When Patrick Kennedy stepped out of his house on Town Street, he automatically looked up at the sky as he usually did.
Today he smiled. This was just the kind of weather he loved: a clear blue sky, no clouds and the pristine northern light shining down, with a promise of sunshine later in the day. He’d left Ireland when he was six and he was every inch a proud Yorkshireman now.
There was a spring in his step as he headed up the street, making for Tower Lane. When he came to the corner shop, he went in, greeted Mr Brill behind the counter, picked up the racing paper and the Daily Mail, and paid. Tucking them under his arm, he went out of the shop and continued on up Town Street.
It was Friday 5 June, in the Year of Our Lord 1903. Three years into the brand-new twentieth century, one which had brought with it better days. At least, so far for him and his little family, including Blackie, who had made his home with himself and his wife Eileen for four years now.
It seemed to Patrick that things had never been brighter in the country as a whole. England was at its zenith, the greatest empire in existence, perhaps even the greatest ever. And while London, the capital, was the centre of everything that was exciting, where it was said anything at all could be achieved, Patrick also believed Leeds could lay claim to be the second greatest city in the country.
The old Queen Empress had died in 1901, after the longest reign of any monarch wearing the English crown, an amazing feat by any standards, although she had been long absent, living in Scotland.
The Prince of Wales was now King Edward VII and, contrary to what had been expected, it looked as if he was good at his job. The newspapers appeared to think that anyway. He hoped they were right.
There was peace in the world now that the Boer War was over. England had lost many men in the fighting in South Africa, but a lot had made it home, much to Patrick’s relief. As a former military man, he cared about the veterans who had come back to start new lives after service for their country.
Patrick sighed to himself, thinking of his days in the Royal Navy. Sometimes he still missed being in a ship at sea, serving his King and country. He had liked that orderly life of duty, discipline and dedication, a sense of purpose. It suited his character.
Unexpectedly, his thoughts swung to the prime minister, who was not popular with everyone. Yet he himself had a certain amount of faith in Arthur Balfour. Even so, he wondered how the King got on with him.
His friend, Jack Blane, read more newspapers than he did, and Jack was behind Balfour’s policies. Jack also believed the ageing Salisbury was definitely too old now to lead the country. New blood was needed, he said. But Jack had also suggested that Balfour and the King did not complement one another …
Turning into Tower Lane, Patrick was unlocking the door of his workshop a few minutes later. It was filled with natural daylight, and he nodded as he glanced at the workbenches. The lads had cleaned up well last night. Everything looked pristine. All was in order. This pleased him.
Once he was in his little office, Patrick put the papers on his desk and then took off his jacket, hung it on a peg behind the door.
It was early, only six-thirty, and the men would not arrive until seven-thirty. In the summer months, they started later, but worked longer, into the early evening. Patrick had instituted these hours, so that in winter they could arrive earlier and go home at four-thirty, whilst it was still light outside. It worked for the men and himself.
Sitting down at the small desk, he glanced at the Daily Mail’s headlines, then picked up the racing sheet. When he felt he could afford a little flutter, he would pick a likely winner and place a bet with his bookie, Billy Hill, at the top of Branch Road. He loved horses and the races. But he was always careful with his money, acutely aware of his responsibilities. He must keep a roof over their heads and put decent food on the table, make sure they were safe – protect his wife, and his nephew now.
In actuality, Patrick was not given to self-indulgence, because of his nature and also the need to be frugal, to cleverly manage the money he earned. Nevertheless, he believed he could treat himself to his racing sheet and the newspaper every day.
He was an avid reader of the Daily Mail, genuinely interested in the news, wanting to know what was happening in the rest of the world, as well as in his own country.
Information was important to him, and knowing as much as he could gave him a true sense of security. He wanted always to be prepared … for just about anything. What had happened to his sister and her family, caught in poverty and ill-health, had saddened him deeply.
Eileen had talked to him a lot, four years ago, just before Blackie had come to live with them. And he would always be glad she had, because she’d had more insight into what the boy’s presence in their lives would mean than he had himself. She had wanted Blackie to come, but had talked about the ways their life might change – for good and bad – having a lad they hardly knew in their home.
While it was true the dynamics of life in their house had changed quite markedly, his nephew had brought nothing but a quiet joy to their home over the past four years.
It had been a big change but, even from the start, Blackie had proved easy to live with. After tea, he mostly went up to his bedroom to read, his appetite for learning about buildings and engineering fed by the library books he borrowed. Although he was garrulous at times, he knew when quietness was required, and would slide off to leave them alone downstairs.
The only time they’d found themselves at odds had been when Blackie turned fifteen. Patrick had not been able to stop him signing up as a navvy; his nephew had been determined to earn the lucrative money that the brutal work paid, and for six long months they had only seen him occasionally. When he did come home, he was exhausted from the demanding work on the canals and railways, his thin frame reflecting the harsh life.
Nowadays, he was back working for his uncle and was no problem at all, studying at night school and still determined to build his way to a bigger life. Blackie was seventeen, nearly a man, and had made many friends, and was blessed with a magnetic personality that attracted people to him.
Patrick smiled to himself as he saw Blackie in his mind’s eye, singing his heart out, choosing old-fashioned ballads as well as popular songs of the moment. He loved going to the dance hall in Upper Armley, and he was a favourite amongst the girls who went there too. He had also discovered that people loved his voice and encouraged him to sing. And so, whenever they begged him to go up and stand with the band, he did so, his melodic voice breaking hearts with his rendition of ‘The Minstrel Boy’.
He gave it his all, and Patrick had soon understood there was a bit of the ham in Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill. He enjoyed entertaining, and the applause perhaps most of all.
After a quick read of the newspaper, Patrick put it to one side, and took his Friday schedule out of the desk drawer. He only had a few small things to deal with this morning, and then at two o’clock he would be going to Mrs Wilson’s house, one of the small mansions in the Towers. This was a row of really elegant houses, behind the high black stone wall that ran all the way up Tower Lane to a moor.
The main entrance to this private enclave was on the Main Road, just above Whingate Junction, where the tram turned around to go back into Leeds. The service entrance was around the corner, just off Tower Lane, and not too far from his carpentry shop. A five-minute walk for him that afternoon.
Patrick sat back in his chair, thinking about the job there.
Blackie was a natural builder, good with tools of all kinds and a hard worker. He could turn his hand to most building and repair work, helping his uncle with the jobs they carried out for the local mill owners and the gentry of the region. But he had been born with a really special talent for creativity and vision, honing his skills over time and with his education at night school. Patrick was sure that Blackie could actually design a house now, and build it himself, if necessary.
He had mastered carpentry and brick-laying very quickly, had strong and nimble hands that proved to be a great asset. Blackie had a precise eye, and could envision whole buildings in his mind. He had been an intelligent apprentice, learning so much from his uncle, but also from Tom Goode, who was Patrick’s master carpenter and a talented draughtsman. They had taken to each other, and Tom had enjoyed teaching Blackie.
Patrick was well aware he was lucky to have his nephew with him and, since his arrival, four years ago now, the business had begun to expand. And the two of them grew closer every day. In a sense, Patrick now had the son he had always longed for. He knew Eileen felt the same way.
This job at the Wilson house was Blackie’s first proper test. It was carpentry for a kitchen that Blackie was completing. Although Patrick had popped in from time to time to view Blackie’s work, he had decided at one moment to stop doing this. He had a strong feeling that Blackie resented these intrusions. And he understood why. His nephew was ready to be his own man now.
Not long ago, Patrick had taken on a new apprentice: Finn Ryan, an acquaintance of Blackie’s, who had arrived from Ireland unannounced one day.
Blackie had been as surprised as his uncle by Finn’s arrival but, according to Blackie, Finn’s father had dropped dead unexpectedly, leaving Finn entirely alone. There were no other Ryans left. ‘It was awful,’ Finn had told Blackie, and then not long after his father’s passing, Finn’s horse had collapsed and died. It was the end of the cart service that had taken Blackie to Queenstown. Kerry held nothing for Finn now.
‘It was as if God was telling me something,’ he had confided to Blackie. ‘I believe he was telling me to leave, to go to England. So I remembered what ye had done, and came. And ye are the only person I know here. Can ye help me, please?’
Blackie had asked his uncle, and Patrick, out of the goodness of his heart and his innate kindness, had given the young Irishman a job … an apprenticeship. In fact, Patrick was a good judge of character, and he had liked the look of Finn, sensed his sincerity.
Over the past months, Finn had proved himself, and Blackie had taken him under his wing. They had become good friends.
Within a day, Patrick had found a place for Finn to stay for a few nights. And within a fortnight, he had a permanent room at Mrs Andrews’ boarding house, two minutes away from Town Street. Finn often worked with Blackie now and the business was growing.
Opening his desk drawer, Patrick put his schedule away, and stood up when he heard the noise of the front door banging. Looking down the workshop, he saw Tom coming in followed by Alf and Benny.
‘Morning,’ they all said in unison, and Patrick greeted his workmen with his usual cordiality.
The men automatically hung up their jackets and went to their workbenches. Patrick knew Finn would not be here this morning. He was going directly to Mrs Wilson’s house in the Towers, helping with the final touches to his work on her kitchen. It would be finished today.
Patrick went and fetched his coat, and focused on Blackie for a moment. He was full of anticipation, could hardly wait to see what his nephew had accomplished. After all, it was his first big job.