The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  She felt a little uneasy at the sight of her and quickened her pace, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the middle distance.

  They drew level.

  Without warning, the woman stopped and laid a hand on her wrist.

  Rita-Mae let out a little cry, gazing down at the old knobbly fingers clasping her.

  “Don’t you remember me, Dorinda?”

  “S-Sorry, I . . . I don’t know who y-you are,” Rita stammered, caught between being scared and angry. “Y-You must be mistaken.” She was staring at the many strands of turquoise stones worn in a choker style, high on the lady’s neck. Their colour matched her eyes exactly. “My name’s Rita, not Dorinda.”

  “Rita . . . sorry if I startled you. I’m Edith LeVeck.”

  She smiled, loosening her hold on Rita’s arm. “There must be two of you then. I said so to Dorinda when she came to my house. I sensed that there were two you see.”

  Rita shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really must be going, Mrs . . . er . . . ?”

  “LeVeck. But you can call me Edith.”

  “E-Edith . . . sorry, yes.”

  She backed away from her, afraid.

  “Mind how you go, Rita,” Edith said, giving her a melancholy look. “Be like the tree in winter. Shed your leaves. There’s always time.”

  “What?”

  But before she knew it, Edith LeVeck had walked on.

  Rita was upset. She hurried after her to ask her what she’d meant. Saw her turn down a side street. But when she got there, the mysterious woman had vanished.

  How could that be? Had she imagined it all? Hardly. Edith LeVeck had been as real as the paving Rita stood on.

  The experience left her perplexed, and not a little shaken. She needed to sit down. Three doors along she spotted Marcella’s, a cafe with large plate-glass windows. She’d go in there, sit by a window, have some tea and try to calm herself.

  Bram had little difficulty finding Eclips. It had a gaudy sign out front and was right there on the main street.

  He entered a hot, busy salon and took up position by the reception desk. Business was booming at that early hour. He counted six customers – all female – in various stages of having their tresses styled.

  A young woman spotted him, left off combing-out a client and approached him.

  “I’m looking for Grace Thorne?” he asked cordially.

  “Oh, Grace, she’s not here at the minute. On her coffee break I’m afraid. Was it important?”

  “Well, it is as a matter of fact.”

  “Right . . . in that case.” She led him to the window. “See that cafe across the road? Burney’s? You’ll get her there.”

  “How will I know her? I’ve never met her I’m afraid.”

  “Easy to spot today,” the stylist smirked. “Head full of rollers . . . she’s got a big date tonight with the husband. It’s their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

  Rita-Mae entered Marcella’s Cafe to find it empty. No customers and no staff either. She stood for a moment, looking about the L-shaped room with its bright decor: red banquettes with matching tables facing a long glass counter hosting some very delicious-looking cakes. The sun beaming in made it seem such a cosy and inviting place.

  She took the seat by the window, glad to be having the place to herself. Could hear someone moving about in the kitchen out back. No doubt a waiter would appear soon enough.

  “Mrs Thorne?” Bram said, addressing a seated blonde woman with a head full of rollers, intent on a newspaper. A cigarette was burning in an ashtray.

  She looked up, startled.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt your coffee break, Mrs Thorne,” he said with as much gallantry as he could muster. “I’m Bram Hilditch, Miss Ruttle’s landlord. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”

  “Y-You came all this way . . . all this way to talk to me?”

  “Yes . . . May I join you? It won’t take long.”

  She glanced furtively about and nodded.

  Bram manoeuvred himself into the bench seat opposite her.

  “There’s nothing more I can tell you about Rita, Mr Hilditch. Other than the fact I’ve got news of Harry.”

  “Harry. Her husband you mean?”

  “Aye.”

  “So she is married then? I’m just wondering why she omitted telling me that.”

  Grace shrugged. “She’s runnin’ away from him y’see, ’cos he’s such an awful bastard . . . pardon my French. She never wanted anyone but me to know her whereabouts. They’ve been married for fifteen years and he’s been abusin’ her all that time – and gettin’ away with it.”

  Bram was shocked.

  Grace scanned the room again, making sure no one would overhear.

  Leaned across to him.

  “Poor Rita, he kept her a prisoner. Only allowed her the wee job with me so he could have extra money for the drink. I can’t tell you how many times that poor woman’s been in hospital ’cos of him. The guy should have crime-scene tape wrapped round him.”

  “Y-You mean he was violent towards her?”

  She nodded.

  He could hardly comprehend anyone hitting someone as tiny and frail as Rita.

  “You don’t know the half it, Mr Hilditch,” Grace went on. She took a fortifying puff of her cigarette, exhaling the smoke through the open window. “Don’t know how many times I told her to leave him, but she was too scared you see . . . had nowhere to go and no money – he kept everything. She ran away a few times and nobody could find her. Never said where she went. But Harry made her pay for it – if you know what I mean. I could see that all right.”

  “But . . . but wasn’t there someone she could go to . . . her family maybe?”

  “There’s only the mother and she’s in a nursin’ home,” Grace said, cocking a forefinger and making stirring motions at her head. “Doolally . . . away with the birds, as they say. Not that Hedda ever helped her anyway, the horrible old biddy. Was glad to get Rita off her hands when Harry came along. Talk about going from the fryin’ pan into the fire.”

  “My God, I had no idea.”

  He was astonished at what he was hearing. His initial indignation on learning Rita had deceived him about being married was turning now to anguish at the tragic life Grace was describing.

  “So where’s . . . where’s this Harry now?” he asked carefully.

  “On the building sites in England, last I heard. He’d come home drunk as usual one night. They had a row. He fell and knocked himself out, y’see, and was bleeding badly. Rita was in a panic ’cos she thought she’d killed him. Pity she didn’t. She took off. Think she went to the mother’s house for a few days, till the heat settled. But when she came back he was gone. Said he’d left her a note saying he was going to Croydon . . . that’s when Rita saw your ad and decided to make a break for it. She gave me her Killoran phone number so I could warn her when Harry showed up again. We live in the same development you see.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Bram said. “If he’s still over there in England then why were you calling Rita?”

  In answer, she stubbed out the cigarette and checked her watch. “I need to be going now.”

  “Please tell me, Grace,” Bram urged. “I need to know, for Rita’s sake. I’m on her side, like you are . . . you have my word on that.”

  She studied him, plainly wondering if she could trust him.

  “All right,” she said finally, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  “Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody. But the police knocked my door yesterday, looking for Rita. They said it was in connection with Harry. Wouldn’t say anything else. I gave them her address in Killoran so they’ll be calling with her today sometime I daresay. Maybe you should tell her . . . warn her, like. God knows what it’s about.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “Hello . . . sorry for keeping you.”

  In Marcella’s Cafe, Portaluce, Rita-Mae’s contemplation of the l
ovely scene was intruded upon by a female voice.

  She turned to see a young waitress, notepad in hand, coming towards her.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “I was just enjoying the view.”

  The waitress with the nametag JANE halted suddenly and did a double take.

  “Oh . . . welcome back, miss.”

  “Er . . . sorry, Jane, but I haven’t been here before.”

  “You haven’t? But don’t you remember having the lemon meringue pie?”

  “Afraid not . . . it’s my first time here.”

  “Gosh, miss, that’s amazing. There was a woman in here a few months back that looked just like you. Same hair and everything.”

  “Oh, well,” Rita-Mae said, making light of it, “maybe I have a double.”

  It was the third time she’d been mistaken for someone else since coming to Portaluce – first Maureen, the maid at the Ocean Spray, then the strange Mrs LeVeck, now this waitress. Was their eyesight defective or something?

  She took up the menu and feigned interest, irritated that Jane remained standing there, openly gaping at her.

  “Just a pot of tea, please.”

  Jane looked disappointed. “Sorry, miss . . . is that all, miss? Are you sure you don’t want a slice of lemon meringue . . . like you had the last time?”

  “What? I really don’t think you heard me. I said I’ve never been in this cafe before.”

  “Yes, I know, miss . . . sorry, miss. I forgot.”

  “How could you forget? I just told you.”

  “Yes, miss, I know . . . I . . . I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re s-so like her.”

  “So you say, Jane, but I don’t like sweet food and most especially lemon meringue pie. Never liked it in fact.”

  She felt bad about being so direct, but she really needed to get through to the silly girl, who continued to just stand there, gawping.

  There was only one way out of the bizarre situation. She reached for her handbag and made as though she were searching in it.

  “Tell you what, I’ll . . . I’ll have to pass on the tea. Looks like I forgot my purse anyway.”

  “Please, miss . . . I’m sorry, miss, I won’t say anything else about . . . you know. You can have it on the house. Y-You gave me a very big tip last . . . Oh God, I’m sorry—”

  But Rita was on her feet. “Sorry, Jane. Another time perhaps.”

  Dr Ruane’s house was hard to find, set as it was in a remote spot high up on the rocky Antrim coast.

  Bram had to ask directions several times and negotiate a warren of steep winding roads before finally arriving at journey’s end.

  He was relieved and not a little flustered when at last he pulled up in the grounds of the quaint stone cottage. Due to the difficulty of locating Loughview House he was running a good half hour late, and felt vexed about having already got off to such a bad start with the doctor.

  Was it his imagination or did he get the impression that the medical man simply didn’t want to be found? Was purposely hiding away, up here with the case files from his old life sealed in the attic, never to be reopened?

  He recalled Ruane’s hesitancy on the phone. Yes, he was being a bother to the old man; he knew that. But it was all in a good cause. Bringing Rita and Dorinda together was a goal worth pursuing, even if it meant doing a bit of digging and causing upset.

  At the door he was greeted by a woman he supposed was the doctor’s wife, although she didn’t introduce herself: a tall, bony lady with chiselled features and the resigned air of the put-upon wife.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late . . . ” Bram began.

  She gave a faint smile of understanding, led him into a cosy sitting-room and offered him tea, which he politely declined. He reckoned he’d inconvenienced them enough already.

  “Thomas will be in shortly,” she said and swayed away in her sensible brogues, leaving him with the ponderous ticking of a clock and the far-off sound of the sea.

  Having vacated Marcella’s Cafe, Rita-Mae lost interest in finding another snack bar to sit in. The incident with Jane had upset her. Had taken away the calm, easy mood she’d been trying to establish.

  She wandered about for a bit, drifting in and out of shops – mostly of the souvenir variety, selling the usual fare of postcards, sticks of rock and seaside trophies. Bought a newspaper just for the sake of it and decided to head back to the Ocean Spray.

  It was approaching tea-time, and hopefully Mrs Millman would be busy in the kitchen and not register her return.

  “Mr Hilditch, how do you do?” Thomas Ruane said, coming forward to greet him. “You made it then.”

  Bram was surprised at the sight of the jaunty retiree, casually attired in a chunky sweater and corduroys, much at odds with the reserved, soberly dressed individual he’d been expecting.

  He got up. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Doctor. Got a little lost, I’m afraid.”

  Ruane waved a hand. “It’s understandable; most people do. You’re not the first and won’t be the last I’m sure. Now, you’re here about a patient – or rather former patient – of mine,” he added, sitting down.

  “Yes, Dorinda Walsh. You see, I believe she has a twin sister whom she doesn’t know exists. I’d like to know Dorinda’s whereabouts. As I said on the phone, Mother Clare at the convent in Portaluce said you’d be able to help me . . . Dorinda having been a patient of yours.”

  Ruane looked at him steadily. Bram was expecting to hear some enlightening detail, but instead the doctor clapped his hands on the armrests and pushed himself up out of the chair.

  “You’ll join me in a brandy, Mr Hilditch, won’t you?”

  He didn’t really want alcohol at that hour, but could sense that the doctor, already on his way to the drinks cabinet, would brook no refusal.

  “A small one would be welcome, yes,” he said. “And do call me Bram, please.”

  “And this sister’s who, exactly?” Ruane asked, handing him the glass.

  “Rita Ruttle. She’s a new tenant of mine . . . in Killoran. She moved into one of my properties about three months ago.”

  “So you’re a landlord?” He resumed his armchair and studied Bram with interest.

  “Yes.”

  “And tell me, has Miss Ruttle been happy in your house?”

  “Well, she was until . . . until she had a run-in with the neighbours, sadly. A little boy and his mother . . . you know the sort . . . common, not very nice people. They began harassing her . . . making life difficult.”

  “That’s too bad. And what form did this harassment take? Did they break in by any chance?”

  “Why, yes,” Bram said, astonished at the doctor’s prescience. “As a matter of fact they did.”

  “Mmm . . . ” Ruane sighed and took a sip of his brandy. He set the glass down and leaned back in his chair. “Now, Bram,” he said with a note of resignation, “in order for you to understand the lives of Dorinda – or Dorrie, as she prefers to be called – and Rita, I need to take you back to the beginning.”

  Safely behind the door of room number 5, Rita-Mae felt glad she’d made it up the stairs unnoticed by the proprietor.

  She removed her coat and returned it to the wardrobe, but for some reason the door wouldn’t shut properly. Kept springing back open every time she tried to secure it.

  Maybe there was something obstructing one of the hinges.

  She checked, saw nothing untoward and tried again. But when it happened a third time she realized she had to be more thorough.

  Exasperated, she threw wide the doors and stood back.

  Ah, there was something: a piece of white material stuck between the top section and the right-hand door.

  Something was up there.

  She pulled over a chair and climbed up to investigate. Was surprised to see a white garment neatly folded on top.

  Curious, she fetched it down.

  Shook it free and held it up to the light.

  It took a while to figure out what exactly she w
as seeing.

  For the white trench coat had several dark patches down the front.

  Were they part of the design perhaps?

  Intrigued, she took the coat over to the window to have a closer look.

  Suddenly it dawned on her.

  No, they were not part of a design. The random burgundy mappings were most definitely not designs.

  They were bloodstains.

  The raincoat was covered in bloodstains.

  “Oh, my God! What is this place? Why is . . . ”

  She dropped it in horror, grabbed her bag and dashed from the room.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  It was hard for Bram to drive home after finally bidding farewell to Dr Ruane.

  If the outward journey was difficult then the return one was monumentally more testing. For a very different reason.

  The route hadn’t changed, but Bram had. The story the doctor had shared concerning Rita and Dorrie’s lives was impossible to believe – and so, so desperately sad.

  His heart sagged as he imagined her there in Portaluce, waiting for him. Waiting to hear the surprise he’d mentioned on leaving.

  “A surprise? For me?” she’d asked in disbelief. “But what is it, Bram?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it, Rita? So you’ll just have to wait.”

  “Thank you,” she’d said. “You’ve been so very kind to me.”

  And she’d smiled her rare and beautiful smile and turned back to the guesthouse window, lost again in her own private world – a world that he now knew something of.

  The battleground that was her life.

  No, there’d be no pleasant surprise for Rita.

  What he had to impart to her was almost too much to bear.

  He pulled the car over outside 8 Willow Close and just sat there with the engine running, fighting back tears, unable to do what he knew he had to do.

  The sky was dimming, sombre clouds massing, the ocean growling balefully as Dorinda Walsh stepped out. She sped along the promenade, heading towards the beach.

  She was happy, feeling the pleasant weight of the whiskey bottle in her shoulder-bag, knowing in her heart what lay ahead.