Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Read online

  With the unwinding of his scarf and the departure of the physician, Nick told the manservant to stable his horse, then he and his father left the chilly hall and went to join the womenfolk.

  ‘Hello, love.’ His grandmother’s greeting was quiet but fond as Nick stepped across the margin of highly polished floorboards and onto the carpet. ‘Come by the fire, you look frozen.’ His cheeks were bright pink and he was blowing on his hands. She asked how he had got here – he lived in Leeds – and he replied that he had driven himself in the brougham, hence the bloodless fingertips. ‘You shouldn’t’ve bothered coming over in this weather.’

  Nick took this as reproval. There was an edge of guilt to his reply. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been for a few days, Nan. It’s just…’

  ‘I know, you’ve an awful lot to see to.’ Thomasin nodded forgiveness, yet to Nick it still seemed like a rebuke. He wanted to tell her that wasn’t the reason at all, but before he could speak she was asking, ‘How’s Win and little John?’ She hadn’t seen them lately.

  His accent was refined but his words were not. ‘Johnny’s fine, Win’s sick as a pig.’ Still working at his numb fingers to restore the circulation, Nick perched at an angle on the sofa beside her. ‘She’s just found out she’s in a certain condition again.’ He rolled his eyes in disgust – young Johnny was barely six months old. It was actually quite funny that the method of contraception he had used for years before his marriage should let him down now. His father congratulated him laughingly, his aunt and grandmother also.

  ‘Aw, that’s lovely.’ Thomasin’s tone lacked the normal verve but she was genuinely pleased and reached for his icy hand to squeeze it.

  Nick laughed, ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ and pulled out a handkerchief to swab a dew-drop from his nose. His cheeks, which a moment ago had been frozen, now felt a-blaze from the heat that sprang from the hearth.

  ‘Of course it is. Your grandad’ll think so too. I’m going to sit with him agian, is anybody else coming?’ Thomasin started to prise herself from the comfortable sofa, failed, and toppled back. Nick jumped up to help her. ‘Thanks, love.’ She rocked her body and hauled on his arm. ‘Oh, by gum … I must be getting old. What I need is a special seat that’ll catapult me upwards when I press a button. Now, what have I done with me glasses?’ Her grandson retrieved them from the carpet. ‘Put ’em safe on that table – oh, sorry Nick, I never thought to ask.’ She craned her neck to look up into his face. ‘Do you want something to warm you?’ Nick eyed the tray and said he would have a cup of tea if there was one in the pot. ‘Get Vinnie to make some fresh, Erin,’ ordered her mother, moving to the door. ‘That’ll be stewed by now.’

  Nick forestalled his aunt. ‘This’ll do me. You three go up if you like, I’ll just have a quick swig.’ It’s no good putting it off, he chided himself, watching them retreat, you’ll have to face him sometime.

  When the women left the room, Sonny did not follow immediately but hung back to ask the younger man, ‘Have you seen anything of your mother?’

  Warmer now, his son unbuttoned the navy jacket, displaying a gold watch chain. ‘Yes, I nipped round before I came here, to take Paddy’s birthday present and tell her about the baby. She sends her love.’ There were no clean cups. Nick’s sophisticated air did not extend to table manners; he tipped the slops of one into another, clashing the china about the tray.

  His father watched the tea spurt from the pot, some of it missing its target and dappling the silver tray. ‘Any word about… ?’

  Nick shook his head and made a face as the lukewarm brew met his taste buds. ‘Christ, that’s terrible. I think I’ll have a drop of Grandad’s medicine.’ Dashing the cup onto the tray he set his long legs in the direction of the whiskey decanter. ‘D’you want one?’

  Sonny declined sternly. ‘No, and you shouldn’t either. Not at this time of morning.’

  The hand raising Nick’s glass paused uncertainly and the blue eyes assumed a look of guilt. ‘Sorry …’ His father had acquired a sudden aversion to whiskey; everyone knew why. ‘I don’t really want it, it’s Dutch courage.’ He splashed the liquor at his quivering insides then sucked in his cheeks, looking afraid.

  Unlike the young man’s grandmother, Sonny guessed Nick’s reason for staying away. ‘Just so long as you don’t use it as a regular crutch like your grandfather did,’ he warned. ‘We’re all scared, son …’ He moved his head at the door. ‘Come on.’

  Nick swallowed the remainder of the whiskey, felt it burn its way down his gullet, then tugged his navy waistcoat into place and steeled himself for the ordeal to come.

  * * *

  Patrick was sleeping. The doctor had not been wholly honest in saying he was peaceful, for occasionally the old head rolled from side to side as if its owner were trying to escape some nightmare. Age and illness are always cruel bedfellows and they had shown no mercy here. Patrick’s once-tanned cheeks were jaundiced, his eyes sunken by pain; his hair which had been jet-black in youth was now white and barely covered his skull. The handsomeness that had stayed with him long after middle-age had now been completely devastated. He was just a sick old man.

  Thomasin smiled at the nurse who, at the entry of the family, had risen from one of the chairs surrounding the bedside. ‘Go get yourself a cup of tea, Nurse.’ The woman whispered thanks. As discreetly as possible, she collected some soiled pieces of linen and to the accompanying rustle of starched apron, left them. Thomasin scooped her dress under her buttocks, seated herself on the still-warm chair and took hold of Patrick’s hand, stroking it. The others joined her to watch in concern.

  It seemed unbelievable that a fortnight ago none of them, not even his wife, had known of his condition. When his pain had sneaked up unawares and made him double over he had told them it was indigestion. Indigestion! And none of them had suspected for one moment, had attributed his growing gauntness to his eighty years. How alone he must have felt. So alone that he had made secret plans to fulfil his wish, the wish of every Irishman, to die in Ireland. But to his family’s great fortune, he had deposited last instructions with a friend who had divulged his secret, and Thomasin had gone to fetch him home.

  She relived the journey, saw Patrick muffled in a blanket to his silver-bristled chin against the buffeting attack of wind and wave, looking so small, so vulnerable. Her husband had always relied on physical power to lift him over the hurdles of life, for in spirit he had been a very weak man. Frail and wasted as he had become, how could he have survived that journey home? And yet, through those hours of swelling torment, his eyes had burned bright with a strength that Thomasin had never seen before.

  But the torturous sea crossing, the shock of learning that his long-dead son Dickie was in fact alive and was coming home, each had abetted the cancer in its purpose. Since his emotional return, he had never left his bed. This was the first year that there had been no Christmas party at one Feeney residence or another. Christmas had passed quietly – Thomasin had fully expected her husband to pass quietly with it … but here he still was, clinging on, waiting for Dickie.

  From time to time, Patrick emerged from his drug-induced sleep to catch the strains of Erin’s harp, and listen contentedly to their soft laughter over some old family joke – ‘Eh, d’you remember when you and our Dickie smacked old Raper round the chops with that wet fish?’ … and more than once his husky voice would interrupt, ‘Am I late for work?’ And Thomasin would pull the covers further round his chin, with soft dissuasion, ‘No, love, we’ll let you have a sleep-in this morning.’

  The hours dragged by. A lamp was ignited, spraying gentle light upon the bed whilst leaving the edges of the room in shadow. The people around his bed came and went, came back again. Floating as he was on a wave of morphia, he could not be sure who they all were, at one poignant stage mistaking Erin for his mother. Only Tommy came through clearly, gripping his hand, lifting his weak head to sip fruit juice from a spout. Sometimes, when the others weren’t there, she would stroke his brow and murmur in
timate little phrases they had used to each other in their youth. How could he ever have thought this woman did not care? How could he have even contemplated dying among a bunch of strangers because he mistakenly thought of that place as home? Home was where she was.

  A stab of fear made him tighten his hold on her hand: not fear of dying – death would be a release from this dreadful agony but fear of leaving her. However, it was not merely this which made him cling; he was waiting for someone to get home. Not Belle, oh no, he didn’t want her to see him like this. No … he was waiting for his son, Tommy’s firstborn.

  Thomasin returned his grip with both hands. ‘You’re looking more perky now,’ she mouthed cheerfully into his face. ‘D’you want something to eat?’ The old man shook his head and smiled. Now that he was awake she took a moist cloth and dabbed gently at his blood-encrusted nostril, helped him take his pills, then settled him back down. ‘Did you hear what I told you before?’ Her question was met with bafflement. ‘No, I thought you weren’t with us. You’re going to have another great-grandchild.’

  ‘Nick?’ At his wife’s bright nod, he dragged his head from right to left, seeking his grandson. ‘Ah … congrats, son.’ He spoke haltingly. ‘That’s great. Is Win here?’

  Nick bent over the old man, defining his words. Grandad had been having trouble hearing lately; all his faculties seemed to be caving in at once. ‘No, she’s had to stay at home, Grandad. She’s not feeling too good. She sends her love though.’

  Pat blinked. ‘Johnny?’

  Again Nick’s reply was negative. ‘I can fetch him over tomorrow if you …’

  ‘No, no … I’d love to see him, but I don’t want him coming and being frightened.’ For a similar reason he had begged that Paddy and the girls be kept away.

  There was kind argument from his wife. ‘He wouldn’t be frightened, surely. He’s only a baby. It’d do you good to see him.’

  Pat was thoughtful. ‘Aye … maybe. See what tomorrow brings.’ He looked again at Nick. ‘What’re you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t ye be at the store?’

  The young man’s reply was light. ‘Aren’t I entitled to a day off, then?’

  ‘Day off? Begod, now I do feel bad. You never take days off … you’re like her.’ Pat flicked a trembling finger at his wife.

  ‘You don’t imagine I came specially to see you, d’you?’ kidded Nick. ‘I had some business in York and I thought I might as well call in and see if you’re still driving everybody mad.’

  ‘Ah, ye young bugger, that’s more like it.’ Pat smiled lovingly and with great effort touched the other’s arm. ‘’Tis nice to see ye though … but don’t leave Win too long on her own.’

  ‘She’s not on her own. Jim and Nora are there.’ These were Nick’s parents-in-law. ‘I thought I might spend the night here.’ He turned to his grandmother. ‘If that’s all right with you, Nan? We could fix some wheels to Grandad’s feet and have a night on the town.’

  ‘I’m all for the night out,’ said Thomasin, ‘but you don’t think I’m carting that old saucepot round with me, do you? He’ll ruin my reputation.’

  A period of calm refiection followed the banter. Pat’s heavy-lidded eyes crept from one perturbed face to the next. How terrible this must be for them. ‘I’m sorry … I’m taking a long time to die, aren’t I?’

  ‘Eh, now you can stop that, you bad lad.’ Thomasin directed a finger.

  ‘I feel so guilty, keeping y’all waiting.’

  His wife’s face was stern. ‘Patrick, if you aren’t careful I shall have you out of that bed and pointing the brickwork up on the front of the house.’ She threw a look of warning to Erin who had turned away in tears; there was time enough for that when Pat departed. Right now he needed to be kept cheerful.

  He gave a deep-throated whicker, then lowered his eyelids. The strain of speaking had made him weary. ‘If ye don’t mind, I’ll just have a wee nap before I mix me cement.’

  ‘You do whatever you like, love, I’ll be here.’ Thomasin continued to hold his hand while he dozed.

  At his next awakening, he said he had heard a harp playing. Erin told him it had been her. ‘Thank God,’ he smiled. ‘I thought I’d gone … My old dad … he wouldn’t part with that bloody thing even when we were starving … used to tell me such great tales about how it came to be in the family … I swear to God it was stolen.’

  Thomasin asked if there was anything he fancied. He murmured for Erin to read a few pages from a favourite book, which gave them all something more to think about than their own misery. So involved did Erin become with the lives of Dickens’ characters that she continued to narrate long after her father had drifted back to sleep. Sonny and Nick listened, unaware that the thought in which they were submerged was one and the same: each remembering this tale from Patrick’s lips, watching his calloused, soil-engrained finger trace the sentences …

  Towards nine in the evening, the rumble of carriage wheels brought Sonny’s anxious face to the window, but it was only the doctor on his third visit of the day. With his arrival the nurse checked that Patrick was at ease, then obeyed Thomasin’s entreaties to go home. She had stayed longer than normal tonight, expecting the end to come any second and wanting to be here when it did because she had grown very fond of her patient. But still the stubborn old soul clung on. With such tenacity he would probably be here to greet her in the morning.

  Whilst the physician attended the dying man, the group at Patrick’s bedside drifted downstairs. It was well past the time for dinner but no one felt inclined to eat. Old Mrs Howgego, the cook, had been instructed to send a plate of sandwiches to the drawing room, yet even these were barely touched and in the heat of the room looked ready to take flight.

  The door opened and a rough-looking man in his early twenties peered around it. Thomasin glanced up, then formed a soft smile of welcome. ‘Hello, Lol. Come in.’

  Lol Kearney stayed where he was, half in, half out of the room; a stance which portrayed his status in the household. Neither family nor servant, Lol had never been totally at home here, had felt more like a charity case … which, in truth, was what he was. Oh, he was immensely grateful; who wouldn’t be in a situation like his? Saved from a life of poverty when he was fourteen, clothed, housed, fed, educated and given employment at Mrs Feeney’s factory … but gratitude did not buy membership of a family and Lol could barely wait to have his own home and his own people round him – as he would be doing in the summer when he married the sweetheart whom he had met at work. This said, the concern on his face was genuine as he enquired after Patrick.

  ‘He’s not too grand, Lol, but thank you for asking.’ Thomasin smiled.

  Lol returned a grave nod, and hovered awkwardly for a second, before saying, ‘Right… I’ll go get me supper then,’ and extracted his head from the room.

  ‘Did you know Lol’s getting wed next year?’ Thomasin had turned to look at her grandson seated nearby.

  ‘No.’ Nick appeared to be more interested in his boots which were tapping relentlessly at the carpet.

  ‘Aye, she’s a pretty lass too … I’d’ve liked to give them a nice send off, but her parents see it as their job.’ The vision materialised of herself and Patrick at their own wedding, dancing, laughing … A soft chuckle brought all eyes to her. ‘I was just remembering,’ she explained to them, eyes distant. ‘I hope Lol’s wedding isn’t as spectacular as ours was. Talk about the Battle of the Boyne … people throwing food at each other …’

  ‘What!’ She had Nick’s full attention now. His father and his aunt, who had heard the tale before, merely exchanged smiles.

  ‘It’s true,’ vouched Thomasin. ‘And not just throwing food, but damn good punches. A right fiasco …’

  ‘Grandad always was keen on the bunching stakes.’ Nick smiled and stretched his aching body.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Nicholas.’ The old lady feigned a regal expression. ‘Your grandfather was quite innocent.’ She laughed, then, at her grandson’s expressio
n of regret. ‘It was probably the only time he didn’t start it. No, it was Molly Flaherty, one of your grandfather’s Irish pals. Ah dear, poor old Molly…’

  Upstairs, the physician was about to slip the hypodermic needle into Pat’s crepey skin, when a weak, but clearly bad-tempered objection stopped him. ‘Fág an áit!’ A quirk of his condition had been the restoration of his native tongue. Often he addressed them in Irish, sometimes gently, other times more harshly. The doctor, used to these displays, tried once more to insert the needle. Again Patrick recoiled, speaking English this time. ‘Don’t… not yet. The pain’s not too bad … don’t want to sleep … want to see my son.’

  The doctor hesitated, listening to the laboured breathing. The doses were gradually having to be larger and larger; the next would probably see him off. He laid the hypodermic in a bowl and patted the liver-spotted hand, watchful of his patient’s face.

  ‘Is he here yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ came the quiet reply.

  ‘He won’t be long,’ wheezed the old man, still holding the other’s hand. ‘I can feel him. Will ye wait… just for a bit?’

  The doctor nodded kindly and tucked the emaciated arm under the covers. ‘Do you want your family with you again?’ At the Irishman’s feeble nod, he went downstairs to tell them.