For My Brother’s Sins Read online

  He chewed thoughtfully and looked into each of their faces. Erin, with her raven-haired beauty and great eyes the colour of a Mayo sky, was the image of her dead mother, her face etched in the same delicate piquancy. At twenty she was still unmarried and showed no inclination to be so – though not for the want of admirers. Patrick had seen the way the young men looked at his daughter. But it would be a lucky man who got past the Irishman’s stringent inspection.

  He opened his mouth for another section of fried bread and turned his attention to Sonny. Despite the fact that he and his younger son were often at loggerheads, Patrick never doubted his love nor respect. He would make a fine man. His shoulders were well on the way to being as broad as his father’s – though in looks there was not a drop of paternal blood in him. The red hair, the candid grey eyes and the generous mouth were all inherited from the boy’s mother. Perhaps that was why Patrick felt so strongly for him – because of his son’s resemblance to the woman he loved. Once, years ago, Sonny had been the one to bring them together when they had believed their marriage to be irretrievably shattered: he had staged a fake accident in the hope that their meeting over his inert body would rekindle their affection, but Fate had instituted a real one, nearly killing him in the process. He had succeeded in reuniting his parents but had almost paid for it with his life – a fact which neither Patrick nor Thomasin ever forgot. How childish they had both been then. How young and selfish, indifferent, he himself must have seemed. He hoped he had matured a lot since then.

  His other son was a different proposition altogether. As handsome, sleek and slippery as an otter, his eyes held an invariable mixture of laughter and guile. He would stand oh, so contritely while being reprimanded for some fall from grace, then off he’d be like a wayward colt with a toss of his dark, crisply-haired head. Patrick felt a vague unease about this beautiful son of his. Perhaps it was the beauty itself that made him balk, for no man should be so fair of face. People had remarked on how like his father the boy was, but whilst Patrick was undoubtedly handsome, his son had some strange extra quality about him. It was as though, thought Patrick, the fairies had been witness at his birth and had touched him with their magic, bestowing upon the child the power to charm and endear himself to all he encountered. But for all his assets Dickie would never be half the man his brother was. He used his endowments to attain his own ends. Patrick knew this, for did the boy not employ those same tactics on himself?

  Thomasin finally sat down to her own meal. ‘What’s on the agenda for today, then?’ she enquired of no one in particular.

  ‘I’ll be working up Fulford today,’ supplied her husband. ‘So I may or may not get home for dinner.’

  ‘Aye, well I’ll pack plenty of snap so yer can take yer choice.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ said Erin. ‘It’ll be the same as any other day for me: do that, Miss Feeney, do this, Miss Feeney, have you made quite sure that the tables all have clean cloths? We cannot have the customers dining on soiled linen can we, Miss Feeney? No, Mrs Bradall, kiss my bum, Mrs Bradall.’

  Erin finished her meal and carried her plate to the scullery to rinse it. For the past five years she had been employed as a waitress in a small café in the centre of York – though how she had been able to endure it for so long was due more to her persevering nature than any affection for her employers. The work was almost as tiring and monotonous as when she had been a scullery maid at the Cummings’ household, and the manageress as lazy and supercilious a person as one could wish not to meet.

  She stood in a dream at the sink, wondering what they would be doing at the Cummings’ house now, remembering Miss Caroline as a child and the lessons they had taken together. That had been the happiest part of her employment, the lessons, but they had brought with them a complacency. She had imagined they would last forever and of course they hadn’t; they had lasted only as long as Mrs Cummings remained unaware of what was going on.

  When that time ended, Erin was made to realise that the friendship she had thought belonged to her and Caroline was nothing more than a novelty to the latter and a pipe-dream on her part.

  ‘Away, lass! Stop woolgatherin’, you’re going to be late!’ Thomasin’s words cut through her daydreaming and she went to take a last minute inspection of herself in the mirror over the range before setting off for another dreary day at the café. Where now was the dream she had once prized of becoming a governess?

  Patrick, too, made ready for work, pulling on his dusty jacket and lime-caked boots. He encircled his spouse’s waist as she tied a knot in the cloth which held his lunch, and planted a kiss on top of her head on his way through the back door. When the clomp of heavy boots across the yard had died away, Thomasin started to wipe the table, then addressed Dickie, who sat, now that his father was gone, in Patrick’s chair with his feet propping up the range. ‘Hadn’t you better be makin’ a move an’ all?’

  ‘In a minute,’ he mumbled from behind the newspaper.

  ‘Now!’ She slapped his long legs, sending his feet bumping onto the fender. ‘An’ no nippin’ into that Mrs Cesspit’s or whatever her name is.’

  ‘Nesbitt,’ corrected Dickie, unperturbed by her reprimand. He hunched over to pull on his boots.

  ‘Aye, well I reckon first name’s more apt, things I’ve been hearin’ about her from Miss P. You stay away from her, ’cause I shall hear about it yer know if yer in there for more than five minutes.’

  ‘Sure, an’ what would I be wantin’ with a fat old besom like herself?’ His Irish ancestry always sprang to the fore whenever he wanted to cajole. ‘An’ me a foine specimen o’ manhood.’ He bounced to his feet and twined his arm around her. ‘Now, if she was as goodlookin’ as me mother

  ‘Aye, well just mind yer helm, blatherskite,’ warned his mother, immune to some extent from his charm. ‘Yer gerrin’ too clever by half.’ She reached up to fasten the top button of his shirt. ‘Good grief! Look at the muck on your chest. Stand there while I get scrubbin’ brush.’ ‘That’s not muck!’ Dickie was offended. ‘’Tis hair. I’m a man now, ye know. Look at that.’ He pulled down his shirt, causing his mother to put a hand to her cheek in mock surprise.

  ‘Good Lord, so it is! By, there must be at least, ooh … half a dozen hairs there.’

  Dickie knocked away her exploratory hand with a snort and unhooked his jacket from the peg, slinging it over his arm.

  ‘Goodness knows where yer get that lot from,’ added Thomasin, beginning to pile the crockery in the stone sink. ‘Yer father’s chest is as smooth as a baby’s bum.’

  Dickie could not resist getting his own back. ‘Ah, I reckon ye must’ve had a secret admirer then, Mam.’

  ‘What! By, just you let yer father hear that – he’ll knock yer into t’middle o’ next week.’ She gave him a playful cuff round the ear. ‘Now off to work.’

  ‘I’ll walk down wi’ yer.’ Sonny leapt up and grabbed his jacket.

  Thomasin placed her hands on her hips. ‘Godfrey Norris! Are yer sure yer feelin’ all right? I’ve never known yer so eager for school. Yer’ll be hangin’ around for ages before t’bell goes.’

  Sonny, eager to milk the details of the previous evening from his brother, replied that he liked to be in good time. Though he did not particularly enjoy school as such, this was the only way in which he could gain access to so many beautifully illustrated books, from which he would attempt to duplicate the pictures when the kindly Brother Francis allowed him to bring them home. Painting had always been his passion. He had amassed quite a few pictures now with the aid of his modest box of paints. If nothing else they helped hide the cracks on the bedroom walls. Hurriedly, he donned his cap and followed Dickie out into the street where they mingled with the masses on their way to work.

  ‘Well – are ye goin’ to tell me about Bertha or not?’ he demanded when the other remained unduly silent. Dickie never did have much to say on a morning but today Sonny felt the silence was cultured deliberately to provoke him.

  D
ickie chewed the inside of his cheek to prolong the agony. ‘Eh, I don’t know whether I ought to, Son – I mean, you’re a bit young, aren’t ye, to be learnin’ my bad ways.’

  ‘All right, cleverclogs, be like that! Just wait till ye want me to do anything for you.’ Sonny forged ahead, then called over his shoulder, ‘Any road, I know all about it really. I was just testin’ ye to see if ye were lyin’.’

  ‘Gerraway!’ scoffed Dickie. ‘Ye wouldn’t know where to put it.’

  ‘Course I do,’ contradicted Sonny and waited for his brother to catch up.

  ‘Tell us, then,’ challenged Dickie.

  ‘There y’are, yer don’t know yerself, that’s why ye wanted me to tell ye. Ye haven’t done it at all, yer just showin’ off.’

  ‘Ah, now you’re tryin’ to rile me so I’ll tell ye,’ laughed Dickie. ‘Well, it won’t wash.’

  They had reached the school gates and Sonny stepped inside, peering sullenly through the iron bars like something in a menagerie. His brother marched on, whistling blithely. ‘Any road, yer don’t have to tell me!’ he shouted after Dickie. ‘Any fool knows yer stick it in her bellybutton.’ He stamped off into the deserted schoolyard and tried to blot out his brother’s derisive merriment as Dickie proceeded on his way.

  Perhaps, the older boy reflected, it was unfair to keep Sonny in the dark. After all, his brother had always defended him whenever he got himself into an awkward corner. He decided that he would tell Sonny when they met at lunchtime – though maybe not the full story.

  Chapter Two

  He had noticed her slyly watching him at the travelling fair which had stopped for a couple of days outside the city walls. It was only a modest version of the huge annual fairs that were normally held in the middle of town, but nevertheless the shooting gallery had given him the opportunity to show his prowess to his friends – and more importantly, to the girls. She had pretended to be unimpressed by his marksmanship, making out that she was deep in conversation with her companion and absently sifting the contents of her reticule – at the same time making sure he was still watching her. Later, when she and her friend wandered back to the city, Dickie and his partner had shadowed them, tormenting the girls with the tickling brushes they had purchased – lengths of wire bound with strands of gaily-coloured wool. Their victims had feigned affrontery at first, but soon, after a few choice compliments from Dickie, they had paired off and both couples had gone their separate ways.

  Bertha, although only seventeen, had her own apartment quite nearby and invited him to accompany her there. He did this eagerly, but could not help wondering what her reaction would be when she discovered he had no money. For he knew what Bertha was – her name cropped up frequently in the sniggering conferences he shared with his friends and he had often puzzled over it. Sunday – what sort of a name was that?

  Bertha Sunday had soon come to realise, when she was old enough to leave the orphanage that had been her home since birth, that the most profitable way to earn a living was with her body. As bodies went it was not such a bad one – which was just as well, for her face would never have kept her from the workhouse door. Her eyes were of a nondescript colour, situated too close together above a nose that looked to have been modelled from clay and stuck on as an afterthought. The mouth below held little appeal, apart from housing a full set of incredibly-white teeth, ever ready to flash an encouraging smile at a prospective customer. Also, the outfit she wore today did scant credit to her figure, but at least it was clean and ready-pressed.

  Despite her lack of beauty, Bertha was never short of clients, preferring to select them from the middle classes, men who could afford to pay generously for their pleasure. She had seen how the majority of her peers – less selective girls who had underpriced themselves – had ended up, and it was not going to happen to her. Unlike them, she had no bully-boy to answer to; therefore if, like today, she spotted a handsome face and felt like forgoing the payment and indulging herself, she was quite at liberty to do so.

  They skirted the grim walls of York Castle and sauntered into Castlegate towards a notorious brothel district. The buildings here were dilapidated, the people seedy and unkempt. There was a certain effluvium about the place, but Dickie seemed unconcerned at entering an environment which was pretty much like his own and chattered happily in his boastful manner about his prowess with the ladies.

  She curled her lips at his assuredness. ‘It’s funny I’ve never heard your name mentioned if you’re that popular.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you, though,’ he replied suggestively.

  Her smile began to look a little fixed and she turned her face away. Wasn’t this always the outcome? She had hoped this boy could make her forget about her profession, for a little while at least. ‘And just what have you heard?’ She tried to make her voice sound casual.

  The arm that enciried her waist pulled her closer. ‘That ye like to do it.’

  She turned back to face him, her expression blank. ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know.’ He still wore the confident grin.

  ‘But I’m sorry, I don’t. What d’you mean?’

  His self-assuredness collapsed. ‘Well, er, you know, er …’ he nodded exaggeratedly. ‘Ye know!’

  ‘You keep sayin’ I know – I don’t know.’ She pretended to grapple with his words for some time, then a look of understanding flooded her face. ‘Oh! You must mean indoor games,’ she exclaimed, a gleam in her eye.

  ‘Aye – that’s it, indoor games.’ Mentally he rubbed his hands.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m quite fond of those,’ said Bertha nonchalantly as they turned off Castlegate into one of the Water Lanes which ran down to the Ouse.

  Dickie now started to show slight apprehension. There were some odd characters about. He jumped as an old slattern popped out of the shadows and leered drunkenly into his face, choking him with gin fumes.

  Bertha seemed unaffected. ‘Go find yer own Roger, Sall,’ she told the street-walker. ‘This’n’s mine.’ She gripped Dickie’s arm. ‘Stay close by me, you’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ replied Dickie unconvincingly. He eyed a rough-looking man who was sharpening a knife on a doorstep. Indeed, his eyes were busy taking in all the sights and sounds. Overhead, the doxies called to one another from their tenement windows. Shifty-eyed pimps lounged across doorways, waiting for the sun to go down and business to begin in earnest. A couple rutted in a shadowy corner, a pair of grimy ankles locked around an ill-clad back.

  Bertha had stopped. Dickie looked up wonderingly at the tall house. ‘Is this all yours?’

  She smiled. ‘No, just two rooms – an’ soon as I’ve saved enough money I’ll be out of it an’ all, to a more respectable district, Dringhouses maybe. You been there?’ He shook his head. ‘S’lovely. I don’t normally bring me friends back here; we usually go to a tavern or someplace. This slum’d scare the pants off anyone – but I reckoned you didn’t look the type to mind it.’

  At the top of the first flight of stairs she fished a key from her purse and unlocked a door. It opened onto an oddly-shaped but comfortably-furnished room. Not a whore’s room at all, thought Dickie, quite tasteful in fact, notwithstanding the damp and peeling walls. The curtains and upholstery were in a matching Regency stripe and the furniture, though quite scarred from age, had been well-chosen to give the room a hint of elegance. The bed in the corner added just the right touch to make one feel at home, and the empty beerbottle on the table took the edge off the rather unnerving ambience her attempt to good taste had created. There was one odd thing he noticed: there were no photographs on the mantelshelf. How strange, for almost everyone he knew, however poor, had at least one picture of the family.

  She slipped out of her jacket. ‘Right, shall we get down to it?’

  He couldn’t believe his luck. ‘That’s fine by me.’

  ‘Good!’ she said brightly, then disconcerted Dickie by moving in the opposite direction to withdraw a large box from a cupboard, pris
ing off the lid. ‘Now, which d’you prefer? Checkers, chess or, more fittingly, brag?’

  ‘What?’ He stared uncomprehendingly at the pack of cards she held.

  ‘Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to say what? And you did say you liked to play indoor games, didn’t you?’

  His disappointment was acute. ‘But I didn’t mean … I thought …’

  She slammed the lid noisily onto the box, sweetness and light vanished. ‘Aye – I know bloody-well what you thought! You thought you were gonna get something else, didn’t you? All full of self-importance. Cock o’ the North, droolin’ like a randy dog. Well, all right, fella-me-lad, you can have your bit o’ fun.’ His face brightened. ‘If – she emphasised the word – ‘if you’ve got a sovereign.’

  ‘A sovereign? Why, ’tisn’t worth more’n five bob – an’ dear at that.’

  ‘Why, you little pinchfist! You’d not even get a sniff for five bob. I doubt you’ve even got half o’ that, have you?’ Scornful eyes raked him.

  Bludgeoned down to size he shook his head and looked at his boots to hide his bitterness. The bitch. The teasing, tantalising bitch. She had known all along that he had no money.

  ‘Well, you didn’t think you were gonna get it for nowt, did you?’ she asked incredulously. Dickie gave no answer, still smarting over her dirty trick. ‘I can tell by your face that you did! Now let me tell you something, young man: you’ll never get anywhere in life if you’re always expecting summat for nowt.’ There was a badtempered crease between her eyes. ‘’Specially not wi’ me!’ Though she had never intended to take any payment and would not contemplate his leaving even now, his arrogance badly needed planing.

  Dickie decided that he was not going to take this from the likes of her; treating him as dirt when she was little better. He swivelled on his heel and strutted to the door. ‘Have it your own way, but ye don’t know what you’re missing. I’ll have ye know there’s plenty would pay me a sovereign.’