After a further two miles he came across a lighted barn towards which he attempted to steer his wayward feet. The barn was unoccupied. He leaned at the doorway and peered inside. The beam of the lantern fell on a pile of feathers and nearby a string of naked fowl which had, until a moment ago, been wearing them. Patrick’s bleary eyes wavered onto another pile. This time potatoes. Suddenly the years slipped from his shoulders. It was the year of the famine when he had marched to York, creeping into the fields under darkness to steal potatoes for his hungry wife. A grin added its light to that of the lantern. Stumbling inside he approached the pile. Bending gingerly he took a potato in each hand and started to stuff them into his suit pockets till they bulged. ‘That’s no bloody good.’ He searched around for a sack and, finding one, started to cram it with potatoes.
When it was almost full he gathered the top into his fists and with a grunt swung it up over his shoulder. The weight of the sack propelled him backwards and he collapsed on top of it roaring with mirth. Still hanging onto his burden he tried to rise – a dozen times – laughingly bemoaning his feeble efforts. Finally he gave up, closed his eyes and slept where he had fallen. When he woke – which felt like hours later but was actually a matter of minutes – a pitchfork was pricking his chest. ‘Bugger me, said the abbot an’ turned around to find a queue.’ He blinked his eyes and pressed his jaw to his chest to stare down at the pitchfork.
‘Stop where y’are, yer thievin’ owd sod.’ The farmer had returned from his late supper to tidy up after a long day’s preparation for Christmas and instead had found the sleeping intruder. ‘Constable’s on his way.’
‘Constable?’ Patrick’s eyebrows fused. ‘Wha’ for?’
‘Well, not to paint thy bloody picture. Unless I’m mistekken you were about to make off wi’ my spuds.’
‘Spuds – where?’
‘What’s in that sack you’re hanging onto – lumps of air?’
‘Call them spuds?’ Patrick tried to rise. ‘Sure, they’re nuthin’ but bloody riddlers. I’ve seen bigger marbles. I’d never soil my hands with such insults.’
‘Well, be that as it may they’re my bloody marbles so talk yer way outta that one when the Law arrives.’
Patrick began to laugh. Oh, Christ, that was a turn-up; the husband of the illustrious Mrs Feeney being done for theft.
The village constable arrived, none too pleased at being roused on Christmas Eve. ‘Now then, sir,’ – the clothes told him this was not the vagrant he had been led to expect – ‘let’s be having you on your feet, shall we?’
Patrick tried to rise. ‘Yer’ll need a crane,’ said the farmer. ‘Yon’s kalied.’
‘It might be better if you let go of the sack, sir.’ The officer leant down and hooked a hand under Patrick’s armpit, then looked at the farmer. ‘Away George, give us a hand.’
Grumbling, the farmer lent assistance and the Irishman was hoisted unceremoniously to his feet.
‘Now then, I think we’ll begin with your name.’ The police officer conjured up a notepad. Patrick tottered. The farmer caught him. ‘Can you remember your name?’
‘I can,’ announced Patrick proudly as though this was some great achievement. ‘Patrick Feeney.’
‘And your address?’
Patrick collapsed. ‘I’m buggered if I can remember.’
‘A night in the cells, is it, sir?’
‘No, no, I’m sorry I can’t oblige ’cause I’m spendin’ Christmas Eve with my son.’
‘And what’s your son’s name?’
‘John Feeney.’
The officer stopped writing and looked up from his pad. ‘Would that be the mill owner, by any chance, sir?’
‘’Twould. John Feeney, mill owner. I’m married to Thomasin Feeney, shop owner, factory owner, Irishman owner…’ A belch came to his throat. He allowed it to escape.
‘Can one ask what you intended to do with these potatoes, sir?’
‘Them piddlin’ things in the sack?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Listen, there’s no call to talk to me in that frame o’ mind.’ Patrick thumped his chest. ‘I’m not a child. I’ll have ye know my wife’s a very important woman.’
The officer sighed and made a discreet aside to the farmer. ‘What d’you want me to do with him, George? I don’t think he were reckoning to steal ’em really, he’s just had too much lotion. Anyway, it’d be a waste o’ time prosecuting if you ask me. He’s right when he says his wife’s an important woman. You’d get no joy from court.’ The farmer waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ah… do what tha likes wi’ t’soft owd pisspot,’ and went to unhook the lantern with which he lit their path from the barn to the road.
‘I’d best take him home,’ said the officer, trying to hang onto Patrick. ‘If he collapses on t’road he’ll perish in this weather. You wouldn’t care to get cart out, would you?’
‘Cart him ’ome when t’owd sod was gonna clean me out? Tha’s gorra nerve.’
‘Away George, it’s only a couple o’ mile down t’road.’
‘I were just off to me bed.’
‘Goodwill to all men, an’ that? Or to phrase it another way, obstructing a law officer in the course of his duty.’
‘Oh… sod it!’ The farmer went off to hitch a pony and, bringing it round to the gate, helped to shove Patrick in the back of the trap. The Irishman sang loudly all the way home.
‘There’s a policeman in the hall, sir,’ the butler informed Sonny, breaking up the contented family atmosphere late that evening.
‘Oh, God, d’you think Father could’ve been hurt?’ Sonny threw an alarmed look at his mother. ‘I knew we should’ve gone looking for him.’
‘Mr Feeney is with the policeman, sir,’ Sullivan coolly divulged. ‘And another… gentleman.’
‘You’d better show them in, then,’ replied his employer. Every adult in the family was present to see Patrick’s belittlement – or rather, Thomasin’s, for the old man seemed to regard all this as a huge joke. Steered to a chair by the constable and the farmer, Patrick flopped heavily into it and observed the gathering with a stupid grin.
The police officer told Sonny what had happened. ‘But, I’m happy to tell you that this gentleman,’ he directed his hand at the farmer, ‘won’t be pressing charges. Well… people do sometimes have more than’s good for them at Christmas, don’t they?’
‘Some more than others,’ said Thomasin, then stepped forward and added, ‘That’s very charitable of you both, especially considering the amount of trouble my husband must’ve put you to, coming all this way in the cold. I’m sure we’re all very grateful. Sonny, can I take a liberty and ask these gentlemen to take something warming before they make their return?’
‘If you hadn’t asked I was going to,’ returned her son. ‘Gentlemen, what could we tempt you with?’
‘A cup of summat hot wouldn’t go amiss, sir, thank you.’
Sonny rang for Sullivan and ordered tea and hot mince pies for the guests – much to Cook’s displeasure as she had thought her work over for the night. When the men had supped their brandy-laced tea and had left, Thomasin descended on her recalcitrant husband. ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself, bringing this family’s good name into the gutter.’
‘An’ where did this family get its name from, might I ask?’ He thumbed his chest. ‘From me, Patrick Feeney. Only ye didn’t seem to think it was such a good name when it came to putting it over your store, eh?’
Thomasin threw up her hands in despair. ‘Bloody Christmas again! Without fail something always happens to spoil everything. Is there owt else you’d like to confess to apart from drunkenness and thievery?’
‘Aye,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve pissed meself.’ And pulling off his boots he tipped them upside down to dribble over the carpet.
She gave a sound of disgust. ‘You silly, stupid old devil.’ Then wearily to her son and the rest of her family, ‘If you’ll forgive me I’m off to bed. Suddenly I don’t feel in very f
estive spirit.’
‘Talking about festive spirits…’ said Patrick hopefully.
His son signalled to Nick, who had not long been home himself and was grateful to his grandfather for taking the heat off his own situation, to help lift the old man. He couldn’t ask Sullivan to do it. It was bad enough the butler knowing about the police business without adding the rest. ‘Come on, Dad, let’s get you sorted out, shall we?’ Patrick grappled their shoulders as they half-carried him to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Son. Ah, Jaze, I’m so sorry I spoilt it for yese.’
‘It’s Mother you should feel sorry for,’ replied Sonny as they juggled with him on the stairs, trying to stop his feet from banging against each and every step. ‘It can’t be easy for her, watching you drink yourself to death.’
‘You’re right,’ slurred Patrick. ‘It can’t. I’ll give it up. I’ll never touch another drop.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Whether it was his little grand-daughter’s accusation of drunkenness that did it, or whether last night’s over-indulgence had soured his palate, the family wasn’t sure. They were only glad that Patrick abided by his promise. On Christmas Day sheepish apologies were made, allowing the rest of the holiday to be passed in agreeable form. With the purchase of another mouse he earned Amelia’s forgiveness. Seeing him in sober form playing with the rowdy gang of children brought back some of the old affection from his wife, too. Yet Thomasin could not resist a little moan about his Christmas Eve performance to Francis when the holiday was over.
Now that the Bradford store was running smoothly Francis was living back in York. However, they were in Leeds at the moment where the board meetings were always held. This month’s meeting had just broken up and the two were sharing a pot of coffee. ‘If you could’ve seen him, Fran! It was so embarrassing having that policeman bring him home.’
‘Ah, poor Patrick,’ sighed her friend.
She was astounded. ‘Poor who?’
‘I know how tiresome it must have been for you, Thomasin, but if the poor chap’s unhappy…’
‘Oh yes, and we all know who’s to blame! We all get unhappy with being old but we don’t all turn into drunks.’ She caught his reproachful look and said in more temperate vein, ‘Anyway… I think he realises what a fool he’s been; he hasn’t touched a drop since we’ve been home. I’ve told him I don’t expect him to give it up altogether – he’s always been fond of a tipple – but just to keep it in reason, that’s all.’
Francis nodded in sympathy, then proceeded to another subject, though still pertaining to the family. ‘Dare I ask if you’ve come to a decision about Nicholas?’ There had been discussion between himself and Thomasin about making Nick a director, though Thomasin felt the boy was not quite ready.
She showed her hesitancy. ‘I’m just not convinced he’s truly ready for it, Fran. He’s shrewd, yes, but in a few areas he shows a definite lack of judgment.’ She teased her mouth into a wry smile. ‘I’m quite sure he thinks I don’t know about the peer’s daughter. Reckons he’s going to surprise me.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Not in the sense that Nick loves the girl, he’s far too detached for that. But serious in that it could lead to marriage, certainly – and that would be serious.’ Outside, ear pressed to the boardroom door, Nick depressed his brow. ‘I’ve always taken Nick for a wiser bird and yet here he is thinking he’s about to make some sort of brilliant move by cornering a peer’s daughter when the fellow hasn’t enough shekels to cover his family crest.’ The eavesdropper clenched a fist at his own lack of perception.
‘It’s easy for anyone to be misled,’ replied Francis with a mischievous twinkle. ‘I seem to recall your own pleasure on gaining such an illustrious customer… until you tried to get your cash out of him.’
She laughed then. Yes, it was easy to be wise afterwards. The reason she knew so much about the peer’s finances was that she was in possession of several of his unpaid bills. He was now barred from obtaining credit at any of her stores. There was nothing in writing, for Thomasin, however furious, had thought better than to humiliate the peer and had sufficed with a private warning herself. ‘Aye, he must’ve thought he’d found a right prize in me. I have to admit I was taken in. I wonder who’s giving him his free groceries now – let’s hope it isn’t my grandson. I should’ve warned Nick but I didn’t think the old devil would be cheeky enough to try it on again. He must’ve been round all the shops in Yorkshire and now he’s working his way back round.’
‘You’d better tell Nick, then.’
‘No, let him find out for himself. But let’s hope he twigs before any engagements are announced. I’ll be very disappointed if he doesn’t. I’ve always been proud of Nick. But…’ she clicked her tongue regretfully.
‘So the directorship hangs fire?’ asked Francis.
‘For now.’
‘I’ve a feeling you’ll still be saying that when the boy’s in his dotage – he is twenty-four this year, Thomasin.’
‘Still young… All right, look, we’ll leave it until his birthday. That gives him time to spring their trap – ’cause trap it is, Fran. I know these buggers, they don’t mind mixing with us “trade people” if there’s owt to be had. Don’t misunderstand all this, I’m not averse to him marrying the right girl, in fact I think it would contribute a lot to his position in the firm. Now, if it had been a Miss Marks he’d found himself…’ She smiled. There was a brief period of dialogue on the man called Marks who had made quite a name for himself among the Leeds tradefolk. Thomasin said she felt sure he was going places. ‘Anyway, if it’s over by his birthday we’ll consider that directorship.’ It took Nicholas a much shorter period than this to end the fruitless relationship. Three hours after taking his ear from that door he was ‘regretfully’ cancelling his appointment at the peer’s home, saying with tongue firmly in cheek that he was unavoidably pressed to attend his grandmother’s bankruptcy hearing. And the peer’s daughter ceased to exist for him.
With the directorship uppermost in his mind, Nick set out to remedy the previous slip-up by moving to a different fishing hole further downriver – trade people, that’s what Nan had said. Well, this area should be easy enough to infiltrate. All he had to do was tour the high street, pick out the most profitable businesses, narrow the list down to the ones who had eligible daughters and stick in a pin – simple.
However, when he had finished his compilation the list was shorter than he had imagined – so few of the larger store owners had female offspring of a marriageable age. Undaunted, he confined his efforts to the ones who did, using his position as manager of Penny’s to initiate the proceedings. First he ‘bumped into’ the store owners, got chatting about business and after becoming friendly got himself invited into their homes. From then on it should have been simply a matter of selecting the most attractive girl but, alas, it didn’t quite work like that. The first family turned out to be Quakers and would hardly smile upon his grandfather’s penchant. The daughter belonging to the second family was far too ugly to contemplate marrying even for money. So, it looked as though it would have to be the third.
Winifred Cordwell was a very pretty girl. She met Nick’s other criterion too – she was nothing like his hard-headed grandmother. He would have preferred her business to be just that bit bigger, but needs must; the directorship was the thing that mattered most. He began to call more regularly at the Cordwell home. By the crucial deadline of his twenty-fourth birthday the family were treating him as one of their own.
‘Are you thinking of having a birthday party, Nick?’ asked his grandmother during one of her visits to the Leeds store.
‘Nobody’s mentioned anything, Nan.’
‘Well, if you leave it to your father there won’t be one.’
She grabbed a piece of paper. ‘Come on, it’s ages since we’ve had a good do, let’s see who we can invite.’
‘Don’t you think we’d better ask Father and Mother before we fill their house with people
?’
‘Oh, tickle! If they don’t like it we’ll hold it at my house. Now then, might there be anybody special you’d like to invite?’ She hoped it wouldn’t be who she thought it was – Nick was still keeping regular appointments with somebody.
He turned away so she wouldn’t see his smile – she was so obvious. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, there is.’ He sauntered about, hands in pockets. ‘I’ve been meaning to bring her home to meet the family.’
Thomasin veiled her disappointment by keeping her eyes fixed to the list under her pen. ‘You’ve known her some time, then?’
‘Mm, not really.’
‘But you must consider her important if you want to bring her home?’
‘Oh yes, she’s important.’
‘And is your Nan going to be privy to the young lady’s name?’
‘Oh, how slipshod of me! Yes, Nan, it’s Miss Marks.’ His lips twitched as her eyes came up swiftly from the desk. ‘Sorry, just my little joke.’ He smiled inwardly at her narrowed eyes.
‘Have you been…’ she began suspiciously.
‘Been what, Nan?’
‘Never mind.’ She was still perusing him through slitted apertures.
‘Actually,’ he wandered back to stand near her, ‘joking apart, her family is in business. They have a footwear store on Boar Lane – Cordwell’s.’
‘I know it,’ she said instantly. ‘They get a good bit of trade. The window display could do with a touch more flair, though – but I daresay you’ll be able to give them a few pointers when you unite the two families.’ She smiled her congratulations. ‘Well done, Nick, a fine choice. It’d be a nice idea if the engagement were to be announced on your birthday, wouldn’t it?’
He laughed. ‘You’re pushing it a bit, Nan! I haven’t asked her father’s permission yet.’
‘Hah! The man’d be crackers if he turned you down! Get him asked as soon as you like, then we can have a double celebration – there may be an extra bit of something for you this year, too.’ If Nick had taken this to mean that his directorship was to be presented at the party then he was to be badly let down. Announcements flowed: Nick was to be engaged to Miss Winifred Cordwell; Sonny announced that Josie was expecting her fifth child when everyone had thought her past all that; Patrick announced that this champagne was like gnat’s piss though luckily no one heard him – but no mention, no hint even, was made about the directorship. Winifred noticed his preoccupation. ‘Nicholas, that’s the third time I’ve asked you! I’m beginning to wonder why I came to this party.’ He turned to her effusively and kissed her cheek. ‘Oh sorry, Win, I’m not very good company tonight.’ Her good features were hidden beneath a sulk. ‘No, you’re not. One would never guess that we’ve just become engaged – what’s wrong with you?’
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