‘I’m not a fancy cook,’ Eileen confided to Blackie when he peered into the small kitchen behind the parlour. ‘But I try to make my specialities tasty.’
‘Food has been hard to come by lately, Aunt Eileen, so I’ll enjoy every mouthful.’ Blackie glanced at the cottage pie on the table near the sink, then looked at her. He grinned, and breathed in the lovely aromas in the kitchen. ‘And I think ye’ve made something with apples, haven’t ye? I smell apples.’
‘I concocted an apple-and-blackberry stew, which I’ll serve with Bird’s Custard. How does that sound?’
Before Blackie could respond, Patrick said, ‘A feast fit for kings, Eileen.’ Blackie turned and saw his uncle leaning against the doorjamb nonchalantly.
‘I love me room, Uncle Pat,’ Blackie exclaimed, his genuineness echoing in his voice. ‘Thank ye, and do ye know it’s the first room I’ve ever had just for meself.’
‘I thought it would suit.’ Patrick smiled at his nephew, and then cast his glance on his wife, as usual concerned for her. ‘I see you’ve set the table, Eileen, so can we carry in the food, pet?’
‘It would be a great help.’
‘So go on, Blackie lad … Eileen, give me some pot-holders.’
The two men were deft with the dishes and placed them on the table under the window. Eileen followed with the gravy boat. She served them all good portions and told them to handle the gravy themselves.
Blackie decided her simple dish, as she had just called it, was delicious; he wolfed it down and was soon ready for a second helping. He couldn’t believe there was enough food for the three of them and worried about whether there would be more the next day.
Patrick and Eileen exchanged glances from time to time. Everyone ate in silence, except for the occasional murmur of pleasure as they savoured the food.
Once the tea was over and all the dishes cleared and washed, the three of them sat around the fire. It was still cool weather, and the flames took the chill off the evening. Blackie felt his eyelids becoming heavy as the three of them relaxed in the main room drinking cups of tea. It was Patrick who broke the silence.
‘Tomorrow, I thought I should take you around Upper Armley, show you the neighbourhood. Then, on Saturday, we can take the tram into Leeds. How does that sound, lad?’
Blackie sat up. ‘I’d like that, Uncle Pat, and certainly the visit to Leeds … the Great Metropolis! I’ve dreamed of going there ever since the chance of living with ye both was talked about, on the heads of the Blessed Saints, I swear I have.’
‘We are happy to have you,’ Eileen said, meaning every word. She was well aware Patrick had always wanted a son. A small sigh was smothered as she thought of her two miscarriages, her inability to give her husband the children he had craved. A wonderful, loving man she adored, who filled her heart with joy.
Unexpectedly, Eileen remembered something and sat up straighter in her chair. ‘Oh goodness, Pat! I forgot to tell you—’
‘What did you forget?’ he asked mildly.
‘The message from Mrs Burton. She has another job for you, the windows over her garden. The sashes have gone.’
‘Oh, to be sure, I don’t want to go back there again. I’ve had it with that house. Do you have the note?’
Eileen said, ‘She didn’t send a note. She sent her housekeeper, Jeannie Gregson, who explained about the windows.’
Patrick stiffened and looked at Eileen swiftly, but she had not noticed. He attempted to keep a bland expression when he said, ‘I suppose I shall have to go around there, but it can wait until Monday. I want us all to enjoy Blackie’s first weekend here.’
Patrick Kennedy was unable to fall asleep. He lay on his right side, wide awake, staring at the window. The message from Mrs Burton had surprised him, filled him with alarm. Mrs Burton herself was a fine woman and a good customer. He had been pleased to win her custom. It was her housekeeper Jeannie Gregson he could not abide and hoped never to see again.
She had come after him, thrown herself at him from the first moment they had met. He considered her to be wanton and dangerous, and had always avoided contact with her when working at the house.
Yet there were moments when she would, suddenly, be right next to him, brushing up against him, touching his shoulder or his arm, offering him tea, water, a glass of beer. As if he would actually drink on the job in his client’s house. The woman was a fool.
When he knew she was not aware of his presence nearby, he watched her, in particular her behaviour with the other workmen employed by Mrs Burton. Jeannie Gregson was not the same with them. She was remote and had no interest. It was him she was after. So, therefore, he must avoid her at all costs.
Suddenly, his whirling thoughts settled on his nephew. Under no circumstances could she meet Blackie. Firstly, he was a good-looking young boy at thirteen, and that was the inherent problem. Secondly, he looked older, about sixteen, even seventeen, and had an extremely confident manner. These things would make him bait for a woman like Jeannie Gregson.
He knew instantly that he would not accept the job. He hated to turn work down, never trusting where the next penny would come from, but he had plenty on at the moment, and he certainly wasn’t going to take Blackie to Mrs Burton’s house, expose him to that vulture.
On Monday morning he would write a note to Mrs Burton, telling her he was booked up for months on end. He would send Benny, one of his apprentices, with the note.
Patrick breathed a sigh of relief and settled more easily in the bed. At one moment, he pushed himself up on an elbow and peered at Eileen. In the dim light of the room, he could see she was fast asleep. This further calmed him; he worried a lot about her health and watched her constantly because of her frailty.
Patrick Michael Kennedy was aware of his Irish good looks and that women were immediately drawn to him. He even knew he had a certain kind of charisma which was quite unique.
Yet for all that, he was not vain. He was not a philanderer, nor had he ever taken advantage of women. In fact, he loved Eileen very much and was devoted to her.
Other women he met, when he was out and about and working, held no interest for him. His wife was it, and no one else mattered. Except for his newly arrived nephew. Blackie had always been special to him, and after the heartbreak of his sister and her husband dying, and then their poor children William and Bronagh as well, he was thrilled to have been able to bring Blackie to Leeds.
Blackie would be his helper and his heir to the business; he would be company for him, too, and also for Eileen. At last they would be a little family … only the three of them, but a family, nonetheless. They were bound together by blood and the past and their ancestry.
By nature, Patrick was a gentle man, kind, thoughtful and compassionate, and always concerned for others. The navy meant a lot to him. He still recalled that day he had gone to the recruiting office in Leeds and joined up. He had wanted to be a sailor for as long as he could remember, and was proud of himself and of his uniform when he had enlisted. He was just sixteen years old. Too young to join, so he forged his father’s signature.
The first day he was on duty, he knew he had made the right choice. He loved the discipline, the daily regime and the camaraderie of his fellow ratings. He found he enjoyed the company of men and worked well with them. He was truly devoted to the drills, the various daily routines, and in general the running of a huge battleship. It took hundreds and hundreds of men like him to properly cope with such an enormous vessel.
He would always recall going up the gangplank, carrying his kitbag and pausing momentarily on that first day. His eyes had lighted on a brass plaque on the wall ahead of him – the words on it: FEAR GOD. HONOUR THE KING. A cold shiver had run through him and settled in his heart, underscoring his patriotism and his desire to succeed. He had both ambition and drive, and fully intended to make the Royal Navy his career. He worked hard, and had focus, concentration and determination. These three characteristics had pushed him up the ladder at a fairly rapid speed.
He not only drew pleasure from his regime on a daily basis but also appreciated the opportunities of a full education that were offered to him. He concentrated on his reading and writing, studied books on history and geography, and, of course, being clever, he soon improved his manners and way of speaking by observing the way the officers handled themselves. Genial, outgoing and pleasant, he made friends of his mates quite easily, and exercise through heavy work and good solid food kept him strong and in good shape. Patrick had become a highly rated naval man, which pleased him.
The only reason he had left it all behind was Eileen, and her need to have him by her side. Although it saddened him, he had never resented her for changing his life. He was too big a man for that and, after all, it had been his own decision in the end.
Across the landing, in the small bedroom, its occupant was also unable to sleep. Blackie was awake because of his great excitement about being here with his uncle at last, and because of the kind of comfort he was surrounded by. He couldn’t get over it, simple as it was.
He had never been in a bed before. When his parents had been alive, he had always slept on a mattress on the floor in a corner, covered by an old blanket. He and his siblings shared two mattresses in a tiny bedroom. Afterwards, he and Michael had done the same in his cousins’ two-room cottage; Siobhan had slept on an old cot in the main room.
Now, here he was, tucked up in a bed with a downy pillow, a mattress that seemed to cradle him, and a soft white sheet. He smoothed his hand over it once again. It felt like silk, but he knew it was cotton, often washed, and yet it was so white it was the colour of fresh snow.
On top of the sheet was a large red tartan blanket, which Aunt Eileen had folded in half earlier, explaining, ‘Doing this makes it feel like two blankets, and it’s much warmer.’
He liked his aunt, and she had helped him to unpack his suitcase earlier and put his clothes away. He was a poor boy and didn’t have much, although he had been unusually lucky this past week. Mrs O’Malley had given him the two jumpers she had knitted for him, as well as Dennis’s old socks in a bag. Her ladyship had sent some cast-offs with Siobhan, which had included a nightshirt that fitted him. Michael had told him it had belonged to Lord Robert, who was tall like he was. Cook had given him the suitcase. Brand new, it was, her son’s. He felt a flash of sadness again for her as he remembered Conor, killed in an accident in India.
Blackie’s eyes roamed around the room, and he took in the lightly patterned wallpaper and the curtains at the window. He noticed the book on the shining desk, French polished, his uncle had said.
He smiled to himself. It was Father O’Donovan who had handed the book to him when he went to say goodbye to the old priest, who had christened him when he was born. It was his favourite book about the Tudors, and he had been touched by the gesture.
Those people stayed in his mind for a few moments. That monstrous king, Henry VIII, who thought nothing of killing off anyone who annoyed him, including two wives, many advisors, and even his greatest minister and truest friend, the great Thomas Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal. He wasn’t too enamoured with Mary Tudor either, who had become queen and had the bad habit of killing – her non-Catholic citizens were the victims. But, ah, there was the great Elizabeth, the queen of his delight, the best and the bravest. He loved to read about her.
As these thoughts of the Tudors slid through his busy head, he began to grow drowsy. Remembering the small candle in the jam jar on the little table next to his bed, he leaned over and blew it out.
And then he pulled the tartan blanket up to his chin and drifted off, feeling as if he were cocooned in soft feathers. Sleep came easily this night, his first in a new country, a dreamless sleep with no nightmares.