Looking back on that time, I am often astonished to realize that a bit of cloth held such value. I learned many of my letters from this tedious task because the intricate swirls fascinated me, and I’d always ask Feagan what they meant before I began working to erase all evidence they’d ever existed. I was the one who carefully removed from the silk the thread that formed the monograms. The one who sat on his lap and helped him count the handkerchiefs and coins that the others brought in. His hair was as bright a red and as uncontrollable as mine. Sometimes I imagined he was my true father. I cannot remember a time when Feagan was not in my life. I lived in a single room with Feagan and his notorious band of children who were known for their thieving ways. To him, I was always “Frannie darling.” “Frannie darling, fetch me gin.” “Frannie darling, rub me aching feet.” “Frannie darling, let me tell you a story.”Īnd so it was that when anyone asked me my name, I would say it was Frannie Darling. My earliest memory is of Feagan saying, with his heavy cockney accent, “Frannie darling, come sit on me lap.”
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