and continued to walk in the same direction, telling himself he would come to Sonny’s house eventually.