The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  Yes, home: seeing to things in the family bar and on the land. You should have the malty whiff of stout in your nostrils, not the odor of linseed, and in your hand a dirt-grimed shovel instead of that very fine Siberian squirrel paintbrush. You’re a fraud, Strong. And if you’d stayed at home and done as your mother wished, you wouldn’t be in this mess now.

  In disgust, he threw the brush down and got up to stand by the window.

  Belfast was spewing its workers onto the streets. He could hear the muffled stamp of feet, the exhaling breath of air brakes, and the all-too-familiar strains of sirens wailing their way to yet another atrocity.

  Perhaps he should return home. Escape. Save himself. Save his mother. After all, he owed her.

  Oh, yes, he did owe his poor mother. He knew that all too well. His father, a farmer and publican, had died ten years earlier, and she’d been depending on her only son to come home and continue where her husband had left off. But Lorcan had let it be known that he was interested in neither the land nor the pub business.

  “Mother, I’m not cut out for tramping fields and serving drunks.” He’d meant “drinks” but hadn’t bothered correcting himself. “I have an imagination.” The young, defiant artist was unrepentant.

  “Are you saying your poor father had no imagination?”

  “Strictly speaking, only artists have imagination, and I can’t afford to have mine stifled. This is not me.” He’d swept an arm majestically with that last remark, to encompass not only the Crowing Cock pub and their outlying farm but the entire population of Tailorstown and the mountains beyond.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Lorcan. Just so long as you remember that your father’s pub and the people of this town put food on our table and clothes on your back and funded your education.”

  But he’d won the day nonetheless, had rented out the land to local farmers, employed a bartender to assist his mother, and returned to Belfast. After graduation, he’d pursued a career as a painter and printer before finally fetching up in the conservation room of the Ulster Museum.

  Now thirty-seven and considerably wiser, he winced at the arrogance of that younger self, turned away from the window, and sat down before the Countess once more. An act of justification, if nothing else.

  These days, instead of toiling over his own canvases, he bent over the work of others. Not that he was bitter, for he was, quite literally, having a hand in the work of the great innovators. The Turners, the Reynoldses, the Laverys: all were revivified under his expert hand. One week in the Barbizon, the next in the Rococo, Lorcan moved between schools and periods and styles with the ease of a quick-change artist. It was fulfilling—and lucrative—work.

  He considered the image on the canvas once again, flexed the fingers of his right hand several times, and took a deep breath. Sufficiently calmed to continue, he laid a speck of cadmium on a soupçon of white and blended the minute quantities to the required hue before taking the brush to the canvas again.

  The Countess was a plain woman whom Reynolds had flattered as far as he dared, his brush more forgiving than a camera lens could ever be. There was little the great painter could have done about that nose, though: much too long. Each time Lorcan contemplated it, the perfectionist in him wanted to shorten it, to make her perfect.

  That was his problem and he knew it: the quest for perfection, that unattainable moving target. But the chase brought excellence, and that realization was his prize.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! His reverie was broken by a boisterous knocking on the door.

  The insufferable Stanley from Fossils, no doubt.

  “Are ye not finished with that oul’ doll’s hooters yet?” Stanley shouted, peering through the glass door-panel and trying the handle.

  Lorcan did not flinch. Stanley was another good reason for keeping his door locked.

  “I’m goin’ for a drink. Wanna come?”

  “No, I’ve no time. Away—back to your old crustaceans.”

  “Och, away with you. Ye’re too involved with that woman. She’s only been dead two hundred years.”

  “And your fossils have been dead fifty million years. See you tomorrow, Stanley.”

  “Ye can have more fun with a pair of the real ones, ye know…down the Empire.”

  “Bye, Stanley.”

  “Never know who ye’d meet…”

  “Goodbye, Stanley.”

  “Ah, right. Suit yerself. See ye the marra. But if ye change yer mind, ye know where I’ll be.”

  “I won’t change my mind!” He heard Stanley’s footsteps retreating down the corridor, then hurrying back again.

  For heaven’s sake, what now?

  “Hi, I forgot. Catherine gave me a note for ye. Said somebody left it in for ye at reception.”

  Lorcan tensed. He paused before answering, fearful that his voice might betray him. “Really?”

  “Well, are ye gonna open the door so I can give it to ye?”

  “Yes…I mean no. Just…just push it under the door, Stanley, please.”

  “God, you’re a right queer one, Strong.”

  He waited for Stanley’s departing footsteps, for the outer door to bang shut, before rising. He knew what the note contained. He knew who it was from.

  Action was needed now. Yes, action. Anything to delay opening it. He checked his watch. Time to finish up for the day.

  At the sink, he cleaned his brushes with turpentine. The remaining oils on the palette were sheathed in polythene and tightly secured to keep the air out.

  He pulled on his green velvet jacket and positioned his Borsalino at just the right angle. Only then did he feel brave enough to bend down and pick up the wretched thing.

  It was written in heavy, black pencil, as though by a child’s hand. The import of the words, however, was far from childish.

  Dont forget your wee dental appointment. Thursday 8 pm sharp. Therell be consawquences if you miss it Lorcan my oul son.

  Chapter three

  Being a city girl, Bessie Lawless was not used to reading road maps; never had much cause to. On leaving Belfast she’d headed northwest, toward the town of Ballymena, then followed a more westerly route because it looked more direct on the map. Since she was in a hurry to get away from Belfast, this seemed the sensible thing to do.

  Her plan was to visit her sister, Joan, in Sligo and get a loan from her to help fund their passage to Uncle Bert in England. She’d already written to Bert, a former drains inspector from the Short Strand. Five years before, he’d come into unexpected wealth via the death of a maiden aunt. The windfall had enabled him to make flesh a long-cherished dream of owning a townhouse pub in Hackney.

  If Joan loaned her the fare—and that was a big “if” indeed—Bessie’s plan could work. But Joan had no idea that she was on her way, and Bessie had no intention of telling her. They didn’t get on, and giving notice of her arrival would only mean offering Joan the excuse of being conveniently out when she called. Or hiding in a cupboard at the sound of the car drawing up. She knew her older sibling all too well.

  But Bessie’s unfamiliarity with maps ensured that, barely an hour into the journey, she found herself hopelessly lost on a series of rural roads without signposts. Herkie, still sitting regally atop the record player, was enjoying the novelty of it all. He’d never seen sheep or cattle up close and was paying more attention to them than to the map spread out on his knees—the map he was supposed to be following.

  They drew up at a crossroads.

  “Right, where to now, son?”

  “Take a left, Ma,” he said immediately, gazing in fascination at a goat tethered in a nearby field.

  Bessie glanced over at him, irritated.

  “How can ye be so sure, son?” She yanked the map away from him. “And is it any wonder we’re friggin’ lost: yer readin’ that map upside down.”

  “But I see a signpost at the bottom, Ma. That’ll tell us where till go.”

  “Right, if you send me the wrong way again, I’ll put y
e in a field with them bloody sheep, and they can take ye to yer Auntie Joan’s.”

  The sign read TAILORSTOWN, but it wasn’t marked on the map. Since they were in the middle of nowhere and heading nowhere, she decided to follow the sign and get a fill-up of petrol at least.

  Some ten minutes later, they pulled into what appeared to be a filling station on the outskirts of the village.

  God, she wondered, drawing the car to a halt, does anybody live here at all?

  The filling station had an unsettling air about it. It looked by turns deserted and inhabited; smoke was curling up from what appeared to be a car-exhaust chimney pot set atop a dilapidated, two-room dwelling with a sagging roof tufted with weeds and patched here and there with flattened beer cans. At one window a set of lace curtains was half drawn. At another a piece of faded chipboard was doing duty as a windowpane.

  In front stood two fuel pumps.

  Farther down the yard, an open-fronted garage had a sign proclaiming Grant Auto Repairs in sun-bleached lettering. Several vehicles were scattered about in various stages of disassembly. A field to the rear was strewn with more bits of rusting car parts. A bomb might have exploded some years before and no one had bothered to clear up the mess.

  Apart from a couple of hens pecking the ground, there was little sign of life.

  The widow sounded the horn and waited.

  “Can I get out and play with them birds, Ma?” asked Herkie, fascinated by the hens and thirsting for his freedom. Sitting on the record player for so long had given him pink welts on the back of his legs.

  “No, you stay where you are, son. God knows what sort of lunatic lives here. Ye might end up in a pot o’ Lurgan stew or something, and we wouldn’t want that.”

  “Och, Ma, that’s silly. Cannonballs do that.” Herkie began bumping his head off the car ceiling to relieve his boredom.

  “And how d’ye know a cannonball doesn’t live here? I saw a film called The Texas Chainsaw Masker once, and these mountain men did that to a couple of city people who stopped to get petrol off them. Hauled them into the kitchen of a house just like that, and made a dinner out of the pair of them that fed them for a whole—”

  “God, Ma, what’s that?”

  Bessie hoisted herself up in the seat. “What?”

  “There!”

  A small, fat animal was streaking toward the car, grunting and snorting.

  “Jesus!”

  “Is it a dog, Ma?”

  “No, son. It’s a bloody pig!”

  She was just reaching for the ignition key when a middle-aged man emerged from the depths of the garage, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He cut an odd figure as he loped up the yard: tall and rangy, clad in a set of outsize overalls that flapped about him like tenting in a gale. The piglet, sporting a black backside and matching face, raced to him.

  He stooped down to stroke it.

  “What did I tell you? Only a lunatic could live—”

  “Didn’t hear ye there,” said the man, ducking close to the car window. “But Veronica here’s got better ears than me.”

  Bessie recoiled from his unshaven jib and barn-owl eyes magnified behind thick lenses. “That’s all right,” she said. “Three pounds’ worth of four-star, please.”

  “Ye’re not from round these parts, are ye, ’cos I never seen ye afore. Then again, I don’t get many comin’ round here anyway.”

  How surprising! “No, we’re just passing through.”

  “Headin’ far, are ye?” He rubbernecked Herkie while waiting for the pause to be filled by explanation, but Bessie had no intention of disclosing too much to anyone—least of all this stranger.

  “Just over the border.”

  “Ye’ve got a bit tae go then. Ye’ll be wantin’ yer oil and watter checked?”

  The widow had never thought of checking those. That had been Packie’s job.

  “Well, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  He filled the tank, then raised the bonnet.

  “Ma, can I go to the toilet?” Herkie was clutching his crotch, face crumpled in pretend agony. He reckoned he’d be safe enough, she supposed, now that the ax murderer was fully occupied with the car.

  “How bad d’ye need-a go, son?”

  “I’m burstin’, Ma!”

  She stuck her head out the window. “Can my boy use your toilet?”

  “Aye, just go behind the hedge there,” came the reply. “That’s the on’y toilet there is.”

  “Did ye hear that? No luxuries here, son. Watch that pig doesn’t take a bite outta yer bum.”

  “Och, Ma!”

  Herkie slunk off to the field. Veronica, in the inquisitive manner of piglets, trotted after him.

  It was stifling in the car, and the raised bonnet was obscuring her view. Bessie pushed open the door.

  “Everything all right?” she asked, sidestepping what appeared to be Veronica’s poo—well, she hoped so, anyway—and coming round to the front of the vehicle.

  The mechanic squinted up at her, looking decidedly worried.

  “Well, now, ever’thing would be all right if ye weren’t goin’ far. Ye see, that fan belt’s about tae go, and if ye broke down ye’d be stuck, ’cos there’s not much ’tween here and the border. Ye can risk it if ye like, but if I were you I’d get it fixed right away.”

  That was all she needed to hear. The very thought of breaking down and being marooned in this Bally-go-Backward was unthinkable. At the same time, she wondered: How can I be sure this man is being straight with me? The old car, rarely off the road, had seldom given any trouble (apart from that time in 1978 she mistook the brake for the accelerator and plowed into the back of Mr. Yummy’s ice-cream van, double-parked outside the Department of Health and Social Security office).

  “Oh, that’s news to me,” she said, feigning calmness and composure. “The fan belt, eh? Are you sure about that?”

  “Well, I’ll show yeh.”

  He bent over the engine and ran a hand under the belt. “See that?” Bessie leaned in warily, affecting interest and expertise. “Far too much play. Too tight’s bad enough, but too loose is even worse. Did ye notice her squealin’ after ye started her?”

  Damn. She had, right enough. She was recalling the high-pitched protest that kick-started her getaway from Valencia Terrace.

  He knew what he was talking about.

  Herkie returned from his comfort break, hitching up his jeans. The piglet, much to Bessie’s relief, now had its snout stuck in a tractor tire and was busily occupied.

  “What’s wrong, Ma?”

  “Never you mind, son. Can you fix it for me now then?” she asked the man, shielding her eyes from the sun and wondering how in God’s name she was going to pay him.

  “Could fix it for ye surely, if I had the part. But I don’t have the part, ye see.”

  Bessie waited for more, but the mechanic simply adjusted his specs, rubbed his nose, inspected the toes of his size twelves.

  “Could you get the part and fix it for me then?”

  She had the feeling that she might take root and start growing chest hair if he didn’t get a move on. She’d heard that country people were a bit slow, but this was ridiculous.

  “Could get ye the part surely, but I’d have tae go into Killoran tae get it, and that’s the thing.”

  Herkie, bored with the adult talk, had wandered over to Veronica and hunkered down beside her. He was deciding whether to pull her ears, tweak her tail, or poke her fat belly—in short, deciding which molestation might produce the most discomfort for the piglet and therefore the most entertainment for him.

  “And could you do that?” Bessie asked patiently. “Go into Kill…Kill…whatever?”

  “Killoran. Naw, ’cos Willie-Tom is closed the day. His ma’s in the hospital, ye see…skidded on a mat when she was gettin’ her hair done in Hilda Cahoon’s hair saloon and broke her hip. Hilda had tae get the amb’lance, ’cos she couldn’t get herself up.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that
, but—”

  “Ye could try McMurty in the town but he’d charge ye an arm and a leg, ’cos he’s got bigger overheads than me. He’d do a quicker job for ye, right enuff, but I’d put money on it that it wouldn’t be as good a job as I’d do. I take me time, ye see, on account of havin’ a bit more of it on me hands out here, not bein’ in the town, like.”

  “Look, I’ll tell you what: I’ll just—”

  “They’re queuing up for McMurty in the town but that’s only ’cos he’s in the town and not out here in the cawntry like me…I couldn’t guarantee that ye wouldn’t have a wait on yer hands there, too. He could say he’d have it for yeh this evenin’, then ye could go back this evenin’ and he’d tell ye a different story altogether. He’s like that, ye see. And at the end of the day he’d charge ye more, ’cos as I say, he’s got bigger overheads than me…”

  Bessie realized it was pointless trying to interrupt. She was put in mind of her old refrigerator. It, too, had a habit of droning on in similar fashion. A swift kick in the right spot usually sorted it out. However, in this case such a tactic might prove highly inadvisable. She’d simply have to endure it. Let the mechanic say his piece. He’d peter out eventually.

  “…but it’s a free cawntry and it’s up tae you. As I say, I’ll do it for ye as soon as Willie-Tom opens the morra…couldn’t say fairer than that. I would of done it for ye today if Willie-Tom’s mother hadn’t skidded on that mat. But a body never knows from one day till the next what’s gonna happen. So it’s up tae you what ye want tae do.”

  “Look, I’ll just risk it then,” the widow said, not wanting to hear any more calendar entries for Willie-Tom’s trials—past, present, and to come. She gave him the money for the petrol. “I’ve had no problems so far. What do I owe you for the—”

  “Squeeeeee!”

  They turned as one to see a frantic piglet hurtling down the yard toward the safety of the shed.

  “Get back here, you little shit!” Bessie snarled at her son. Then, realizing her mask had slipped, she moved swiftly to repair the damage. “So sorry,” she told the man. “He’s not used to animals, I’m afraid. You know what city boys are like.”