Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Read online

  Dickie

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Song of Songs

  Copyright

  Dickie

  Sheelagh Kelly

  For my friend Linda Steel

  1

  Why were they all so nervous of his coming? He should be the one to wring his hands and quell the butterflies, not them. Perhaps it was not so much the thought of meeting him which induced these tremors, but the thought that he was going to kill the old man upstairs; the one so dear to all of them.

  There were three people in the room: an elderly woman, her middle-aged stepdaughter and son. The conversation between them was sparse. What could one say when, in the bedchamber above, one’s husband, one’s father lay near to death? Each tried to avoid this fearful image by steering their minds elsewhere. Thomasin Feeney trained hers on the contents of the room in which she was sitting. A spacious room with elaborate architraving and cornicework, it formed part of a mansion on Peasholme Green in the centre of York. Its furnishings spoke wealth. From its ceiling dripped a huge crystal chandelier. Ironic, that such elegance could be found only ten minutes’ walk from the slums where her children had been born … but that was long, long ago. The Feeneys had lived here for over twenty-five years. During that time the decor had seen many changes. Apart from the chandelier, only the multi-hued Persian carpet had been present at the beginning; those parts of it that had started life as cream were now discoloured to beige by the shoes of four generations of Feeneys; those tottering their first steps of life … and those stumbling their last.

  Thomasin’s grey eyes roamed the potted palms and aspidistras, the overmantel mirror, the gilt-framed miniatures and the portrait of Queen Victoria, trying to keep her mind off the room upstairs. One hand toyed constantly with the pair of spectacles that rested on her silken lap. Those meeting her for the first time would see a benign, aged gentlewoman, short of stature, plump of build, clad in the lace cap and shawl befitting a great-grandmother, snowy hair drawn back from a face lined with every experience of her seventy-four years; an extremely kind face, with gentle creases around the eyes and mouth, less prone to the impulsive glowers of youth. But let those who tried to cheat her beware, for they would soon discover that the peachy bloom of dotage was a smoke-screen. Age may have mellowed her appearance, but the tongue was just as tart and the shrewd, businesslike brain was still very much intact… though at this moment it was less decisive, hovering twixt her dying husband and the son she had not seen for twenty-six years; the one who was coming home.

  Inwardly berating herself, she tried to concentrate on the pink brocade sofa by the window. Parts of the wadding could be seen in several places. Its threadbare state mirrored the feelings of the inhabitants: their emotions ready to burst through the thin veneer of stoicism when the thread to which Patrick clung so desperately, finally snapped. I really must get it re-covered, thought Thomasin, eyes roving on to the heavy, flower-embossed window drapes. I wonder if it would look right in that stuff or would it be just too much pattern?

  Her gaze wavered from the tasselled curtains to a row of photographs on the piano, showing each of her grand-daughters in their white veils and dresses at their first Communion, her great-grandson, herself and Patrick at the child’s Christening …

  She wrenched her eyes away to the garden, which this room overlooked. In summer the french windows would be kept ajar to receive the scent of lavender. From early morning soft fingers of sunlight would creep over the threshold, stroking first one wall, then, as the day progressed, the entire room would be painted in its warmth until late evening, when the fingers would slide reluctantly down the eastern wall and into the night. Patrick had loved to sit here …

  There were no beams to fade the carpet this wintry Monday morning. At ten-thirty the sun had failed to penetrate a sky that threatened rain. Everything looked dingy and desolate, both in here and in the garden, where the frost-bitten stalks of chrysanthemums drooped over the edge of the lawn, awaiting the gardener’s attention.

  Compelling her own attention to the worn sofa, Thomasin decided that perhaps it might look better if re-covered in a plain maroon velvet like the modern Chesterfield and its partnering easy chairs that formed a square to the hearth. These were a recent acquisition, but still the seating in here was inadequate when all the clan was gathered together … as they would be very soon to bid goodbye to their oldest and dearest member. Oh, Patrick, I can’t believe this. The year 1900 had brought such excitement – a motor car, electricity, a new generation – now it came limping to its end amid all kind of upheaval. She winced, hoisted one aching buttock then glanced at Erin who sat nearby, receiving a tremulous smile in return before looking away to her son.

  John Feeney was blind to his mother’s scrutiny, his eyes glued to the white marble fireplace which, like the rest of the room, was bedecked for Yuletide – with a swag of red ribbons, pine cones, holly and other greenery. But the heat of the log fire had dried the sap, the holly leaves were folding in on themselves as if contorting with pain, the ivy lay shrivelled and brown. In a far corner, the Christmas tree looked as if it, too, was in mourning, listing heavily to one side, the carpet beneath thick with fallen needles, though its perfume still prevailed. Many of the greetings cards which stood about the room had blown over from the opening and shutting of the door when the maid delivered endless trays of tea. No one had bothered to pick them up – indeed, some were still in their envelopes, tucked behind the ebonised mantel clock whose tick intruded on the silence. News of Patrick’s illness had put an abrupt end to festivities.

  ‘I’ll have to get Vinnie to take this lot down,’ muttered Thomasin, following her son’s eyes to the decaying garland, hung only moments before the revelation. ‘I can’t stick it till Twelfth Night.’ Her speech was broadly-accented, but not harsh.

  It broke John’s trance and he nodded the fine head of auburn hair inherited from his mother; though very much paler these days and streaked with white, it had hardly begun to recede. He had also, his mother’s grey eyes and wide mouth, but whereas Thomasin’s curled up at the edges, even at this sad time, her son’s projected solemnity. This was not a true indication of his character at all, for John – or Sonny as he was still known by his family, even at the age of forty-six – enjoyed a joke as much as anyone. His build, too, decried the sort of man he was. Dress him in rags, shove a pick in his navvy-like hands and people would cross the street to avoid the risk of a brawl. Only his eyes showed the reality; Sonny was a deeply sensitive, artistic man – though this was not to say he had never used his fists in defence of his family; he was after all born of fighting stock.

  Erin Teale covered the hand of the woman she had known as mother since the age of five. ‘I’ll make a start on it.’ She stood, rubbed the small of her back, then wandered in dolorous fashion to the mantel and began to collect the cards. ‘I need something to do or I’ll go crazy.’

  ‘Why don’t you finish your knitting?’ suggested her mother. Erin replied that she hadn’t the inclination. ‘You promised it to Cicely for her birthday – that’s next week. The rate you’re going I can see her walking round in a one-armed cardigan.’

  The response was impatient. ‘There’s too much pattern to concentrat
e on. I’m pulling out more than I’m knitting. If I don’t finish it then I’ll buy the child one.’

  The intonation was faintly Irish. Erin was York-born but had been raised in an Irish ghetto and had kept the accent. At fifty-three she had long since bidden farewell to the slenderness of her youth and donned a good four inches in circumference. However, being quite tall she could carry it and there were no unattractive bulges to spoil the line of her figure-hugging gown. The colour was mauve – always a favourite with Erin for it complemented her blue eyes – and as she moved, its train dragged the carpet. Her features were piquant and with age could have become severe, but a fringe of soft curls helped to prevent this; she was still a very attractive woman, even if at this moment her beauty was masked by anxiety. The remainder of her hair was swept up and held with a jet comb. It had turned grey quite early in her life – a common failing of black hair of course, but poor Erin had more reason for this premature ageing than most. When she was two years old, her mother Mary died from cholera in the first in a series of tragedies that were to dog her whole life, not the least of these being widowed at thirty with a crippled child to care for. But Erin had survived. Her latter years, spent in the house at Peasholme Green, had brought stability and contentment… until her dear father’s illness.

  Erin paused. Her thumb stroked the plush robin on the card in her hand, but her eyes stared past it. Everyone knew their parents would die some day, so why was it such a shock when it came? Maybe because Erin had expected that one morning her mother and father wouldn’t come down for breakfast and the family would find they had just drifted peacefully away in their sleep. She hadn’t envisaged such a painful ending … it wasn’t fair that it should happen to her father, he was such a nice man. Even in his cups he had never been malicious, just… daft. It wasn’t bloody fair! She began to snatch the cards ferociously, slapping them into a pile. The others watched, saying nothing. There was only the tick of the clock, the whine of the log fire, the sound of Christmas cards being shuffled together and the whisper of Erin’s skirts as she moved from table to table. The whole house seemed full of whispers.

  The door opened, bringing all eyes round sharply, but it was only Vinnie the maid come to ask if she could get them more tea. Normally a bright flibbertigibbet of a girl, she was today very subdued. Whilst collecting the tray, she noticed the fresh fall of pine needles and used a brass companion set from the hearth to sweep them up before leaving. Some minutes later, refreshment was served.

  Erin left the pile of cards on top of a black and gold lacquered cabinet and came back to the fire.

  ‘Thank God for tea,’ sighed Thomasin, pouring the brew herself and handing out cups to her son and daughter. ‘All this waiting …’

  They were in the process of lifting their cups when someone else entered. Thomasin’s eyes rose again quickly to see a manservant admit the physician who had been attending her husband. Loth to voice the question on her mind, she gestured instead to the sofa. ‘Come and sit down and have some tea, Doctor.’

  The tweed-clad fellow with the ruddy complexion approached the fire. He was in his fifties, and had been the family’s physician for half his lifetime. Even so he could not have been here more than a handful of occasions, the Feeneys being generally robust in health. To one less observant their obvious wealth might be unnerving; but amongst the sumptuous trimmings was the odd cheap little ornament – a jug bearing the inscription A present for Grandmother, a chalk pussycat won at the fairground – showing that underneath they were just like any other family. With the same ease that he entered the slum hovels, he came to join them. Sinking into voluptuous cushions, he accepted the offer of tea, his expression bland.

  Sonny, who had risen out of politeness at the doctor’s entry, now tugged at the knees of his charcoal trousers and reseated himself. ‘How is … ?’ It emerged huskily and he coughed behind a fist. ‘How is he, Doctor?’

  The blandness gave way to the doctor’s true feelings. Taking possession of the cup with its pink and red roses he lifted it from its saucer, saying gravely before it met his lips, ‘It can’t be much longer, I’m afraid,’ and drank swiftly as all three mouths showed their concern. Clinking the two pieces of china together, he added, ‘I’ve given him an injection. He’s quite peaceful at the moment.’ Privately, he found it amazing that the old man was still here; he had seemed to be in extremis for days.

  A worried crease to her brow, his hostess nodded and said quietly, ‘We’ll go back up in a moment.’ Until the doctor’s visit she had been sitting upstairs with Patrick, her husband. Most of the time since his homecoming had been spent thus, especially through the night. She could not bear the thought of going to bed then finding him gone in the morning. A cape of indescribable weariness settled on her shoulders; she fought it off and asked, ‘Sonny, what time did you say Nick’s coming?’ Her grandson had not shown his face since the brief visit to his grandfather four days ago. She knew better than to expect emotion from this cool young man, but he might at least have hidden his eagerness to get away.

  Sonny exerted leaden eyes to the clock. His voice was well- spoken, but still retained the flat Yorkshire vowel sounds. ‘He should be here any time. He said he was just going to check that things were all right at the store then he’d be coming straight here.’ Normally, they would all be at their work, even Mother, but none of them had put in a full day since learning of Father’s illness. Sonny himself had been here all the time since Patrick’s return from Ireland several days ago. His only contact with the wife he had left in Leeds had been by telephone.

  ‘And what about the other one?’ Thomasin did not put a name to the man for whom all were waiting.

  Sonny shrugged. The starched white collar bit into his neck, leaving a mark as he lowered his shoulders. ‘Who knows?’ His brother’s letter had said the ship docked on the thirtieth of December; it was the thirty-first today and still no sign, no word. Today was also his own son Paddy’s fourth birthday. They’d be having a little party for him at home; Sonny would miss it. He wouldn’t be going home until after…

  ‘But did he say he was coming here or to your house?’ persisted Thomasin anxiously.

  Her son’s reply was mildly exasperated, as to a troublesome child. ‘Mother, I must’ve told you a dozen times he didn’t say!’

  ‘Oh, please forgive your mother for causing you the effort of having to repeat yourself, Sonny!’

  The doctor hid his embarrassment in the teacup. Sonny’s face crumpled and he rubbed hard at a ginger eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry, Mam …’

  Thomasin’s expression melted too. ‘I know, you’re just worried … like the rest of us.’ She ground her blue-veined hands into the cup, as though modelling it. ‘I just wish he’d get here and end your Father’s waiting. That’s all he’s hanging on for: to see Dickie. It’s not right he should suffer like this.’ Experiencing Patrick’s agony in her own gut, her hands clamped the china even more fiercely.

  ‘He knows where we both live,’ Sonny told her. ‘If he turns up at Leeds then Josie’ll telephone. He must be here soon.’ For God’s sake hurry, he urged his brother.

  Both irritated and worried at the same time, Erin snatched the teapot and poured her third cupful. ‘I’m still not convinced we’ve done right by Belle.’ Her daughter, Belle, unaware of the impending death of her grandfather, had gone to South Africa to investigate the reported ill-treatment of prisoners from the Boer War. Belle was forever involved in one campaign or another. That this one was more dangerous did not appear to alarm her, but Erin would not settle until she was safely home. ‘I know there’s small chance of her getting back in time … but if we don’t send any word at all… well, it’ll be me she’ll vent her anger on!’

  It had been deemed futile to send a cablegram as it would take nearly a month for Belle to journey from South Africa – far too late to see her grandfather alive, or even to attend his funeral. Thomasin had persuaded Erin to let Belle’s work take its course, to which she had agr
eed. All the same, she dreaded the explanation that would have to be made on her daughter’s return. After two decades of turbulence, their relationship had for the last five years settled into something more friendly… and now this. She could already hear Belle’s angry words. The hands cradling the cup appeared as an extension of the fine bone china, fingers delicately tapered, but anguish cracked her facial beauty. ‘I mean, it’ll look as if we don’t care …’

  At that same instant, the doorbell sounded. Mother, daughter and son froze, then looked at each other. The doctor put down his cup; having been informed of the family reunion, he had no wish to trespass. ‘I’ll take my leave of you, Mrs Feeney, and will call again this afternoon.’ His hands sank three inches into the cushions as he levered himself from the sofa and picked up his bag.

  Whilst Thomasin and Erin thanked the doctor, Sonny edged over to the door and peeped round it. However, when his face turned back into the room its anxiety was less pronounced. ‘It’s all right, it’s only Nick.’ He followed the doctor out to the hall where the manservant was taking the younger Mr Feeney’s hat and coat.

  At the sight of the physician’s bag and the drawn faces, Nick stopped dead, the shoulders of the coat yoked around his upper arms. Sonny interpreted the look and was quick to reassure him. ‘The doctor’s been giving your grandfather something for the pain. He’s asleep just now.’

  Nick was only partly relieved. He had half-hoped his grandfather would be dead by the time he got here. The thought was not a sadistic one, he just didn’t relish sitting around waiting for Grandad to die; the poor old devil was in such agony. Seeing him the other day in that state …

  Hurling the memory aside, the young man allowed his coat to slip into waiting hands. Underneath, he wore a navy-blue lounge suit; like the rest of his apparel, this was immaculate. There was no clue as to the peasantry of his ancestors in Nick’s bearing – the clean features and hint of arrogance could have been those of gentry. For this he was indebted to his grandfather who had sported none of the Irish traits beloved by cartoonists – heavy brow, brutish eye, pugnacious jowl – but whose Celtic good looks had inspired much admiration. The merest tilt to the tip of the nose, the expressive eyebrows, the long Irish upper lip, all were Patrick’s; the only difference being that Nick was as fair as Patrick had been dark. At twenty-eight he was Sonny’s eldest child, but there was nothing of his father in him. He was taller and not so heavily-built. Even allowing for the gap in their ages he held himself more erect, more confidently, than his father had ever done. His eyes were blue not grey, and his fairness came from his mother who had perished in a fire when he was but an infant. For all this he was still very much a Feeney.