“Naw, how would I see yer bloody wallet? Maybe ye give it tae that fancy wommin, seein’ as ye give her my Dora’s house.”
“It’s my house. Dora said she wanted me tae have it after she died.”
“Aye, she did, did she? Well, she was dotin’ and didn’t know what she was sayin’. She told Barney Bap and Screw-loose John she was leavin’ it tae them, too. She left that house tae half the bloody country afore she went.”
“Well, she told me afore she went dotin’, and Mrs. Hailstone paid me rent,” said Gusty, his voice quick with annoyance. “And you’re only pissin’ out that windee tae embarrass me in front-a her!”
“I’ll piss wherever I want.”
“Och, you’re nothing but a contrary oul’ shite! Come on, Veronica.”
Man and beast left the room while old Ned lurched in the direction of the window to water the bindweeds in the backyard.
Young Herkie, concealed in the field behind the Grant residence, was not much interested in what was happening beyond the hedge that shielded him from view. He lay surrounded by discarded sweet wrappers, engrossed in his Cheeky Weekly comic, bum-crack on show for all the birds to see.
Suddenly a noise alerted him. He looked up in time to see an upstairs window being thrust open. As he watched, an old man came into view, undid his flies, and let loose on a group of ducks leisurely grooming themselves below. He then stuck his head out the window and shouted something before banging the window shut again as the ducks ran squawking from the downpour.
Herkie, stifling a giggle, wondered what to do. His ma had instructed him to check out the big house to see if there was a woman about it. The man he’d seen at the window was definitely an oul’ boy. Oul’ boys were good news, because they were usually deaf and half blind, which would make his task a lot easier. Maybe he could make a beeline for the back door now. The Opal Fruits were all eaten anyway. There wasn’t a blackbird in sight, so he had no use for his slingshot. Besides, he was bored and wanted some action.
But just as he was contemplating this, the back door opened and a man emerged carrying a bucket. He was surprised to see the mechanic-and-new-landlord, Mr. Grant. Grunting at his heels was Veronica, the piglet Herkie had tormented a few days before.
Crouching farther down behind the hedge, he watched intently as Mr. Grant lit up a cigarette, sat himself down on a crate, and began inspecting his reflection in a near window, elongating his neck, rubbing his stubble, and pulling faces. Herkie wondered what he was playing at. Maybe he was crazy—his ma had told him that most country people were a bit odd. All that living in the middle of fields and staring at animals gave them bumps in their brains and things like that.
By and by, Grant lost interest in his reflection. He stood up, grabbed a rake, raised it up to a first-floor window, and knocked on it a few times.
After about a minute, the window flew open and the oul’ boy stuck his head out.
“Hi, I’m goin’ tae the Cock,” said Mr. Grant, “tae see Etta about the night. D’ye want anything, do ye?”
“Aye, right, Etta Strong’s hard up tae want a boy like you. Get me a pouch-a that Peter’s Flake and a quart of them Glassy-ear Mints.”
With that, the window was pulled shut before Mr. Grant had time to reply.
In the silence that followed, all Herkie could hear was “Away with yeh, ye oul’ shite!”
So Mr. Grant lived in the big house with an oul’ boy. What would his ma say about that? Deciding that he’d had enough information for the time being, he gathered up his sweet wrappers, stuck the comic in his pocket, and slipped away up the field to report his findings.
Chapter thirteen
The phone rang as Father Connor Cassidy was firming up his Sunday sermon. He did not welcome the intrusion.
“Good morning, Saint Timothy’s, Father Cassidy speaking.”
“Hello, Father. It’s Doris Crink here, at the post office.”
Oh dear, thought the priest, why would the post office be calling? Could the price of stamps have jumped by a whole penny? A late delivery of the Sacred Heart Messenger perhaps?
Since coming to St. Timothy’s he’d been besieged by a flock of bird-witted ladies, all wanting his ear on the most frivolous of pretexts.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you, Father.”
“Not at all, Doris. How are you keeping?”
“Not too bad, Father. I just wanted to let ye know, Father, that I was talkin’ to Josie Mulhearn. You know Josie from the café?”
“I do, of course.” He had an idea what was coming.
“Now, Josie says there was a lady into her the day before yesterday and she was askin’ after your position, Father.”
“Excellent news, Doris! Is she a local lady?”
There was a slight hesitation from the postmistress. “Well…no. She’s a stranger, so she is.”
“Ah, yes. Well, that’s splendid news.”
In the brief silence that followed, Father Cassidy detected the wind of censure wafting down the line.
“Aye. But are you sure she’d be…well, proper for you, Father?”
“Well, Doris, since I’ve yet to meet the lady in question, I’m in no position to make such a judgment. Now, was there anything else?”
“Oh, no, Father. Just that…I thought…I thought I’d let you know, just to warn you in advance, like.”
“Very kind of you, Doris. Thank you for taking the trouble. Bye now.”
He put down the phone and smiled to himself. It was the second time that morning he’d been warned off. He’d barely finished breakfast when Rose McFadden, a woman whose very arteries seemed clogged with the minutiae of small-town life, had rung his doorbell.
“God, Father, I’m glad I got ye in time.”
For a moment he thought there’d been an accident and he was being called upon to administer the last rites. But no, it was far more serious than that.
“Josie at the cafe tolt me,” she’d blurted out breathlessly, “tolt me tae tell ye that there was a strange wommin in the café lookin’ at your advertmint. And she ast where the parochial house was, so she did.”
A wave of relief had swept over him at that point. A stranger wanting to work for him? How interesting! But of course she’d have to be the right type of stranger. Not too bright or intrusive. A capable sort. Yes, a capable sort who saw to her duties and left him alone. It was important that the newly formed Temperance Club not be disturbed.
“That’s good, Mrs. McFadden. If she’s suitable you won’t have to desert your good husband or your uncle or worry about me. That way, we’ll all be happy. Now I really must be going.”
Rose, however, was not about to let him away so easily.
“But, Father, that’s just it: Josie said she wouldn’t be proper for a priest’s house. That’s why I thought I’d warn you. She just didn’t look right.”
“Oh. What do you mean exactly?”
“Well, now, Josie said she didn’t look like a Cathlick.”
He really hadn’t wanted to encourage Mrs. McFadden, yet simply had to hear how Josie Mulhearn could discern someone’s religion by appearance alone. “And how did Josie conclude that, I wonder?”
Rose had moved closer to him, pleased to have the Father’s ear for another wee while.
“Well, ye know, Josie said she was cheeky to her and had what looked like a young son with her.” Mrs. McFadden’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But there was no sign of a waddin’ ring on her, as far as Josie could see. The son, Father, was drawin’ durty pitchers in Josie’s sugar, what he’d spilt on the table. And as well as that, Josie said that the mother had a miniskirt, and yella hair all puffed up like Merlin Monroe’s, and more paint on her face than would be in Dan’s Decorators, or on them type of wimmin that do be taking up with sailors and the like.”
“Well, thanks for warning me, Mrs. McFadden. But judge not, lest ye be judged, as the Good Book advises us. Now I really must be going.”
Father Cassidy checked his watch. It had just g
one eleven. The “Merlin Monroe” look-alike, which the Misses Crink, Mulhearn, and McFadden had so disapproved of, would be arriving for her interview in approximately three hours’ time. Mrs. Halstone had telephoned the previous evening, and he’d found her most polite and genial. He was looking forward to meeting her; had thought it better not to divulge his plans to the gossip-hungry parish ladies, not wishing to bring on one of his migraines. No, best to keep it quiet. They’d find out soon enough.
Besides, he was tired of having his private affairs talked about behind his back. Since learning of the vacant housekeeper post, the rambling Rose had taken to haunting him like Marley’s ghost. There was only one way to thwart her. Mrs. Halstone would, he hoped, save the day—and his sanity.
Yes, even if this “strange wommin” turned out to have webbed feet and a horn in the middle of her forehead, he felt sure he’d still be employing her.
Chapter fourteen
Bessie sat at Aunt Dora’s dressing table and reached for her smokes. Today was an important day, one that would require a generous measure of restraint. An interview with a priest wasn’t something she’d factored into her game plan. But urgent measures were called for, she reminded herself. She needed money—and fast. With last week’s family allowance almost gone, the job would plug the gap, for now.
A masquerade was called for. A pretense to respectability. Good posture, a coordinated outfit, and a posh accent could carry the day and progress things considerably. Had it not done so for the formidable Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock?
She’d learned a lot from her glamorous former employer, a woman who, according to Bessie’s dear-departed mother, hadn’t had a brass farthing until Mr. Peacock, a wealthy accountant, showed up. On their honeymoon he’d done the decent thing: lost his balance on board a Cunard cruise liner and pitched face-first into the Atlantic swell. His widow had inherited half a million. Not bad going for a slapper from the Lower Falls. Who was to say she hadn’t helped him over the side?
Father Cassidy had sounded like a real gent on the phone. Her interview was in a couple of hours’ time. The problem was, he was requesting references from both My Lovely Buns bakery and the Plaza hotel, Belfast. The bakery was straightforward enough: Mabel McClarty, her colleague and friend, had written a reference a year earlier when Bessie, in desperation following yet another beating from Packie, thought she should move to another part of Belfast.
Yet in truth she’d never actually “cooked” at the elegant, five-star Plaza. Her brief tenure there, between skivvying for Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock and courting Packie, had included the most menial of kitchen duties: chopping vegetables and peeling potatoes if a member of staff fell ill. Still, what would a bumpkin priest know about anything, stuck in a parochial house half his life with nothing but a Bible and the parish accounts to keep him occupied?
She had, however, “befriended” a guest at the Plaza: a certain Colonel Padraig Redmond Murphy, who occupied a permanent suite on the third floor. She knew he was nothing but a dirty old man, but his tips were good. Bessie, always one for thinking ahead, had asked the colonel to write her a reference on the hotel’s embossed stationery. It was her way of getting back at the German head chef, who’d rejected her pastry-cook application. Little did she know back then how serendipitous that move would prove to be.
She left the fag in the mouth of a china frog at her elbow and dipped into the bottom drawer of the bureau. Squashed on top of Aunt Dora’s ancient underwear was Bessie’s filing cabinet: a Walker’s Shortbread tin in which she kept her confidential correspondence.
She flipped through the contents of the tin, delving down through her past, a paper trail of triumphs and tribulations—the latter, she reflected ruefully, massively outweighing the former.
A black-and-white snapshot fluttered onto the bed, and in an instant a gust of memory had her falling down a hole into the past.
A miniature bride with hands joined, white rosary beads entwined in her fingers, stared back up at her. Her First Communion.
“Ma, can I put me dress on now?”
“It’s only half eight. Mass isn’t till ten. You’ll get it dirty. Eat yer porridge up.”
“Ma, pleeasse!”
“Shut up, Bessie. Give my head some peace!”
“I’ll put it on her.” Da getting up from the sofa, newspaper sliding to the floor.
“No, Da! Ma, don’t let him…please.”
“I said I’ll fuckin’ put it on ye! Get into that bedroom now or I’ll knock yer fuckin’ head in.”
Ma turning from the sink. “Leave her alone! Your hands are dirty, like yer bloody mind.”
A fist flying out. Her mother falling. Blood spotting the floor tiles like crimson rain.
“Oh, Jesus. Ma!”
Bessie blinked away the tears before they had a chance to flow. She was good at that. A carapace of basalt, brilliant and hard against men and the world, had been laid down early. Layer upon sorry layer, ossifying down the years.
She returned the snapshot to the biscuit tin. Reaching for the cigarette again, hand quivering, she took a deep drag as she read through the colonel’s reference.
When she’d first seen what Colonel Murphy—retired, confused, dementia galloping through his brain like pigweed on a dung heap—had written in his reference, she’d been a bit concerned by its lascivious connotations but was in no position to object or ask him to write it again.
To whom it may concern:
Miss Elizabeth Halstone has worked under me for the past year. She is an excellent hostess, committed to her work and very good with her hands. In fact, what has impressed me most about her is her willingness to go that extra mile just to please the customer. She is discreet, flexible, can work on her own initiative, and is able to apply herself with energy and enthusiasm to whatever is requested of her. I would highly recommend her for any future positions she may wish to apply for. All in all she is a magnificent hostess.
Yours Sincerely,
Padraig Redmond Murphy (Colonel)
P.S. Her puddings are particularly splendid.
The comment about the puddings she had asked him to add, believing, wisely, that it might be necessary to mention a bit about the cookery in order to clarify matters.
With a satisfied nod, she slipped the reference back into the envelope and put it in her handbag. She checked her watch. Herkie was away, monitoring activity at the big house, and would be up at any minute.
Time to get dressed.
She bent down to her underwear drawer and extracted a panty girdle and longline bra. She’d planned on wearing what she referred to as her tweed “interview” suit: a cast-off from Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock’s winter wardrobe, circa 1968. However, it being a petite size 10 and Bessie being a healthy size 12, she needed all the help she could muster to achieve a pleasing yet voluptuous silhouette.
After slipping into the underwear and donning the suit, she stepped back from the mirror, squinting through a fog of cigarette smoke. She adjusted the jacket and appraised her bosom. Wisely, she decided that showing several inches of cleavage to Father Cassidy might not be comme il faut—not on a first meeting, anyway. She found a scarf and tucked it into place. A final squirt of Rapture cologne down her front and up her skirt, and Mrs. Elizabeth Halstone was ready to face a rather late breakfast, the day, and whatever the good Father was likely to throw at her.
“Ma, Ma!” shouted Herkie, blundering through the door, breathless from the exertions of his reconnaissance mission. His yellow T-shirt had a big grass stain down the front and his bare knees were muddy.
His mother, smoking while stabbing at sausages in the frying pan, wetting tea, and laying the table to the yammering squawks of “I Will Survive” on the record player, was none too pleased at the interruption. Time was marching on, and she didn’t need any annoyance.
“Look at the state of you, son. What were you doin’ down there, havin’ a fight with a bloody dunkey? Away up them stairs and change! I’ve an important day ahead of me the day, wh
at with the parish priest, and I don’t want no bother from you. Ye can tell me all about it when we’re eating.”
Five minutes later they were tucking into brunch—Bessie to her fry-up and Herkie to a bowl of cornflakes with a mountain of sugar on top, a chocolate éclair to follow.
“Now, what have you got for me, son? Who did you see?”
“Mr. Grant!”
Bessie stalled her fork. “What was he doing there?”
“I saw him coming outta the house, Ma. Then making faces at himself in a windee.”
“Are ye sure it was him?”
“Aye, ’cos he had big, flappy trousers and big glasses on him, and the pig was with him.”
Bessie chewed her food thoughtfully. What was Grant up to? Why hadn’t he mentioned that he lived down the hill?
“But I saw an oul’ boy as well. He lives upstairs and wears a cap.”
“And how did ye see him?”
“’Cos he peed out the windee…down on the ducks.”
“Well, that’s not so surprisin’ with bogmen, but don’t use that durty word in front-a me, son. We have to speak proper in this place. Mind what I told you.”
“Aye, Ma…sorry—yes, Ma.”
“Anything else?”
“I saw the oul’ boy pee—I mean going till the toilet—out the windee, and then Mr. Grant came with a bucket and fed the pig and started makin’ faces at himself in another windee. After that he took a big, long fork and hit the oul’ boy’s windee with it, and the oul’ boy put his head out and Mr. Grant shouted up at him, ‘Am goin’ tae see me cock about the night,’ or something, d’ye—”
“What did I say about using durty words in front-a me?”
“What durty word, Ma?”
“Never you mind.” She studied the tablecloth, trying to figure out what Gusty Grant might have meant. Then it dawned on her. “That’ll be the Crowing Cock pub…he mentioned he did a bit of work there in the evenings. Then what happened?”
Herkie screwed up his eyes, thinking hard.
“Then the oul’ boy shouted down, ‘Get me a flake and some glassy-ear-mince’ or something like that.” He took a deep breath. “And then Mr. Grant went ‘Och, away with yeh, ye oul’ shite,’ and drived—”
The Disenchanted Widow Page 9
