There was no way a bird could have flown in there. The grating would have to be removed first. And she doubted that even the most dexterous bird could manage that.
She returned indoors, flopped down on the sofa, leaned back and shut her eyes.
It had been quite an afternoon. She’d met Susan Mulvey, her new employer and salon owner, and found the menacing note on her windscreen. She’d had that unexpected tea date with Bram Hilditch, followed by the rebuff on the phone from his very rude mother. Finally, she’d arrived home to find a stranger claiming to be a handyman on the premises. Curious how Bram had never mentioned him over tea.
Am I, she asked herself, being too mistrustful? I’m new here. These people have their way of doing things and I have mine.
She cast her mind back to that conversation in the Heavenly Realms.
A cryptic statement delivered in a fake American drawl boomed in her head. A woman is like a teabag. You can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.
What on earth had he meant by that?
And he was good at accents.
She heard a slurred drunken cadence – the voice of someone calling himself Lenny breathing down a telephone line.
Mimicry such as that would be a cinch . . . a doddle for . . . for . . .
For someone like Abraham Hilditch.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Portaluce, Antrim Coast
After breakfast and the chat with Gladys Millman, Dorinda felt herself on firmer ground. She had money to pay her way, a bed for the night, and a car which – when repaired the following day – would take her home. She did not know exactly where “home” was, but she trusted Mama would help her out on that score. Florence Walsh always showed up on awkward occasions to deal with the practicalities and guide her through the maze. That’s how it had been and always would be.
“A bracing walk on the promenade would do you the world of good.” Gladys Millman’s voice broke in on Dorrie’s musings as she mounted the stairs back to her room.
She turned to see the proprietor regarding her from behind the bulwark of the ornate reception desk.
“Yes . . . yes, I’d love to . . . I mean, go for a walk. But I don’t have a coat you see.”
“You came out without a coat? In this weather?” The sound of the wind seething at the windows, and buffeting the flags out front, lent weight to the incredulity in Mrs Millman’s voice. “I have to say, I did wonder last night about that.”
“Yes – I mean, no. I . . . I mean to say I do have a coat, but I spilled tea down the front, so c-can’t really wear it.”
“Oh, that’s easily remedied, Miss Walsh. We can launder it for you. Maureen will see to it right away.”
Dorrie dithered. How would she get out of this one? The stained trench coat in all its gory detail flashed before her.
Tell her you’ve washed out the stain. It’s drying in your room.
“That’s very kind, but . . . but I . . . I washed it in . . . in the sink. It’s drying on the radiator.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.” Mrs Millman had moved from behind the desk and stood at the bottom of the stairs gazing up at her.
Dorrie was fearful of what might come next. She needed a diversion. It came in the form of the white fortress she’d caught sight of earlier. She had a clear view of it from her vantage point on the stair.
“Who lives in the castle?”
Mrs Millman frowned. “Sorry, what castle?” She followed Dorrie’s pointing finger. “Oh, the convent you mean. The Daughters of Divine Healing occupy it.”
She turned back, slightly irked. “Now, where was I? Yes, the coat. Now, for next time, just leave laundry in the basket in your room and Maureen will take care of it. After all, that’s what we’re here for. I can lend you a coat.”
“Thank you, Mrs Millman, but I’d just as soon—”
“Nonsense. The sea air will do you the world of good. Besides, Maureen has to tidy your room.”
The statement set alarm bells ringing. But she knew it would be futile to protest. Mrs Millman was sovereign in this domain. The stained raincoat would have to be well hidden before the maid set to.
Without further ado, the proprietor ducked through a door behind the desk. She re-emerged holding out what appeared to be the pelt of some endangered species.
“Here,” she said.
There was little Dorrie could do but submit herself to the other’s will.
The bell coat of red fox was a little on the big side, but it felt beautiful and Dorrie regarded herself oddly privileged to be wearing it. It smelt of cigarette smoke and Mrs Millman’s musky scent: an expensive aroma redolent of Garbo and Dietrich, those Hollywood dames who’d flitted across the movie screens of her childhood.
She wrapped it tightly about her as she made her way down the promenade, pulling the collar taut against the crisp northerly breeze.
Although loath to leave her room and take this walk, she was glad now to be out, and away from the surge and fall of emotions that meeting the proprietor had triggered. Perhaps being free of the Ocean Spray for a little while would jog her memory and bring some order to things. Perhaps this is how the dead feel, she thought now, when they first move into spirit. The wires of the memory box suddenly disconnect and they find themselves in a mysterious world, trying to recover the links and relatedness of things that will take them back to their old life and the face they once knew in the mirror.
A perverse thought stuck her. What if I can’t find my way back? What if I’m stuck here like a wandering ghost? What if the car’s beyond repair and I’m stranded here in this seaside town with nowhere to go?
That slurry of dread, as dangerous as held breath, was threatening to pull her under again.
Mama, you must help me; you simply must!
It’s all right, Dorrie. You worry far too much. Everything will be just fine. You’ll see. Just go with the flow, my dear. Go with the flow.
An empty beer can rattled into her path and she sidestepped it immediately. But the intrusion, tiny and trivial though it was, brought back memories of the whiskey bottle in her bedside table.
“I hope I’ve concealed it well enough!”
An elderly man wearing an outsized hearing aid threw her a look of mild reproach as he passed. Dorrie averted her eyes, vexed she’d been caught talking to herself for a second time that morning.
Yes, she had secreted the bottle. In her mind’s eye she saw herself wrap it in a hand towel and push it to the back of the bottom drawer of the bedside table. And, more importantly, she had made sure to hide the trench coat too, in a place where the maid would not see it. It was flattened out on top of the wardrobe, well out of sight. Maureen was not likely to clean up there. The layer of dust Dorrie had found was evidence enough that the girl’s duties didn’t extend to being that thorough with the cleaning cloth.
Reassured, she brought her mind back to the present and her lovely surroundings.
The little town of Portaluce appeared to be sitting at the very edge of the world, its row of shops and houses bravely facing down the roar and vigour of that vast stretch of ocean, which seemed poised to lash out at any moment and swallow them whole.
The sea frightened Dorrie. And she knew it had something to do with the only memory she’d been able to summon thus far: that snapshot of Mama in a floral dress drawn at the waist, her hair the colour of wheat taking on the light, and Uncle Jack standing on the beach, the air between them thrumming with tension and mistrust.
She forced herself to glance back at the beach now, a ribbon of foreshore the colour of mustard lying far beyond the white castle she now knew to be a convent. Was that the same stretch of sand she’d raced along last night in her dream? It must be. That childhood memory and the dream both featured the beach and her mother. Somehow they were connected, and were the reason she’d been drawn to this coastal town. If only she could figure out why. But she had the feeling that perhaps it was best not to know.
Everything would be just fine, Mama had assured her, and she must trust her good counsel. Just because she was in the spirit world didn’t mean she was any less real.
Dorrie continued on her way. Made a half-hearted resolution not to puzzle any more over her circumstances. She’d be out of Portaluce tomorrow and would look back on this crazy episode, and laugh at how easily she’d got herself worked up over nothing.
She dug her hands deeper into the pockets of the beautiful borrowed coat and tried to focus on the specialness of this lovely little place: the smell of the ocean, the squawk and shriek of the herring gulls, the sound of her stilettos striking the pavement. The high heels made her feel special and in control, qualities she imagined came easily to the likes of Mrs Millman. Oh, how she wished she could be more like her! Settled and resolute in her beautiful guesthouse, which looked like a frosted wedding cake of piped and fluted loveliness.
A sudden gust of wind blew her into the path of a mother trundling a pushchair, and all at once she found herself bending over a chubby infant behind a hood of protective plastic.
The baby woke up and gave out an ear-splitting squeal.
“I’m so sorry,” Dorrie said, regaining her balance. The mother scowled, regarding her through tired eyes, ropes of ash-blonde hair blowing about her face. She looked poor and burdened and no more than eighteen.
“All right for some,” she muttered, eyeing the expensive coat.
The coat’s not mine, Dorrie wanted to say, but before she knew it, mother and baby had taken off, the peals of the child adding to the soundtrack of ravening gulls shrieking for scraps at the water’s edge.
Dismayed by the event, and with the wind increasing, she spotted a cafe called Marcella’s across the road and headed towards it.
After the wide-open chill of the promenade the little cafe felt as warm and cosy as a gloved hand, and she was glad of her decision to take cover.
It was a simple, L-shaped room, with a long glass counter running down one wall facing a row of curved banquettes twinned with tables on the opposite side.
There was only one other customer, an old gentleman intent on the pages of the Sunday News. Unfortunately, he was seated at the table she would have chosen, the one nearest the window. He lowered the newspaper and eyed her for longer than was polite.
“Good morning,” she said. But her greeting was met with a grudging harrumph before he went back to his reading.
Behind the counter a young waitress was carefully topping up a row of glass sugar bowls.
“Good morning!” she said brightly, setting the bag aside and giving her full attention to the new customer. “What can I get you?”
Dorrie approached the counter. A nametag on the waitress’s lapel read JANE.
“A pot of tea would be lovely, please.”
“That everything? I can recommend the lemon meringue. It’s very good. My mum made it, so I’m a bit biased I have to say.”
Sweet food was the last thing she wanted but the expectant look in Jane’s pretty brown eyes had her caving in.
“Very well . . . just a little slice then.”
“Breezy today . . . more so than yesterday,” Jane declared, transferring a slice of the pie to a plate. “The boss says it comes with the winter tide. Are you up for the weekend?”
“Yes, just . . . just for the weekend. How much do I owe you?” She made a pretence of looking for her purse.
“That’s okay. Sure you can pay me when you’re finished.” She nodded at one of the booths. “Just take a seat there and I’ll bring—”
The waitress’s voice was suddenly cut short by a loud bout of coughing. They turned to see the old man enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke.
“All right, Mr Donnelly?” Jane called out.
He raised a hand without looking up.
“It’s the cigarettes. He’s a sixty-a-day man I’m afraid.”
With the coughing fit over, the atmosphere of calm returned.
Dorrie settled into a booth with her tea and lemon meringue pie. Jane went back to her duty with the sugar bag.
The pie was surprisingly good, and after the first mouthful she discovered she was indeed quite hungry. She had no wish to engage in small talk with Jane, charming though she was, and hoped more customers would enter and occupy her.
Very soon her wish was granted. Two women of pensionable age surged in, talking loudly and incessantly.
“. . . sure didn’t she find him out for the count in the bed when she got herself home from work and it only four o’clock.”
“Get away! And there was me thinkin’ he was over beyond with the Daughters of Divine Healing, gettin’ himself dried out—”
“Morning, Irene . . . Brigid. Usual, is it?”
“Thanks, Jane love. Dried out, me arse. The day Charlie Deakin dries himself out he’ll be six foot under, wearing the wooden overcoat, you mark my words.”
They installed themselves in the booth next to Dorrie. At the sight of them, the gentleman by the window frowned, folded his newspaper and prepared to leave. It was only when he turned his head and adjusted a large hearing aid that Dorrie realized he was the man on the promenade who’d heard her talking to herself.
“. . . that’s too bad, and there was me thinkin’ he was off the booze completely . . . ”
“He has wee Mary’s heart broke. That’s a nice dress yer wearin’, Brigid. It’s only now that you’ve got your coat off yeh I can see it right.”
“Och, there was another one with blue in it far nicer. Would of fitted me lovely if only I could of got into it.”
Taking her cue from the old man and not wanting to be a party to any more of Irene and Brigid’s gossip, Dorrie decided it was time she shifted too, that favoured seat by the window now being free. She hastily took another forkful of the delicious pie, but in her haste dropped a dollop of it on her blouse.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!”
The door opened again.
She glanced up and saw a man enter.
His appearance immediately created a flaw in the room and straightaway left her fretful.
He was the tall, rangy individual she’d seen earlier: the one wearing the trilby and getting out of the black saloon car with the little girl. There she was, the little one: following behind him in her bright green coat. He pointed to the vacant seat by the window and watched impatiently as the child clambered on to it.
“Now stay there,” she heard him say.
The sadness of the little one was all too painfully apparent. She sat at the table, hands folded in her lap, staring forlornly at the centrepiece: three paper daisies in a vase.
Dorrie felt an urgent need to go and comfort her. But the stain had to be removed first, otherwise the silk blouse would be ruined.
She saw the father approach the counter.
Guessed that, yes, she would have time.
She rushed to the Ladies.
It took her less than a minute to clean the blouse.
Still panicked, but feeling more assured, she re-entered the cafe.
But . . .
Frantically she scoped the room.
The man and child were nowhere to be seen.
How could that be? Could they really have exited so quickly?
She ran to the window and looked left and right.
Nothing.
“Everything all right?”
She turned to see Jane’s concerned face.
“Yes . . . yes. I . . . ”
“Can I get you more tea? That pot’s bound to be a little cold by now.”
“Yes . . . sorry, I mean no . . . I don’t want any more tea.” Nervously, she approached the counter, trying her best to suppress the alarm that was welling up inside her. “Jane . . . th-that man with the little girl . . . Have they . . . have they left already?”
“What man and little girl?”
“The tall man in the hat and . . . and the little girl . . . in . . . in the green coat . . . They were . . . they were there
by the window. You . . . you were taking his order when I went to the Ladies.”
Jane looked at her oddly. “Nobody came in, miss.”
“But I saw them.” Why was the waitress lying? What kind of crazy town was this? Why was nothing making sense? She wrung her hands in despair.
“. . . then I went to the Ladies to clean my blouse,” she forged on. “I-It was only a couple of minutes ago. Y-You must have . . . must have . . . seen them?”
The gossips had stopped talking. They were staring at Dorrie.
Jane broke the silence. “Brigid, Irene, was there a man in here just now? Tall, with a little girl?”
The women shook their heads. “No, we didn’t see nobody,” one volunteered, before returning to her chinwag.
Jane leaned closer to Dorrie. “Those two talk so much they wouldn’t notice a bomb dropping between them. How was the meringue?”
“Good . . . very good . . . yes.” Oh, why did I have to let that piece of it fall on my blouse? How clumsy of me! Her eyes were drawn to where it had landed.
“Are you sure you’re okay? That’ll be one pound fifty, when you’re ready.”
“Quite sure.” But when she handed over the £5 note, Dorrie could not stop her hand from shaking.
There was only one way to stop this nightmare, only one sure way.
Her mind made up, she rushed to the door.
“M-Miss, you forgot your change! Miss—”
She banged the door shut on the voice and fled back the way she’d come.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Samaritan Centre, Killoran
The Centre occupied a three-storey corner house down a quiet side street off the main square in the town. Its unremarkable appearance – bookending a terrace of similar houses – belied the important work that went on behind its modest front door.
Only the orange-and-black sign over the lintel, and restated on the gable wall, set the building apart. It had been left to the charity by a war veteran, Samuel McCann, whose life had been saved from the suspension bridge at Rosnacarna by the wise counsel of a volunteer some decades before. The sympathetic words he’d heard down the telephone line had enabled him to reappraise his life and given him the strength to carry on breathing the good air he realized was his gift.
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