“God, what happened yer arm, Bram? Not often I see yeh walkin’. The car isn’t broke down is it? ’Cos if it is I’m yer man.”
“No . . . erm . . . no, Dan, nothing like that. Had a bit of a fall, that’s all.”
“Aye . . . not broke is it?”
“No, just dislocated, but it’s fixed now.”
“I meant the car,” the mechanic bleated without irony.
“Car’s fine, Dan. Well, best get going then.”
“And where would yeh be goin’?”
None of your business, he wanted to say, but held himself in check.
“To visit Miss Ruttle, if you must know. Is her car ready yet, by the way?”
“Nah, that’s what I was gonna tell you. She’s got two baldies at the front . . . flat as bust balloons, begod . . . a blow-out waitin’ tae happen. These wimmin check nathin’, so they don’t. Never think of wear an’ tear on a motor. Drive thim till they fall apart then wunder why it happened.”
Bram could have done without the lecture regarding women’s general lack of car-maintenance skills, but he let him run on anyway. There’d be a point to the story soon, he hoped.
“Aye, on me way in tae Donnelly now,” Madden prattled on, “for tae get her a pair-a new ones.”
“Well, I’m sure Miss Ruttle will appreciate that.”
“Aye so, but what I was gonna say was, seein’ you’ll be seein’ her now, would you tell her she’ll get the car the morra mornin’? Save me the bother of tellin’ her meself. Wouldn’t want tae get on the wrong side of her. Tongue as sharp as a bloody switchblade.”
Bram was taken aback by the remark, but was aware that Madden wanted to draw him into some tittle-tattle just for the sake of it. He’d no time for gossip with the locals.
“On the contrary I find her most pleasant. But we’re all entitled to our opinions, whether well-founded or spurious.”
There was a pause.
“Aye, sure enough . . . whatever yeh say,” Dan said, peeved, shifting the van into gear. “Right yeh be, then. Be seein’ yeh.”
“Thanks, Dan.”
He roared off, leaving landlord and landscape in peace once more.
Several minutes later Bram arrived at number 8 Willow Close.
His intention was to go round the back and check if Miss Ruttle was up – fervently hoping that she would be.
He made his way around the side of the house and glanced up at the bedroom window. To his dismay, he saw that the curtains were drawn. She was still lying down.
Too bad. A note through the letterbox it would have to be then.
He fumbled the piece of paper out of his pocket, but in his haste a breeze took it and it ended up on the back doorstep.
“Dearie, dearie me!” He stooped down to fetch it.
To his dismay he saw now that the back-door was slightly ajar.
Concerned, he quietly pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen.
“Miss Ruttle, are you in?”
He tiptoed into the lounge. But there was no sign of anyone.
Terrible thoughts assailed him.
Had he delayed too long?
Had the IRA enforcer taken her?
Oh, dear God, let that not be the case!
He moved to the foot of the stairs, too afraid to go up there.
What would he find in the bedroom?
An empty bed – or worse?
The prospect had him reaching for the banister to steady himself.
He’d try one last time before going up. This time more loudly.
“Miss Ruttle, are you up there?”
To his relief, he heard a door open.
Then: “Oh, it’s you,” an abrupt-sounding voice said.
Miss Ruttle stepped out of the box-room. She was in her nightgown.
Her irritation at being interrupted was palpable.
Immediately, Bram was on edge.
“Why, there . . . there you are . . . Miss Ruttle. Yes . . . I er . . . erm . . . I mean, your back-door was open and I . . . well, I thought you’d forgotten to—”
He’d stopped at the sound of someone sobbing – someone inside the box-room, sobbing.
“Wh-What’s going on, Rita? Who’s with you?”
She stood back from the open door, gesturing into the room with a thumb.
“Well, why don’t you come and see for yourself, Mr Hilditch.”
Bram mounted the stairs, feeling like Detective Arbogast mounting the stairs of the Bates home in Psycho.
Who was in that benighted room?
He reached the landing and forced himself to look in.
“That’s who’s with me,” she fumed. “The bold Ryan Glacken.”
Bram nearly fainted at the sight. He was indeed too late – far, far too late.
Ryan was on his hands and knees, picking up the scatterings of potpourri, snivelling and shaking.
At the sight of Bram, he wailed, “I wanna go home tae me mammy! I wanna go home tae Mammy, Mr H-H-Hillrich, but she won’t let meeeeee!”
Bram was aghast.
Miss Ruttle stood with arms folded, triumphant.
“See? That’s what the little vandal deserves. He and his mother will not be bothering me again.”
Bram was speechless. He saw his tenant’s world crumble before his very eyes. She could not have committed a worse crime than chastising the grandson of Glacken the Enforcer.
“What have you done, Rita? What on earth have you done?”
“What have I done?” she said bitterly, staring at him in disbelief. “What have I done? I’m teaching this boy a lesson, that’s what I’m doing. Whose side are you on, Mister Hilditch?”
Ryan’s blubbering intensified.
“It’s all right now, Ryan,” Bram said, going to him and helping him to his feet with his good arm. “You don’t need to pick any more of that up.” He handed him a tissue.
“What the hell are you doing?” Miss Ruttle was ablaze, shouting, waving her arms wildly. She advanced on Bram. “He’s not leaving here till everything in this room he wrecked is put right. Do you hear me? You’re taking that little rascal’s side after what he’s done to me . . . To meeee! After what him and his awful mother have accused me of.” She beat a fist against her chest to hammer home the point. “Do you understand what you’re saying? I caught him firing stones at my window when I was trying to sleep.”
She threw her arms up in exasperation. “He could have broken your window. And you’re okay with that?”
“Is-Is . . . is th-that true, Ryan?” Bram stammered, uncertain.
The boy nodded sheepishly, drying his eyes. “Aye,” he squeaked.
“See . . . you wouldn’t . . . me . . . wouldn’t . . . believe me.” She was gripping the sides of her head. Swaying. Screaming the words out in what seemed like frustration.
“Look, Miss Ruttle, don’t . . . don’t upset yourself. I’ll . . . I’ll clear this room up and Ryan . . . Ryan here can go home—”
“Oh G-o-d! The p-a-i-n . . . my . . . h-e-a-d—”
Bram caught her arm.
“Rita? Rita, can you hear me?”
But she couldn’t hear him. She couldn’t see him, or anything else.
She collapsed on the floor, whole body convulsing.
“Go, Ryan!” Bram shouted. “Go home now!”
The boy jumped to his feet and fled down the stairs.
Bram dashed to the phone and dialled the doctor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Rita-Mae was in bed for three days following the Ryan episode.
Lying curled up in her darkened bedroom, unable to tell night from day. The hours like the darkest clouds pressing in upon her, going nowhere, pushing her in and out of sleep, her head pounding without pause.
A doctor charted her progress. Appearing through the gloom with his stethoscope and pills.
Sometimes another man looked in on her – she could smell his musky scent – his face a picture of sympathy and concern.
More often a
kindly woman in a pussy-bow blouse and pearls was in attendance, her soft hands raising Rita up on the pillows with a soothing, “There, there, dear. We’ll have you right as rain in no time.” Helping her take the medication which made her so drowsy she sometimes forgot where she was, and sent her in search of the scream inside that no one but she could hear.
At times snatches of conversations between the three of them would catch in her mind like a thread-bound needle. And she’d try to follow its journey, dipping in and out, in and out of the dark fabric, swathing her in that alien world.
“Does she have next of kin you could contact?”
“She never mentioned anyone, Doctor. Is she very ill?”
“Hopefully not. She’s suffered hemiplegic migraine and epilepsy for some time . . . survived so far . . . the sporadic kind, that is, and—”
The thread of the conversation snapped abruptly, and she drifted back to sleep.
On another occasion it was the man who wore the musky scent and the woman, their hazy outlines just visible at the foot of the bed, speaking in hushed tones.
“It’s very important she’s not left alone, Blossom. I’ll stay at night and we can do shifts during the day.”
“That’s no bother, Bram. Sure I can work round your mother.”
Finally she woke up one morning, alone in the quiet house, headache gone.
Darkness gone.
Sun blooming at the window.
She got up and drew back the curtains, for a moment expecting to see the drab view of the estate in Larne.
But the sight of the little back-garden with the wooden shed, circular clothesline and that stone cherub in the corner brought her back to reality. She was in another house in another town.
Away from danger.
Safe.
Then: of a sudden she heard footfalls on the stairs.
No, she was not safe.
Surging fear.
The clock read 6.30 a.m. She was not alone. There was someone else in the house at that hour.
She dashed to lock the door against them.
Key? There was no key!
“Rita!” a male voice called out. “It’s all right . . . it’s only me: Bram. Glad to hear you up and about. I’ll . . . I’ll make us some breakfast. Come down when . . . whenever you’re ready.”
Bram?
She pressed herself hard against the door.
Bram Hilditch! The landlord of course.
But what was he doing in her house at that hour?
“Erm . . . er . . . I’ll . . . I’ll be down in a minute,” she said.
“Feeling better?” he asked when she appeared at the foot of the stairs.
This situation did not feel right. Did not look right. Bram Hilditch – an injured Bram Hilditch with his arm in a sling – was in her house at this early hour, with the table set and breakfast made. The scene looked so inviting: lacy tablecloth, a bunch of flowers in a vase, her chair pulled out, ready to receive her.
Nothing was making sense.
He turned and beckoned her forward.
“It’s all right, Rita. You’re over the worst of it now: the migraine.” He gestured to her chair. “Please, have a seat.”
She moved with caution and sat down, feeling as frail as a feather. No doubt he’d be explaining the reason for this odd set-up very soon.
“What happened to your arm?” she asked, wondering idly where he’d got the flowers.
“Oh, it’s nothing . . . just a sprain.”
He lifted the teapot. “Peonies,” he said. “Her Grace sent them. She keeps a beautiful garden. Sends her best wishes, naturally.”
“Her Grace?”
“Sorry, my mother.”
“Oh.” She’d forgotten that he called her that.
Had he stayed all night?
“Er . . . how long . . . how long have I been . . . been in bed?”
“Three days. You had a fall. Blossom and I’ve been taking care of you. Dr Sweeney’s been looking in on you too.”
She noticed a blanket folded on the sofa. Cushions moved elsewhere.
“Yes, I stayed nights and we both did shifts during the day.”
“You mean . . . y-you stayed . . . stayed h-here all night with . . . with me while I was . . . ”
“Recovering? Yes.”
“B-But why?”
She knew that her migraines were not life-threatening. What was all the fuss about? Saw that he wasn’t touching any of the toast so perfectly arranged in the toast rack. Wondered if he’d done something with it. She wouldn’t be touching it either. Had he planned all this?
“I was concerned for you, Rita . . . didn’t want to leave you alone. Dr Sweeney was of the same mind. You ran the risk of getting up in the night and well . . . being sedated you might’ve fallen . . . perhaps down the stairs. When you took ill I wanted to call a relative of yours, but you never gave me a next of kin and . . . ”
He gazed out of the window, flushing slightly. “And I . . . I couldn’t afford to leave you unattended.”
A memory snapped back into place.
Harry!
Harry’s face!
Harry’s hands!
Had the doctor tried to contact Harry? Had he told the landlord about Harry? Was her secret finally out?
She heard the tick-tock of the clock, portentous and loud in the silence. Realized she needed to be careful. There was no Harry. She was a spinster – not the spinster wife she knew herself to be, but the lonely spinster of the landlord’s imagination. How much did he know, really know, about her now? How much had Sweeney told him?
“But, I’ve always . . . always managed on my own,” she said.
“You don’t have to any more.” He brought his gaze back to meet hers. “Manage on your own I mean . . . I’m here for you, Rita.”
She didn’t know what to say. Why was he calling her Rita? Why was he being so kind? So concerned for her well-being all of a sudden?
“Where was I when it happened? The attack . . . I mean.”
Her memories were vague. She could not get a handle on them. Could not remember anything about the collapse or what had preceded it. What had brought it on? Must have been something very upsetting.
“You were in . . . in the box-room . . . cleaning up and I . . . called with a note.”
She noticed his hand quiver slightly as he lifted the cup.
“I knocked, but you didn’t hear . . . then I saw that your back-door was open and became concerned.”
She heard a car pass and followed the tempo of its lilts and shifts until it faded away. Heard the birds have their say once more, the beauty of their singing making her feel desperately sad.
The landlord was looking at her again. That probing look she saw so often in the faces of those who did not understand her. Who never took the time to understand her. So caught up in their own little worlds. Orbiting her like planets, out of reach.
“Are you sure you’re all right now?”
“What was the note about?”
“Nothing really. Just . . . just something from the Water Board. I was out for a stroll and thought I’d pop it through the door. That’s all.”
She sighed.
“Don’t concern yourself, Rita. It’s all in the past now. Perhaps you should go away for a few days. Just for a rest . . . away from here. Portaluce. I mentioned it before. Lovely little place. There’s a guesthouse . . . the Ocean Spray. I’ll drive you there.”
Portaluce? She recalled him referring to it.
“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here.”
She saw that her reaction disappointed him.
“Then I’ll call in on you more often . . . whatever time of day suits you best. You don’t have to decide now . . . about Portaluce I mean.”
“You don’t need to call on me. You’ve been too kind already and I can manage quite well on my own, thank you. I’m fine now . . . really.”
She didn’t feel fine, but sipped the tea to please him and sho
w him she was capable. Capable and functioning again.
“Rita, I need to say something . . . ”
He was looking at her solemnly, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. He was nervous again. She could tell.
“Yes?”
“I’ve sorted things out with your neighbours over there.”
“Neighbours?”
“The Glackens, young Ryan and his mother. Y-You don’t need to go over there again. Best leave things be . . . let the hare sit, as they say.”
Ryan!
The name went off in her head like a rocket flare, lighting up images, sparking snapshots revealing the reasons for her collapse.
Ryan kicking a ball.
Ryan throwing pebbles.
Ryan crying.
Ryan on his knees in the box-room picking up the potpourri!
Ryan, Ryan, Ryan! The cause of all her pain. The cause of all her difficulties.
Ryan Glacken. Ryan Glacken and his awful mother.
She was on her feet, temper-needle shooting wildly into the red.
“You, you, you took his side. I remember now. You sent him away. Told him to stop . . . stop clearing up the mess that he’d made up there. You traitor. Get out of here now!”
“Look, Rita, I can explain.”
“Out, now!”
He gathered himself quickly, a look of fright in his eyes.
She took a step towards him.
“Please, Rita, they are dangerous people. Keep well away.”
“That little brat will apologize to me. I ended up in bed for three days because of him. How dare you tell me what to do? I’ve had enough of others telling me what to do. Have spent my whole life doing what others wanted me to do. Not any more. Now, get out and let me live my life by my rules. I’m not a child and you’re not my father.”
Her rant had the desired effect. He couldn’t speak. Simply stared at her as if she’d gone mad, backing towards the door.
She congratulated herself. Finally he was listening to her. Finally she’d got through to him.
On the step he turned. Opened his mouth to say something further. But she banged the door shut, not wishing to hear any more excuses from him.
She stood triumphant by the window, watching him go, feeling free and light and totally in control.
Victor at last.
Victim no more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Spinster Wife Page 25
