‘Why not ask him?’
‘He’ll know I’ve been keeping tabs on him.’
‘No, he won’t. Just say you were passing the field and couldn’t help noticing et cetera, et cetera.’
‘Well, there’s nowt so sure as I won’t rest till I know what he’s up to. But I think you can say that’s his directorship up the spout, Fran. Anyway,’ she straightened the blotter on her desk and picked up a pen, ‘let’s have him in.’
Francis’s slow passage to the door gave Nick time to scuttle away to a less-conspicuous position. When the elderly man emerged he was at the far side of the office looking extremely immersed in figurework. ‘Nick, would you mind stepping in a moment?’ Francis crooked a finger and the young man, straightening his tie as he went, moved into his grandmother’s office.
‘Sit down, Nicholas.’ Thomasin leaned her elbows on the desk and studied him over laced fingers.
‘Is there anything wrong, Nan?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘Would there be?’
‘No, I can’t think so.’
She stared deep into those artless eyes, saying finally, ‘No, of course you’re right, Nick. Francis and I are very pleased with the way you help us run things, aren’t we, Fran?’
‘Thank you.’ Nick looked at Francis.
‘How is Winifred?’
‘Oh, admirable, Nan.’
‘Good, good. Well, don’t leave it too long before you set the date, will you? I’d like to see a great-grandson before I go.’ Nick merely smiled. ‘Well, have you?’ she said annoyedly.
‘Have I what, Nan?’
A sigh. ‘Set a date for the wedding yet? You’re not going to keep her waiting another year?’
‘Well… Win and I thought October, but we’ll see how things go.’
‘What things?’
‘Oh… just things.’ She’s wondering how to introduce the subject of horses into weddings, he thought gleefully.
‘I suppose you’ll use the money I gave you to buy a house, eh?’
‘Well, actually that’s one of the reasons we’re waiting, Nan. The money’s tied up at the moment.’
‘Tied up?’
‘Mmm.’ He wasn’t going to put her out of her misery just yet. The calculating old slave-mistress had made him wait long enough, heaven knew.
It was left to her. ‘It wouldn’t be anything to do with what I saw on my land up Malton Road on my way home from the Scarborough shop last night?’
‘Did it have four legs, a tail and go neigh?’ he enquired maddeningly.
Her palm came down on the desk, ending this farce. ‘What on earth possessed you to waste good brass on a mangy bunch of nags?’
‘Mangy? I thought that’s what dogs suffered from.’
‘Winded, then, knock-kneed, saggy-backed, scraggy-haired, anything you like!’
‘Actually, they happen to be very well-bred.’
‘You are the most insufferable boy sometimes… all right, we’ll not quibble about their parentage, but it’s still a despicable waste.’
‘Nan,’ reproached Nick, ‘I thought an astute woman like yourself would have been quick to spot the investment value.’
‘Nicholas!’ Thomasin’s patience had been through the sieve once too often. ‘Had the money been used to purchase shares in my company I could have seen the investment value, yes, but not when it’s gone to buy a load of fleabitten candidates for the glue factory. Now of course, if you were to explain to me…’
‘All right, Nan.’ Nick crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on his lap. ‘But let me ask you a question first. Leaving out weapons and food, what would you say is the most important thing to an army?’
‘I don’t quite get the gist of this but I would guess from your tone that the answer is horses.’
‘Correct. And in a war situation horses tend to vanish by the hundred in puffs of smoke, is that not so?’
‘So who are we supposed to be fighting?’
‘The Boers.’
Thomasin laughed outright. ‘Not again!’ Francis, too, smiled his dubiety.
‘Not yet,’ replied Nick, unabashed. ‘But there’s going to be trouble shortly.’
‘It’ll be nobbut a skirmish,’ scoffed his grandmother. ‘Over in no time. Our lads would squash ’em flat, then you’d be left with an awful lot of dog food on your hands. You’ve been reading too many newspapers, my lad.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised you can’t read between the lines, Nan, you’re far too busy scouting for your stocks and shares. I predict it’ll break out September or October time. At which point,’ he added confidently, ‘I shall sell my horses at a huge profit – might even sell them a couple of hundred head of cattle while I’m at it.’
‘Hmm, and you thought you’d just deposit them in one of my fields, did you?’
‘Your fields, Nan? I understood the land was in Grandfather’s name – at least that’s what he told me.’
‘And of course your grandfather being easier to manipulate than I am you just…’ she made a rolling motion with her hands. ‘So how much rent is he charging you?’
‘Nothing. I thought it rather generous of him.’
‘Oh, I agree… especially when I seem to remember him mentioning that he’d already rented it to someone else. You presumably had to buy that someone off?’
‘Not at all,’ said Nick. ‘In fact he was quite glad when I pointed out the unsuitability of the land for sheep. Much too boggy.’ It had cost only a negligible amount to acquire a few sheep with foot-rot and to have them stationed on the land when Farmer Kettlewell came to inspect it. Damming off a dyke before a heavy shower had aided his deception, leaving the ground very marshy. Kettlewell had been grateful – if slightly puzzled – to find out just what he had been about to pay good money for.
Thomasin concluded this talk with a condescending smile. ‘Well, Nicholas, I’m sure you’ve been extremely clever and if there is a war you can count on double profits: I’ll match whatever you receive from the army.’
‘If you throw in a directorship,’ he answered cutely, ‘I’ll make it a deal.’
She laughed. ‘Done – but I hope you like your bacon on the wing.’
* * *
In the October of that same year, 1899, war was declared on the Boers. Nick acquired his huge profit, doubled by his grandmother, a wife – and a directorship of Penny and Co. Ltd.
* * *
In ten days’ time a new century would be born. Nineteen hundred – just to say it evoked such anticipation, such visions of progress. Patrick supposed he should be excited too, privileged to be alive in such an era, especially with a great-grandson on the way, but he wasn’t. There would be the inevitable celebration parties. Thomasin, naturally, would be among the party-givers and Patrick dreaded the thought of all those people trampling his privacy. However much he complained about lack of company, there were times when he would prefer just to be left alone. There were things he would rather not share… He jumped guiltily as the door handle clicked and shoved the bottle from which he had been partaking under a cushion. This would be Vinnie to ask if he wanted some tea.
He was wrong about the visitor’s identity – it was his son. ‘Oh, ’tis you.’
‘And a merry Christmas to you too, Dad.’ Sonny, beginning to look like the middle-aged man he was, flopped down on the sofa. ‘I thought you’d be busy putting all the decorations up.’
Patrick gave a snort.
‘What was that – bah, humbug?’
‘We-ell, I’m sick o’ hearing about bloody Christmas,’ moaned his father. ‘There’s your mother rushing about with fistfuls of invitations…’
Sonny interrupted with a curse and put a thoughtful hand to his chin. ‘I’d hoped to get in before she arranged anything. Josie and me were going to ask you all to our place.’
‘Oh God, don’t bugger her arrangements up, she’s bad enough as it is.’
Sonny mused for a while. ‘Ah well, never mind. You can
come over and spend the New Year with us – see in the new century.’ At Patrick’s grunt he added, ‘Well, I didn’t expect you to writhe with delight but you could at least smile about it – you’re always grumbling about being left on your own… I can’t seem to win with you. You’re getting to be a right grumpy old sod.’
Patrick bared his teeth in an artificial smile. ‘There! How’s that for ye?’ He got up and made for the door.
‘Eh, I came over especially to see you!’ Sonny let out an exasperated sigh at the lack of response. When the door had closed he leapt up and reached behind the cushion where his father had secreted the bottle. Saville’s Liver and Stomach Mixture, read the label. Sonny clicked his tongue, half-amused – though it was no laughing matter. At least if Father was boozing openly they could tell how much he had consumed. He wondered how long it had been going on this time. Mother couldn’t know – she had never mentioned it. Putting the bottle into his pocket he travelled down to the kitchen, intending to pour the whiskey down the sink.
However, before doing so he put his nose to the bottle. The unexpected aroma made him sniff again. Not whiskey then. So why had Father hidden it away? Sonny pondered over this for a spell, then, instead of emptying its contents, pressed the cork back in and carried it back to the drawing room, where it was replaced behind the cushion. Nothing in there to harm the old man.
* * *
Despite Patrick’s lack of enthusiasm he was inevitably railroaded into participating in the New Year festivities at Sonny’s home. He, Thomasin, Francis and Erin arrived on the afternoon of the final day of the old century, along with Nick and Winifred. Belle had opted to stay at home with her children. There had been three new additions just recently and she felt the visit might unsettle them. Brian would be there to see in the New Year with her.
‘That young man must have more patience than I have,’ opined Erin over dinner when the conversation got around to Belle. ‘It’s pathetic really, the way he hangs round her like a dog waiting for a pat and a “good boy”. She’ll never marry him.’
‘Unfortunately I have to agree,’ said her mother. ‘What she finds so fearsome about marriage I don’t know.’ Her own words caused her to snatch a look at Patrick, but he hadn’t been listening. Despite her impatience a wave of regret and compassion went out to him. He had, after all, been a fine man once, and look at him now. He’d grown even more introverted lately, but at least he wasn’t drinking beyond his usual measure now. While she was watching him his right hand strayed up to his ribs, and for a brief flash his face contorted. Her brow furrowed.
‘So is Mother, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry, what?’ She tore her eyes away to look at Josie. ‘Sorry dear, I was woolgathering.’
‘I was just saying how you’re looking forward to being a great-grandmother.’
‘What? I still can’t believe it.’ She glanced back at her husband. The expression of pain seemed to be over. He sat impassively, staring at his plate. ‘In here,’ she tapped her head, ‘I’m only twenty. It’s a pity other folk have to keep reminding me I’m seventy-four. Still, I find it thrilling to think of a new generation to mark the new century; very fitting. Pat’s pleased too, aren’t you, dear?’
The vacant eyes toured the table. Thomasin repeated the question and the old light came into them briefly. ‘Ah yes, Nick’s boy’s wonderful.’
‘We don’t know if he’s going to be a boy.’ Nick laughed fondly at his wife and felt for her hand under the table.
‘No… well… whatever. ’Tis gonna be a grand year for the young’ns.’
‘A great year for the old’ns too if I have any say in the matter.’ Sonny mopped his chin with a napkin. ‘I’ve a special New Year’s gift for you and Mother. Come on, you’ll need your coats, it’s outside.’
‘John, they haven’t finished eating yet,’ protested his wife, grasping her small son’s hands to wipe them.
‘Oh, rats, they can fill up with Christmas cake if they’re still hungry. I can’t wait a moment longer to see their faces. Actually, it was a Christmas present,’ he explained to his mother as the maid brought their coats and everyone drifted from the dining room. ‘But as you’d already organised a party of your own it had to wait. It was too big to stick a stamp on. Anyway, it’s probably more fitting as a New Year present.’
‘Y’know, I always prefer New Year to Christmas. Always have. Even more so these days. It’s becoming so commercialised, don’t you think? Not like when you were children.’ Thomasin appeared blind to the fact that she herself was a chief contributor to this commercialism.
‘Come on, Dad,’ Sonny threw over his shoulder. ‘Stand here beside Mam while I bring it round.’
‘Brr, I hope it doesn’t take long,’ shivered Thomasin. They were now all clustered on the front step, faces expectant. ‘I can’t imagine what it can… s’truth!’
The delayed Christmas present had just chugged round the corner of the house with Sonny at the wheel. He steered the gleaming automobile around the row of terracotta urns, face beaming, and pulled up in front of the startled crowd, honking the horn. ‘Well, what d’ you think? What? Just a sec, I can’t hear you.’ He turned off the engine and jumped out, striding around the motor car proudly. ‘Isn’t she a spanker?’
Thomasin was involved in effusive thanks, touching the gift admiringly, when Sonny whispered, ‘Look at Father.’ Patrick was making his slow way to the vehicle, his face alight for the first time in months – no, years, marvelled Sonny; he hadn’t seen him look like that since… since before Rosie died. His father was searching for a way into the vehicle. Sonny jumped to his aid and opened the door, helping the old man onto the back seat, his mother beside him. Patrick’s hands felt the seat beneath him. Everything about it smelt new: leather, oil, polish. His son was telling the others, ‘You lot’ll have to stand and watch, I’m afraid.’ He made a lunge with the starting handle. ‘Us three are off for a ride.’ The engine sprang directly to life and he jumped into the driving seat. ‘Oh, wait a minute!’ Rooting under his seat he found a driving helmet and goggles which he thrust at his father. ‘You’d better look the part. Hold tightly now, we’re off.’ The horn hooted again. Patrick gave an exclamation and clung to the edge of the seat as the car chugged out of the drive and onto the road.
‘Careful now, Son. Not too fast. Sonny, take it easy!’
But he enjoyed every minute of the journey as the car throbbed along city streets and country lanes, waving at people, Sonny hooting the horn. They went first to visit Sonny’s millworkers in their neat little cottage homes where they took tea, and best wishes for the coming year were exchanged between employer and employee. On the way back Sonny was forced to stop the car when Patrick suddenly doubled over in pain, his mother shouting her alarm.
‘’S all right,’ the old man waved away their attentions. ‘I’ve just eaten too much hot pastry. Come on now, Sonny,’ he took a deep breath, ‘get this thing started again. Can it go any faster?’
‘You old daredevil,’ laughed Sonny above the noisy rotation of the responsive engine. ‘D’you realise how fast we’ve been going? Fourteen miles per hour. But just for you I’ll put my foot down and see what we can get out of her.’
‘God Almighty,’ said Patrick as they hurtled down the lane. ‘’Tis almost fast enough to fly.’
‘I don’t know about flying,’ shouted Thomasin, holding onto her hat, ‘but I think it might be fast enough to get us arrested. Sonny, slow down, will you? My ears are nearly dropping off with the cold.’ Nevertheless, she had to agree with her son later that the gift had injected new life into her husband. She hadn’t seen him this happy for a long time, and for that she, too, was happy. Everyone was pleased to see that Patrick’s apparent well-being continued for most of the year 1900. It was best labelled ‘apparent’ because it was such a flimsy thing. At times it would be greatly in evidence, as when Nick and Win’s first son, John Richard Feeney, was born. There were, however, times when Patrick retreated into his
old depression, though to the family these seemed fewer. He could be more easily coaxed out of himself, was less grumpy. Today, for instance, he had allowed Belle and her doctor friend to take him to a moving picture show that had set up in Parliament Street, an invitation that might have been turned down only a year ago. That car had certainly proved its worth.
‘Would you like some sweets to eat while you’re watching, Gramps?’ Belle asked before they paid for their seats. She arranged the children in order. ‘Eddie, stop pushing!’
‘Jaze, ye’d think I was one of her bairns the way she talks to me,’ said Patrick amazedly to the doctor, who laughed.
‘She treats me like that, too. Eddie, do as Aunt Belle tells you!’
An’ she talks about not wanting to be tied down by marriage, thought Patrick, watching the two sort out their problems. They’re as much like an old married couple as I know.
The tickets were purchased and everyone edged into the booth. It was very dim, despite the use of artificial illumination. When everyone had ceased shuffling and coughing the proprietor of the travelling show made an announcement as to the splendid content of the moving pictures they were about to see. All the lights were blown out, at which the children screamed. Lucy went further and burst into noisy tears.
‘Please, Lucy, if you don’t shut up they’ll throw us all out and that would spoil it for the others, wouldn’t it?’
Belle sat the child on her lap. Lucy brought her anxiety under control, only to yell once again when the projector flashed into life. The light from the moving picture flickered over ecstatic faces. There were oohs! of delight and aaghs! of terror. Patrick sat bewitched, mouth open, completely mesmerised, until a hostile-looking gang of workmen started to march purposefully towards him. Leaping up he adopted his old fighting stance, ready to take on every one of them to protect his family. Laughingly Belle pulled him back into his seat as the workmen dissolved into a frame of a steam engine.
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