The Misremembered Man

by Christina McKenna

  “Yes, Sister.” The boy reached into the long pocket of his pants and produced the blue plastic rosary. He held them out in a trembling hand.

  “Good. Very well. You may put your cap on now.”

  The boy obeyed, as Amos and Constance Fairley drew closer to him. He was seized with apprehension, and wanted to bolt from the room.

  “And remember, boy,” Keaney said, an admonishing finger raised, “if you misbehave you will be punished as my brother and sister see fit. You will be in their care so you will obey their rules.

  “Yes, sir.”

  At the rear of the orphanage stood a dray horse and an orange-painted, four-wheeled cart. Amos Fairley pushed the boy roughly toward it. Eighty-Six scrambled up into the back, onto moldy straw which reeked of manure and dead things, his hands feeling for a dry place to sit.

  Fairley climbed onto the bench-seat at the front and took the reins, his wife clambering up beside him. When they were settled, the horse, as if obeying an unspoken command, turned in a trotting semicircle and cantered out through the tall, heavy gates.

  Eighty-Six sat with his back to his temporary guardians, his small hands clutching the dirt-encrusted tailboard as the cart flung him about. A sinking sun sent ruby and ocher splashes across the sky, plating the many-windowed orphanage in a golden light. He kept his eyes fixed on the mighty, granite structure until it dwindled out of sight. He was being freed from prison for a while, but he did not feel relieved at the prospect. Anyone connected with Master Keaney made the storm clouds gather and the hounds growl in warning.

  For now, however, he had the freedom of the journey. Like the rattling bus, the cart afforded him a little interlude of joy. He hoped the jaunt would be a long one as he waited for the grim-walled city to be replaced by the rolling fields of the countryside, when he could see again the grazing animals he loved so well. He did not know what lay at journey’s end, but for now at least, he could dream.

  Chapter twenty-one

  Jamie woke from a deep sleep into the sapphire-and-almond ambience of his Ocean Spray bedroom. For a moment or two he thought he was dreaming. There was no damp patch on the ceiling he was staring up at, and no complaints of animals demanding to be fed. From beyond the open window he could hear the languid wash of waves and the razoring cries of seagulls.

  He raised himself up on his elbows, suddenly remembering where he was. Dr. Brewster was certainly correct. The Ocean Spray was indeed a fine place. Jamie hardly knew what to look at first. His eyes journeyed about the room, taking it all in: from the maple dressing table with its shell mirror, the matching built-in closet, the umbrella palm in the corner, the fringed standard lamps, the muslin drapes, the lush carpet and—the crowning centerpoint, which he now gazed up at with awe and wonder—a cut-glass chandelier.

  He looked down at the white sheets and ran a hand over the shiny satin counterpane. He had never slept in such a bed before, wondered how a body could get sheets as white as that. His shirt, lying now over the armchair by the bed, was definitely not white but a smoky yellow by comparison.

  The china clock on the locker read 8:15; even the clock was like nothing Jamie had seen before. He took it and examined it closely. A label on the back read: Aynsley. Fine Bone China. Handmade in England. He replaced it very carefully, anxious he might break it and then would probably have to pay for it. Since he was paying the price of a lambing sheep for the privilege of staying at the luxurious Ocean Spray, he could incur no more unnecessary expenditure.

  He decided to get up and see about breakfast, the sunlit room telling him that it was too good a day for a man to be lying in his bed, even if he was on vacation. It was sinful, so it was.

  Jamie dressed himself with care in front of the cheval mirror provided by Gladys Millman. As usual, he left his hair until last, and arranged it across his crown with a considered hand and a copious scoop of Brylcreem. While returning the jar to his shopping bag, he noticed the bottle of Blue Adonis aftershave. Maybe a wee drop of that too, thought Jamie. Given the day that was in it, he might as well.

  He unscrewed the cap. It smelled a bit strong, but Jamie, not being a connoisseur of men’s toiletries, was not to know that any scent left sitting in direct sunlight with the cap not properly secured, would go off in a matter of weeks. Mick’s aftershave had been sitting idle for the best part of a year. Jamie poured a liberal puddle of rank Adonis into his palm and slapped it about his face.

  The spacious, high-ceilinged dining room had received most of its quota of breakfast guests by half-past eight. All except Mr. McCloone, Gladys noted. She allowed her jacquard cuff to fall back over the delicate timepiece on her right wrist—for some reason, watches never worked on the left—and surveyed the guests.

  There was Mr. Henderson, the solicitor, and his wife Judith (such lovely people). The Bradley-Carrs (both doctors) and their children, Minnie and Daisy (terribly respectable and such polite little girls). Mr. Cosgrove Murphy (retired judge) and his wife Hyacinth (oh, such a grand couple!). Elizabeth and Lydia (Why was Elizabeth refusing the specially prepared sage-and-onion sausages? What a costly waste. She would not be served them again.).

  But besides Mr. McCloone, there was someone else missing. She went to the desk by the door and checked the book. Yes, Miss Doris Crink and her sister Mildred—from Tailorstown as well, she noted; same place as the farmer. She made a mental note to ask dear Humphrey to try and refer his more respectable patients in the future; the Crinks with their polyester frocks and plastic purses, and McCloone in that hideous suit, lowered the tone ever so. Put simply, they were bad for business. Standards had to be maintained.

  She had earmarked two tables for the undesirables at the more remote perimeters of the room. Mr. McCloone’s table was in a corner by the continually swinging kitchen doors. The Misses Crink were seated within the curvature of the bay window, safely obscured from view by what Gladys referred to as her “jardinière” of towering pampas grass.

  Gladys had instructed Sinéad early on to substitute the creamery butter curls and homemade marmalade on both tables with the cheaper, shop-bought alternatives and she was happy to see as she checked both tables that her instructions had been carried out to the letter.

  As Gladys was engaged in her little tour of inspection, she noted a sudden hush coming over the room; tinkling teaspoons, clinking china and murmuring voices fell silent. Some of the ladies pressed a discreet napkin to their noses. She turned slowly to investigate and saw, with a tiny spasm of alarm, that Mr. McCloone had entered and was making his way across the room. A cloud of rancid scent seemed to be accompanying him. And why was he wearing those ghastly curl-toed slippers in broad daylight?

  Unbeknown to Jamie, with every step he took he was releasing sour wafts of Blue Adonis into the room. Gladys held a protective forefinger to her nostrils.

  “Mr. McCloone! Good morning.” She faked a smile, held her breath and steered him to the table by the kitchen door. “You had a good night, I trust?”

  “The best night’s sleep I ever had, Mrs. Milkman; the best.”

  “Why’s that man wearing those funny shoes, Mummy?” Minnie Bradley-Carr had squirmed her frilly bottom down out of her chair and was standing, pointing down at Jamie’s feet.

  “That’s enough now, Minnie!” her doctor-parent said in a warning tone. “Come back here this instant.”

  Jamie pulled out his own chair and settled himself.

  “I expect it’ll be the full Ulster, Mr. McCloone?” Gladys handed him the menu, standing well in front of him to obstruct the view of her audience, while taking a series of shallow breaths, lest she keel over with the odor.

  “Oh, you mean the fry-up. Well d’you know I’d love the fry-up, and I’m sure, Mrs. Milkman, your fry-ups are powerful good. But I’m on a diet, so I am, because the doctor tells me I have to lose a bit and—”

  “Quite so, Mr. McCloone.” Gladys said the words a bit too loudly and could hear another of those curtain-up lulls descend on the room. “Cereal and toa
st?” she asked, rather more calmly.

  “No, just the tea and the toast will be grand.”

  Gladys clicked her fingers at Sinéad, who had just emerged from the kitchen, balancing three Ulster Fries, the face roasted off her from standing over the furnace-like stove.

  “Can you see to this gentleman, Sinéad, please?”

  “Yes, Miss Gladys.”

  Gladys sped from the room, wishing for a headache powder and some fresh air. Sinéad served the fry-ups to the doctors and the judge, and took Jamie’s order. On the opposite side of the room, Elizabeth and Lydia Devine were watching Jamie with interest.

  “God, she’s come down a bit, letting in riffraff like him.” Mrs. Devine held up a sliver of potato bread and examined it closely before committing it to her mouth. “She must be desperate.”

  “Be quiet, Mother!” Lydia scolded in a cautious whisper. “The man will hear you.”

  “What’s he doing with that napkin?”

  “Stop it, Mother, please!”

  Jamie was studying the starched, linen napkin, folded as it was in the shape of the Matterhorn peak, and wondering what on earth it was for. Maybe it’s a handkerchief, he thought. But then, why would a body be wanting to sneeze before their breakfast?

  He looked about the room to see if anyone else had a big handkerchief like his. He saw, to his surprise, that at least two had been placed on each of the unoccupied tables, and that the guests at the remaining tables were wearing theirs. One man had his tucked into his waistband, the woman beside him had one on her lap and another man had his tucked into the collar of his shirt.

  So it was a bib for an adult then. Lordy me! He followed the last man’s example, picked up his own and wedged a corner of it into his collar.

  “GOD, HOW ARE YOU, JAMIE! NEVER THOUGHT I’D SEE YOU HERE.”

  Jamie jumped, so loud and unexpected was the woman’s voice above him. He looked up from his napkin to see Doris Crink standing over him.

  “God, is it you, Doris?” He half rose out off the chair in an effort at gallantry.

  “NOW, DON’T STIR YOURSELF, JAMIE.” Doris pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, transferring her beige patent purse to her knee. Jamie wondered why she was shouting so much, but didn’t like to ask.

  “I’LL SIT HERE A WEE MINUTE FOR A CHAT. MILDRED’S UP THERE WAITIN’ ON ME, SO SHE IS.”

  Jamie turned and raised a hand to Mildred. She was peering out from behind a sheaf of pampas grass, like a botanist in a hothouse. She smiled and waved back.

  “GOD, JAMIE, I’VE COME THROUGH A TERRIBLE LOT SINCE I SEEN YOU LAST.” Doris fingered a miraculous medal pinned on her lapel.

  “I heard that, Doris. It’s a wonder you didn’t get kilt.”

  “WHAT’S THAT, JAMIE?” Doris leaned closer. “YOU KNOW, ME EARS ARE AWAY WITH IT SINCE IT HAPPENED, WITH THE SHOCK OF IT.”

  “A SAY, IT’S A WONDER YOU DIDN’T GET KILT!” Jamie roared, to the astonishment of the room. The Doctors Bradley-Carr decided they were finished, and herded Minnie and Daisy out while the conversation continued at delft-rattling volume.

  “Mummy, why’s that man with the funny shoes shouting?” Minnie stared in terror at Jamie.

  “D’YOU KNOW, JAMIE, HE PUT THE GUN UP TO ME HEAD LIKE THAT.” Doris demonstrated by putting two fingers to Jamie’s right ear.

  “AND DID HE PULL THE TRIGGER, THE BUGGER?” Jamie shouted, getting carried away.

  “GOD HELP US, JAMIE, IF HE’D PULLED THE TRIGGER I WOULDN’T BE TALKIN’ TO YOU NOW.”

  “NAW, I SUPPOSE YOU WOULDN’T, RIGHT ENOUGH.”

  Doris had another loud announcement for the breakfasting guests.

  “BUT WHAT I WANTED TO TELL YOU, JAMIE, IS THAT YOUR MONEY’S SAFE. ROSE MCFADDEN SAID YOU WERE A WEE BIT WORRIED, AND THAT’S UNNERSTANDABLE. BECAUSE EVERYBODY NEEDS A WEE BIT OF A NEST EGG UNDER THEM. BUT HE DIDN’T GET HIS DIRTY HANDS ON ANY OF IT! YOU STILL HAVE YOUR THREE THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE POUNDS AN’ FIPPENCE, MINUS THE WEE BIT YOU TOOK OUT FOR THIS WEE BREAK.”

  “THAT’S GOOD TO HEAR, DORIS.”

  Jamie’s face reddened and he touched his right ear.

  “GOD, YOU KNOW, I WAS IN PIECES, JAMIE, COULDN’T HEAR A THING WITH THE SHOCK OF IT. SO DR. BREWSTER SENT ME HERE WITH ME EARS.”

  Doris was surveying Jamie with an appraising eye.

  “GOD, JAMIE, YOU LOOK TERRIBLE WELL. THAT’S A VERY GRAND SUIT YOU’VE GOT ON.”

  “AYE, SO.”

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  “AND I SUPPOSE, JAMIE, YOU’RE HERE WITH YOUR BACK?”

  “AYE, SO. DR. BREWSTER DID THE RIGHT THING, DORIS, SO HE DID. THIS IS A GRAND PLACE ALTOGETHER. A NICE QUIET PLACE FOR YOUR EARS!”

  At that point, several of the guests were beginning to disagree.

  The doors to the kitchen swung open yet again and Jamie’s tea and toast arrived. Doris got up to go, red-faced from the exertion of having shouted so much, and dizzy too, having inhaled lungfuls of Jamie’s overpowering scent.

  “RIGHT YE BE, JAMIE. I’LL LET YOU GET ON WITH YOUR TEA.” She clutched her purse to her bosom. “AND A VERY FINE LOOKING TEA IT IS TOO, JAMIE!”

  “RIGHT YE BE, DORIS. I’LL SEE YOU ABOUT, SO A WILL.”

  Doris tottered across the room to join her sister.

  “GOD, JAMIE CLEANS UP VERY WELL,” she declared in a high-pitched whisper, settling herself in her chair. “AND Y’KNOW, HE WAS WEARIN’ LOVELY SCENT TOO! BUT HE’S LOST WITHOUT A GOOD WOMAN TO LOOK AFTER HIM, A MAN OF HIS AGE.”

  “I know,” said Mildred, drawing in her chin and nodding knowingly. “And hasn’t he got all that money sitting in your savings account?”

  Through the pampas grass, both ladies looked longingly at Jamie, who at that moment was engrossed in the hasty demolition of his tea and toast.

  “He doesn’t look as if he’s got a penny in that getup,” said Elizabeth Devine, observing the spectacle with tremendous interest. “With that much money in a savings account, you’d think he could make more of an effort.”

  Lydia, not wanting to be further embarrassed by her mother’s shameless comments, stood up and prepared to go.

  “Time for our stroll, Mother.”

  As they left the dining room, Lydia glanced back at the strange man and discovered, to her surprise, that he was gazing at her. She smiled, but he shyly averted his face. He seems such a lost soul, thought Lydia, as she steered her mother back to the safety of their room.

  Chapter twenty-two

  Later that same afternoon, Lydia found herself at a loose end. Her mother had just lain down for her usual pre-dinner nap, and sleep was now overtaking her. Lydia would have liked to remain in the bedroom reading, but her mother’s snores precluded that.

  The alternative was to retire to the drawing room, but that held the risk of encountering Gladys, accepting an unwanted glass of port, and hearing more rhetoric about the various routes to a man’s heart.

  No, she would simply have to go out, find a nice quiet spot overlooking the beach, sit by herself and perhaps dip into her current novel. Now, first things first: a note for her mother. She wrote that she’d be back in an hour and set the note on the bedside locker. She folded up a plaid rug, placed it in her basket and tucked her Georgette Heyer underneath it.

  She checked herself in the mirror and was, for a change, pleased with what she saw. The break from school and the ocean air were doing her good. Her eyes shone and her complexion had a healthy glow. She had taken her aunt’s advice and chosen a knee-length cord skirt and chiffon blouse with a lacy jabot, instead of her standard—and dowdy—shift dress. It was a particular shade of green that definitely suited her. Gladys was right. She resolved to buy more of that color in the future.

  “Start living a bit, dear. Yes, perhaps I will,” Lydia said to her reflection. Her mother stirred in the bed and she left the room as quickly and as quietly as she could.

  The day was pleasantly warm, if slightly overcast, when Lydia stepped out.
A fortifying breeze blew in from the Atlantic, as she negotiated the narrow promenade cutting its way round a balcony of rock leading to the beach.

  She could see the sand shimmering in the distance, stretched out like a long golden shawl, a draw for the weary traveler and dedicated sunbather alike. She thought, perhaps, that she should walk all the way to it and mingle with the many beach lovers she could see disporting themselves there. But at that moment she simply wished to be alone. As she rounded the next bend she was gratified to see a sun seat. She went to it, arranged her tartan rug and sat down. Carefully she removed the leather bookmark—a Christmas present from a past star pupil, one Susan Peake—from between pages 128 and 129, and settled down to read.

  Jamie stood outside the ornate gates of the Ocean Spray in his too-tight suit and spurned footwear, wondering what to do with himself. At half past four it was too early to visit a pub. He ambled down the street, thinking that he might try the movie theater, but when he arrived at the Odeon he saw that the matinee was well underway. A large poster to the right of the doors told him that Young Frankenstein had begun at half past two.

  He turned left and proceeded down the main thoroughfare. He felt a bit melancholy, for as he passed the stores and cafés, many were all too familiar. He was recalling his last visit with his dear uncle and how happy he’d been. There was Cassidy’s Confectioners, its window decked out with colorful boxes and jars of candy. He remembered Mick buying a pack of Marlboros for himself and a quarter of licorice allsorts for him. He decided, for old times’ sake, that he would pay homage to his dear uncle’s memory by doing the same.