The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  Whack! Bessie’s hand smote the table. “If you come out with any more of that filth, son, I’ll be taking off them shorts and beating yer bum so hard you’ll not be sitting down for a week! D’ye hear me?”

  Herkie lifted his glass of milk in both hands and took a long draft. He eyed his ma over the rim of the glass. Her next question would be whether he’d gone inside the house, and he was trying to predict how mad she’d be if he told her he had not. He decided to stall her by keeping outside in the yard of the big house and hoped she’d forget to ask.

  “Did ye—”

  “Oh, and outside there were some oul’ stupid cows in a field and four ducks covered in pee because the oul’ boy had peed—went tae the toilet on them—and—”

  “Now, that’s enough! I warned ye about that language. And a lotta good any of it is to me, son.” Bessie was becoming irritated. A piece of bacon had dropped into her cleavage, and she was checking for a stain on her good silk scarf.

  “So, ye went inside the house when Grant left. I hope ye did, son, for ye’ll get the back a me hand if ye wasted time down there, lyin’ in a field watchin’ pigs and cows and some oul’ boy peein’ on ducks.”

  “I did go in the house, Ma.” Herkie began mushing up his cornflakes with the back of his spoon, unable to meet his mother’s eye. “It had big stairs goin’ up, and a big lamp with four arms up in the roof.”

  “Aye, a likely story, son. I could-a told ye that meself, and I haven’t put me toe near the place. Ye didn’t go in the house, so don’t lie timme, son. Ye can lie to strangers but not yer ma.”

  Herkie gazed into his cereal bowl, cheeks suffused with shame.

  “Right, son, you’re going down there again the morra when he goes to the pub, and you’re gonna pay a visit tae that oul’ boy. You’re gonna knock the door first—to be mannerly—poke your head in and shout up ‘Hello’ when you’re goin’ up the stairs. That way, he’ll know you’re not a burglar. He’s maybe in bed and can’t get about, and that’s good. For ye can be his friend and help him out. He’ll slip ye a bob or two ’cos he’ll be grateful for the company. And that’s good for him, and you and me, too.”

  Herkie signaled his frustration with his usual kicking of the table leg.

  “Cut that out, son. Now, if ye come back to me the morra with them pockets empty, I’ll be lockin’ that cupboard and ye’ll get no sweets for a fortnight. D’ye hear me?” Bessie stood up and drained the last of her tea.

  “Och, Ma!” Nothing dismayed Herkie more than the thought of going without his sweet treats.

  “Right, I’m away now.” She went to a mirror above the mantelshelf, unsheathed a lipstick tube, and reapplied a generous slash of Outrageous Red.

  “Now, lock that door behind me and don’t let nobody in, unless it’s Mr. Grant. He said something about doing the garden. We have to keep on the right side of him until we get on our feet. So, if he comes, make him a drop of tea if he asks for it.”

  “Aye—yes, Ma.”

  “And another thing, son. Put out that washing on the back hedge for me.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  She stood back from the mirror to admire herself, went to it again, teased at her hair, patted her lapels, then bent to the armchair for her handbag.

  In the meantime, Herkie had picked up one of Dora’s many ornaments crowding the windowsill—a leprechaun playing an accordion—and was figuring out how he might remove its head when his ma was out of the way.

  “Now look, son!” She took hold of his wrist and gave his hand a sharp slap. “What did I tell ye about touchin’ Dora Grant’s things?”

  Herkie sheepishly replaced the leprechaun. “Sorry, Ma.”

  “Now, mind to be polite to Mr. Grant if he calls, and remember what I said about being posh and speaking proper like Mrs. Peacock.”

  “Aye, Ma. I mean yes, Ma.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Herkie.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Herkie what?”

  “Herkie Law—”

  “Ah!”

  “Herkie Halson.”

  “Now, Herkie, don’t try my patience or I’ll—”

  “Sorry, Ma. Herkie Halstone.”

  “That’s more like it. Where do we come from?”

  “Belfast.”

  “Where in Belfast?”

  “Mahone Road.”

  “Malone Road, son.”

  “Malone Road.”

  “What are we doin’ here?”

  “We’re on haul’days.”

  “Good. I’m away now. Just remember, son, you and me’s in this together. We’re a team.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Now, how do I look?”

  “You look nice, Ma. Canna have another Curly Wurly, Ma, please?”

  “You’re just like your father.” She playfully pinched his cheek and kissed the top of his head. “Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck, Ma.”

  “Just the one Curly Wurly then. I’ve everything in that tin counted. So no cheating. And another thing: Don’t go near that well.”

  “Naw, Ma—I mean no, Ma.”

  On hearing her car move off, Herkie, Curly Wurly in hand, excitement frothing in him like shaken pop, made for the back door. He was intent on continuing his covert activity of shifting the big stone, bit by bit, off the well cover. China was nearly in sight: just a few more nudges to go.

  Chapter fifteen

  Half an hour later, the recently widowed Mrs. Halstone found herself sitting in an armchair, swinging an impatient foot, and staring up at a chandelier in the high-ceilinged parlor of the parochial house. She’d been there a good twenty minutes and wished the priest would get a bloody move on. It was stifling in the musty room, and her control briefs and long-line brassiere were causing her no end of discomfort. She wanted desperately to unbutton her jacket, throw her legs up on the coffee table, and have a smoke, but she knew that the move would be indecorous. After all, she’d put quite a bit of energy into this venture already and was determined to make a go of it.

  She gazed about the room, trying to distract herself, but alas, there was nothing of much interest. The furniture was heavy and dark, the carpet sun-bleached and ancient, and taking up an entire wall was a series of glass-fronted cases full of useless old books.

  A large, gilt-framed portrait of a jowly, bewigged individual in dark robes was obscuring most of the chimneypiece. She got up to read the brass nameplate: Judge Cosgrove Carson. Bet he put many the like of Packie behind bars in his time, she reflected.

  Returning to the chair, she sighed, crossed her legs, wiggled a toe, examined her crimson nails, and checked her watch again. She was about to open her handbag and reapply her lipstick when she heard heavy footfalls in the corridor.

  Presently the door creaked open and the housekeeper, a gray pillar wearing a scowl and elastic hose, waded into the room. Bessie knew she was face-to-face with the formidable Miss Beard.

  “Father Cassidy will see ye now, Mrs. Hailstone,” she announced grandly, casting a disapproving eye over Bessie’s tight skirt, which had ridden up over her knees to expose a lacy frill of flesh-colored slip.

  Bessie smiled demurely and rose. She followed the housekeeper as she galumphed out of the room and down a wide corridor.

  Father Cassidy was seated behind a stout desk in what appeared to be his study.

  “Mrs. Halstone, thank you for coming,” he said, getting up and extending a pale, slender hand. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Father,” Bessie said, positioning herself in a bentwood chair. Then, realizing that the priest had a full view of her legs, she crossed them carefully at the ankle, in the manner of the matronly bench polishers he was no doubt used to seeing. Such decorum, she felt, would improve her chances.

  Father Cassidy busied himself with the papers on his desk as Bessie looked on. Handsome, she thought: like Gregory Peck from the eyebrows up. She’d been besotted with Gregory from the age of ten and t
ended to see bits of him in all those men who were generally out of her league.

  “I was very impressed with your credentials, Mrs. Halstone,” the priest said, addressing her bosom for a fleeting instant before putting on his spectacles and glancing down at her letter. (Down in Hades, the Devil pushed his biggest pot onto a volcanic flame and began to sweat the ingredients for Priestly Lust over the intense heat.)

  “Yes, you have considerable experience in the catering trade, I—” Abruptly, the priest was seized by a coughing fit. A sixty-a-day cough, she reckoned, noting the two packs of Rothmans King Size on his desk. “Oh, I do beg your pardon!”

  “That’s all right, Father…yes, cooking is my work as well as a hobby.” She leaned forward in the chair and put a hand on her bosom. “My dear, late husband always used to say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” (More like through his breast pocket with a sharp kitchen knife, she thought—but Father Cassidy did not need to know her personal views.) The priest gave her an odd look, and Bessie quickly added a forlorn “God rest him!” just in case she’d given the wrong impression.

  “Dear me. I am sorry, Mrs. Halstone. Taken suddenly, was he?”

  “A road accident, Father.” She gazed dolefully at the flickering red globe of a Sacred Heart picture above Father Cassidy’s head. “Cut down in his prime.” She crossed herself. “He was such a good man. But the Lord’s ways are not our ways.”

  “No, indeed. I take it you are…hmm—”

  “Catholic? Yes, of course, Father.”

  “It’s just that I didn’t see you at…erm…” Father Cassidy hesitated, trying to form the awkward inference as delicately as possible.

  “Mass?” Bessie said helpfully, raising her Zsa Zsa eyebrows.

  “Indeed. Mass.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, but we—that is, me and my young son—we’ve only just arrived in these parts…Just settling in, you understand. You’ll be seeing us at Mass without a doubt this Sunday, Father.”

  Bessie’s visits to churches were as rare as a nun’s to a strip joint, but Father Cassidy need not know that, either.

  “Splendid! Now…” He glanced down at her letter again. “The Plaza hotel; very impressive—”

  “Oh, just when you mention it, Father.” She fished in her handbag for the colonel’s letter, then stood. She was conscious of Father Cassidy’s appraising eye as she leaned over the desk, just a whisper of cleavage on show beneath the scarf. “My reference from the Plaza.”

  (The Devil flicked his tail and did a little jig as the contents of his cauldron began bubbling and spitting, giving off an acrid smoke.)

  Father Cassidy’s hands trembled slightly as he studied the reference. He nodded and murmured his approval.

  “Excellent. You are very experienced indeed, Mrs. Halstone.” He glanced up from the page. “And Colonel Murphy’s position?”

  The missionary position if he’d ever got the chance. Filthy oul’ goat. “Oh, he was a top man, Father! Terribly professional. I learned a great deal about the hospitality trade when I worked for him. Often, after a busy day, I would relieve him in the evenings. He trusted me completely, you see.”

  “Quite so. He must have thought a great deal of your puddings to have given them a special mention.”

  “Puddings are a specialty of mine.” Bessie’s confidence was growing. Who knew, if she played her cards right maybe she could earn enough dosh to take herself and Herkie all the way to her dream destination of Amerikay. Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock had done it on her wits. Why couldn’t she? Sod Hackney and Uncle Bert. This country priest would be a pushover for a girl of her talents and resourcefulness. “My puddings? I’ve won prizes for them, Father.”

  “Really! D’you know, Mrs. Halstone”—the priest canted forward, threw a glance at the closed door, and lowered his voice—“I’m especially fond of puddings myself, but Miss Beard—that’s my present housekeeper—tends to stick to the old jellies and tarts, I’m afraid, which can get rather tedious.”

  “Oh, jellies and tarts are terribly boring, I agree.” She thought of Miss Beard and was not surprised by her limited scope. The woman had clearly never been “out.” “I believe in experimenting, as opposed to the tried and trusted. One learns very little if one always plays safe. Nothing ventured nothing gained, I say.”

  Bessie was echoing the mantra of Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock. She could see that Father Cassidy was impressed.

  She was beginning to warm to this personable priest and decided to cross her legs after all. “I would suggest something more adventurous. Pavlova, Baked Alaska, or syllabub perhaps. One needs to be daring in the kitchen, I believe.”

  “How extraordinary!” the priest said, gazing at Bessie’s crossed legs. She was aware that a smidgen of thigh was on show, and most likely her slip, too. “Yes, splendid! Well, I can see, Mrs. Halstone, that you know the wood from the trees, so to speak.”

  “I’ve worked in the trade all my life, Father, and even though I say so myself, I’ve learned a great deal about the business over the years. Such knowledge is never wasted.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more.” The priest touched his Roman collar as if checking to see if it was still in place. Bessie noted that his ears had turned a pleasing shade of cherry-blossom pink. He sat back in the chair again and removed his glasses.

  “You know, the bishop calls once a month for an update, and we like to discuss things over a good lunch. He and I are alike in many ways. We appreciate an imaginative table. He has a rather delicate constitution, however, I’m afraid, and is very hard to please. Would you have any suggestions, I wonder?”

  Bessie was caught off guard, but ever the trouper, she rose to the occasion.

  “Olive oil is excellent for the digestion, Father,” she said, smiling. “Pasta, perhaps tossed in a good virgin variety, and I would always serve it with a glass of full-bodied—”

  “My goodness, you are very well informed.” Bessie noted a mist of sweat breaking out on Father Cassidy’s forehead. He took up the colonel’s reference and began fanning himself. “But I was going to say that while the bishop and I might be epicures, we diverge somewhat when it comes to alcohol.” Epi-what? What the blazes is he saying? “He likes a good cognac and a good cellar; I abstain completely. In fact, one of my new initiatives is the Temperance Club. A few of the young men from the village gather in my quarters every Thursday to discuss the virtues of abstinence. It’s something I’m rather proud of, I have to say. It isn’t referred to as the demon drink for nothing, you know. Would you partake—”

  “Never touch a drop, Father,” Bessie said immediately, aware that she was in dire need of another half bottle of Tullamore Dew, if the pennies would stretch.

  “Excellent! ‘Meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.’”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Galatians. Verse five, chapter twenty-three. Miss Beard and I wear the pioneer pin, as you—”

  “I see you’re a man of very refined tastes, Father.”

  “Oh, it’s very gracious of you to say so, Mrs. Halstone.” Father Cassidy, not being used to such forthrightness in a woman, tried to distract himself by faking interest in the papers on his desk. “Quite so! Well, I’d be…I’d be more than happy…er…Mrs. Halstone, if you filled the position.”

  “It would be a pleasure, Father.”

  “Excellent! Now, since you have a young son and have a duty of care as a mother, I would not expect you to be here all the time…just mornings and afternoons…six hours in total each day, for which you’ll be paid thirty pounds a week. How does that sound?”

  “Very good, Father,” said Bessie, thinking, Well, it isn’t, really, but there’ll be other little perks to the job. Other little ways to supplement that income.

  “Splendid. So, if I may, I’ll just quickly run over your rota. I don’t bother with breakfast—just lunch and supper really—so if you could come at, say, eleven, to prepare lunch. I eat at one o’clock. Feel free to go home in the
afternoon if you wish. I eat supper at six o’clock and that’s the height of your cooking duties. As for cleaning, I’ll leave that up to you. Miss Beard cleans the whole house once a week, which I think is sufficient. I would of course prefer you to do the cleaning while I’m not around. I find the noise of a vacuum cleaner intolerable, I’m afraid. I keep the door to my bedroom locked at all times, simply because the safe is in there. It used to be downstairs in my study but not so long ago there was a break-in, so one can’t risk it, you see. I will let you clean my quarters whenever it’s necessary. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mrs. Halstone; Miss Beard and I came to a similar arrangement. You do understand?”

  “Absolutely, Father. One can’t be too careful, I agree.”

  Presently Father Cassidy lifted a little bell on his desk and tinkled it a couple of times.

  At the summons, the doorknob turned almost immediately and Miss Beard entered. So she’s either been listening outside the door all along, thought Bessie, or she has a pair of bat’s ears on her.

  The housekeeper made her way ponderously to the priest’s desk, the floorboards protesting with her every step.

  “You’ll be wantin’ your tea now, Father,” she announced, ignoring Bessie completely.

  “Yes indeed, Miss Beard.” Father Cassidy stood up. “But before that, I wonder would you be kind enough to show Mrs. Halstone here the ropes. She’ll be filling in for you as from tomorrow.”

  At this news, Miss Beard turned her bullfrog eyes on Bessie. “If you say so, Father.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Bessie, getting up to proffer Father Cassidy her hand. “I’m sure you’ll not be disappointed.”

  “I’m sure I won’t, Mrs. Halstone,” he agreed.

  Bessie noted that his hand, which she held a beat longer than was necessary, had gone quite clammy. She smiled demurely and followed Miss Beard out of the office, aware that her departure was being observed with an intense degree of interest.