The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  The thought struck her most forcibly as she stood, duster in hand, in the front living room, which never seemed to be in use. Her mother-in-law—a harridan who’d taken an instant dislike to her—used to have a room just like it, also rarely used. Well, not as grand, but grand in Packie’s mother’s book. The “pawloor” she called it, and reserved it only for visitors and Christmas gatherings. When Bessie started dating Packie, she was allowed into the pawloor. That was, of course, before Molly Lawless decided she was “a bad influence” on her son.

  But that was the past, the done and dusted past. Bessie shelved the thought, shut a door on the memory, flopped down on a velour sofa, kicked off her shoes, and threw her legs up on the armrest, just for the hell of it. She could not imagine her predecessor, old Miss Beard, disporting herself thus. There and then she decided that this room would be hers to relax in. Father Cassidy would hardly notice. He seemed permanently distracted by “affairs of the parish,” whatever they were.

  She wondered idly now what activities he engaged in, outside of the rectory. “Please don’t wait around for me, Mrs. Halstone,” he’d said the previous day. “I keep very irregular hours. It’s the fate of all us parish priests, I fear.” There was also the Temperance Club. Thursday afternoons and evenings were off-limits. The priest had made it clear that on Thursdays her services were required only in the morning.

  She began to idly sketch circles with her toe on the rich velour fabric. Perhaps he’s got a secret woman somewhere. I wonder: Would he ever leave the priesthood for a woman? She posed the question to her circling toe. He was too handsome to have a vocation. Yes, that was it. Men like him didn’t join the priesthood out of choice. Maybe he was let down by a woman and was taking shelter from the lot of them under the cloth. Or—the more likely scenario—he was pushed into it by a domineering mother. Whatever the circumstances, she was determined to find out more about the mysterious Father.

  Thud!

  Her toe froze on the fabric.

  She looked up. The noise had come from overhead. But she was alone in the house. Had Cassidy returned without her noticing?

  She got up and tiptoed to the window. No sign of his car.

  Thud…Scrape…Thud. Jesus, she thought, who is that? She slipped her shoes back on, edgy now.

  Should she investigate?

  She braved it into the hallway. “Hello. Anybody up there?”

  Ding-dong-ding-dong!

  The doorbell.

  Bessie didn’t hesitate but went at once and opened the door. A plump woman stood on the doorstep.

  “Hello. Rose McFadden’s me name,” the woman said, proffering a hand. “And you must be the new housekeeper.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Halstone.” Bessie shook her hand. “I’m afraid Father Cassidy isn’t—”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Hailstone. I just brought him along one of me wee fruit loaves, for I know he likes a bitta cake now and again.” She dived into a shopping bag and presented the loaf, gift-wrapped in a tea towel.

  Bessie accepted it with a grudging smile. How insulting! This one thinks I can’t bake. The cheek! She cast an imperious eye over Mrs. McFadden’s bloom-print frock with its crooked hem, her tree-stump legs stuck in a pair of brass-buckled flats, and said, “Thank you. I’ll see that he gets it.” Each word chipped from a glacier with an ice pick.

  “How are ye likin’ it round here, Mrs. Hailstone?” Rose asked. “Must be strange for ye, ’cos I heard ye were from the city.”

  Her eyes were roving over Bessie like a mop over a dirty floor.

  “It’s Halstone, by the way. I’m liking it very well. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Well, ye know, I’m a good friend of Betty Beard’s, and she worries about the Father, she does. She’s too far away tae see if things is all right, so I tolt her I’d look in on him now and again, so tae keep her mind rested, if ye unnerstand me, Mrs. Hailstone. God, it’s terrible hot.” Rose looked up at the sky.

  Angling for a cup of tea? Given her immediate circumstances—what with those mysterious and unsettling noises—Bessie could have used the company, but the cake was an insult too far.

  “I’d love to offer you a cup of tea,” she said, “but my shift is over now and I have to get on. I’ll make sure Father Cassidy gets your loaf, Mrs. McFadden. Bye now.” And with that she shut the door on Rose.

  She stood in the hallway, clutching the loaf to her chest, gaping up the stairs. Should she go up there?

  Through the glass door-panel she was aware of her affronted visitor hoisting herself onto the saddle of her bicycle and creaking off.

  No, she wouldn’t risk it.

  She dashed down to the kitchen, stowed the fruit loaf in her bag—she and Herkie were more in need of it than the overly pampered Father—and left the house.

  Down at Kilfeckin Manor, Herkie lay on his belly in the field, awaiting his chance. A whole week had gone by and he still hadn’t made it past the back door. His ma was getting impatient and had warned that if he didn’t return that evening with the spoils from an errand or two, she’d be locking away not only his sweet ration but his Cheeky Weeklys, too.

  He’d brought along his coloring book and was busily giving the Loch Ness monster an extra set of fiery red eyes when he heard the back door opening. Through the hedge he observed Gusty Grant emerge, sucking on the last of a cigarette, his big glasses glinting in the sunlight. There was no sign of the pig.

  True to form, Gusty stood for a while gazing up at Rosehip Cottage. Herkie hoped he wouldn’t sit down and start playing with his face in the window again; he was hot and tired and simply wanted to get on with his mission. The sooner Gusty Grant made himself scarce, the better.

  Just then the upstairs window was thrust open and the oul’ boy stuck his head out.

  “Hi! Are ye not away yet?”

  “Nah, I’m still here.”

  “Stap lookin’ up at that wommin. She’s not lookin’ at you. She’d be hard-up lookin’ at a boy like you.”

  “Aye, you’d know, wouldn’t ye…lyin’ on yer arse all day, doin’ bugger all.”

  “What’s that yer sayin’?”

  “Nuthin’!”

  “Get me a bottle-a that Buckfast wine in the Cock…and a beg-a-them Epsom salts for me bowels.”

  With that, the window was banged shut. Herkie heard his landlord muttering, “Aye, ye oul’ shite!”—or words to that effect. He then crossed to his truck and in seconds was gone.

  The coast was finally clear.

  Herkie made a beeline for the back door, quietly pushed it open, and tiptoed inside.

  He immediately found himself in a large, untidy kitchen. There was a hearth fire burning; opposite it, an open archway led down a wide, flagged hallway to the front door.

  He crept down the hallway and listened at the foot of the stairs. He needed to make sure that the oul’ boy was still up there. He heard what sounded like a radio burbling overhead and reckoned the oul’ boy was listening to the news—because that was what oul’ boys usually did. There was no way he was going to go up there and introduce himself as his ma had instructed. He’d concoct some other story for her.

  The sound of the radio was a bonus: even if Herkie did make some noise, he would not be heard.

  There were three doors leading off the hallway, but he decided to return to the kitchen and reserve them for later. Kitchens were more interesting anyway: they meant food. And food in Herkie’s world meant cake and sweets.

  The fare laid out on the kitchen table, however—a half-eaten loaf, a pound of butter still in its wrapper, a bottle of milk, and the congealed remains of a fry—had him turning up his nose in dismay. He looked nervously at the big knife on the breadboard and wondered if it was the one Mr. Grant had used to carve up his aunt.

  He was about to pull out one of the drawers in the dresser when the unthinkable happened. The front door opened and he heard a woman’s voice.

  “Cooeee, Uncle Ned! It’s only me.”

  W
here to run to? He couldn’t make a dash for the back door, for the woman would have a clear view of him through the open archway. He cast about frantically for a place to hide. The cupboards and the dresser were too small.

  “I’ll just get us a wee drop o’ tea!” he heard the woman call out. Her footsteps were getting closer.

  He dived under the table.

  From the concealment of the gingham tablecloth, his heart pounding, Herkie watched as a pair of stout legs wearing white slip-on shoes with big brass buckles clumped into the kitchen.

  “Dearie, dearie me!” the woman sighed.

  Her feet moved to the stove. He heard her strike a match, put the kettle on, turn, and approach the table. She started clearing away the breakfast things and piling dishes in the sink. The sound of a tap being turned on meant she was going to do the washing up. Herkie began to panic. What if she began sweeping the floor? She’d find him, and how would he explain himself?

  He was trying to think up an excuse when a strange thumping sound came from overhead.

  The woman stopped what she was doing, and Herkie saw water drip onto the floor.

  “Yes, I’m comin’ now, Uncle Ned!” she shouted. In a lower voice: “God, I better go up and see him, for he maybe thinks I’m a burglar.”

  To Herkie’s relief, he heard the woman dry her hands and saw the white shoes clump out of the kitchen and echo back down the hallway.

  He waited until she’d climbed the stairs before crawling out.

  Feeling slightly braver now, he glanced about him.

  Herkie was something of an expert at “spot the difference” puzzles. There was always one at the back of the Dandy, and they were his favorite game. Now, as he surveyed the kitchen, his little eyes locked on something that hadn’t been there before.

  A handbag.

  A white handbag, sitting in an armchair. It must belong to the woman with the white shoes.

  Handbags were good news because handbags usually had purses in them, and purses usually contained money. Although in his ma’s case there sometimes wasn’t even enough to buy himself a packet of Love Hearts.

  He thought of his ma now, and her threat of no comics or sweets for a week if he returned empty-handed. No way could he risk that. He opened the bag and found a green purse. Inside was some loose change: a few coppers, ten-pence pieces, and a fifty-pence piece. He took the fifty pence.

  But there was more. While putting the purse back carefully, he spotted a brown envelope. On the envelope was scrawled Ned’s Pension. Herkie knew that the word pension meant money, because his grandma used to give him ten pence every Monday from her pension money.

  He opened the envelope and found two ten-pound notes, one fiver, two pound coins, and ten pence. He pocketed the coins.

  A squeaking sound above could only mean one thing: The woman with the white shoes was coming down again. Quickly he stuffed the envelope back in the bag, snapped it shut, and slipped out the back door.

  The ducks set up a quacking at the sight of him, but in seconds Herkie was over the gate and up the field, richer by £2.60, with his sweet ration and comics assured for another week.

  His ma would be pleased.

  Chapter eighteen

  Where were ye goin’ when I saw ye comin’ back yesterday?” asked Socrates O’Sullivan, shiftless loudmouth and regular patron of the Crowing Cock. “I shouted after ye but ye didn’t turn round. I thought maybe ye didn’t hear me and that’s why ye went on…Jezsis, now that I come tae think about it, maybe ye thought I was shoutin’ at somebody else, ’cos I shouted brave and loud…aye, I shouted brave and loud. Loud enough, begod, that a body could-a heard me in fuckin’ Cork…so how come you couldn’t hear me?”

  Socrates had been sitting in the bar for well over an hour, bum cheek going numb on the vinyl stool; one foot asleep, the other on its way. On his fourth beer, his logic and capacity for rational discourse, never great at the best of times, were steadily diminishing.

  “What time would that-a been?” Gusty Grant asked idly, well used to O’Sullivan’s oath-laden rants and not in the least offended. Fulfilling his role as substitute bartender for Etta Strong, he was perched behind the counter, breaking the afternoon with a filched Guinness and a Woodbine cigarette. Above his head a TV set was tuned to horse racing at Down Royal.

  “Wait tae we see now. I was only after me tea, so it must-a been around half five.”

  “Can’t mind,” Gusty said. “Whaddya wanna know where I was goin’ for, anyway?”

  “Don’t know…just wundered.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Yes!…Arrgh!” The shouts from the back room came from youthful layabouts, Chuck Sproule and Kevin Flood, playing darts.

  “D’ye know how long it takes the average man tae take an egg outta the fridge?” Gusty asked suddenly, recalling the interesting factoid from his latest reading, a 250-page compendium with the title A Thousand Useless Things You Never Needed to Know.

  “Nah…how the fuck would-a know the like o’ that?”

  “Nought point seven nine two seconds—that’s how long.”

  “Right.” Socrates swigged from the pint and sucked on the last of his smoke.

  “And d’ye know how many eggs the average man ates in a year?”

  “Nah, but you’re gonna tell me.”

  “Two hundred and eighty-six. That means he’ll spend three minutes and forty-six point five seconds a year takin’ eggs outta the fridge.”

  “I don’t have a fridge, so I don’t give a fuck,” said Socrates, restless now.

  “Aye, but if ye had a fridge, that’s how long it would take ye, ’cos—”

  At that point, much to Socrates’s relief, the door opened and in stepped Lorcan Strong.

  “All right, Lorcan?” Gusty said in greeting, getting up and trying to conceal his illicit half pint under the counter. “Yer mammy said ye’d be home.”

  “Yes indeed, Gusty.” Lorcan’s keen eyes scanned the place. They registered a fine powdering of dust on several liqueur bottles, a cloudy mirror that had rarely seen a cloth, and, on a shelf above it, two spiders busily weaving webs within the handles of his father’s silver golf trophy. “Just arrived yesterday.” He nodded at Socrates.

  “How do, Lorcan? Keepin’ all right?”

  “The best, Socrates. Can’t complain. Just thought I’d drop in to see how things are goin’.” He might have grown up and gone away, but a few days back home and he was already cutting his language to suit the terrain, recasting himself as a publican’s son. “Everything all right, is it?”

  “Oh, grand, Lorcan, grand. Don’t ye worry yerself too much about this place. You look after yer mammy. I’ll take care of everything here, so I will.”

  “Thanks. That’s good to hear.”

  At that moment the dart throwers emerged, bleary-eyed, from the back room. Kevin Flood: nineteen, tall and gangly, with acne-raked cheeks. Chuck Sproule: a reedy twenty-eight with the bravado and swagger of the ill-disposed and cocky.

  “Be seein’ ye, Gusty,” said Kevin, rubbing his nose and leaving his empty glass on the counter.

  “Hiya, Lorcan,” said Chuck. “How’s she cuttin’?” He banged his glass down in front of Socrates and elbowed him in the back. “Sock it to me, Socco. You still fuckin’ here?”

  “What’s it tae you?” said Socrates. “Stay here as-long-as-a-want. If ye don’t watch, I’ll knock yer—”

  “That’s enough, lads,” Lorcan told them. “Now, off you go, you two.” He pulled the door open demonstratively.

  Sproule straightened up and glared at Lorcan. “Keep yer arty-farty hair on. We were goin’ anyway.”

  Lorcan shut the door on the pair, hoping it would be the last he’d see of the bold Chuck. The hoodlum had recently been released from Maghaberry Prison. The crime on this occasion: stealing a liter of white spirit and ten packets of Hot Rod condoms from a Protestant pharmacy in Killoran. He knew precisely what Sproule had stolen because Etta, unfortunatel
y, had kept the newspaper cutting for his delectation.

  “Aye, that’s the thing,” said Gusty. “Seen a big change in them since they joined the Temp’ance Club.”

  “The what?”

  “Aye, it’s not great news for you or your mammy, Lorcan,” Socrates put in. “That Father Cassidy’s vast against the drink, ye know.”

  “Sorry, am I missing something? If they’re in a Temperance Club, what are they doing in a bar?”

  “Oh, they come in for the darts,” said Gusty. “That was lemonade and lime they were drinkin’. Aye, the darts and…”

  There was an awkward pause, which Socrates felt moved to fill. “Isn’t that the way of it, Lorcan? Give me another wee one there, Gusty.”

  “Well, I’ll just check out the back. Don’t mind me,” Lorcan said, heading for the adjoining lounge.

  He noted that the gloomy room was in need of a good scrubbing. Obviously Gusty’s promise to “take care of everything here” didn’t stretch to cleaning the place. No surprises there. The tables had not been cleared from the previous night, and the place smelled musty. He crossed to the windows to let in the light and some much-needed fresh air, then proceeded to empty ashtrays and collect glasses.

  In the background he could hear Gusty doing what he was best at: sharing his seemingly endless store of useless and irrelevant knowledge.

  “Then there’s what’s called the African Clawed and the African Dwarf…”

  “Aye, so.”

  “Y’know the word that’s used for that thing frogs do when they’re matin’ with themselves?”

  “Nah, what’s that?”

  “Amplexin’, that’s what it’s called. They usually do it in the watter, but the bufo frog, now, he would do it anywhere…in the watter, on the ground, even up trees, begod.”

  “Sounds like your oul’ boy.”

  Gusty ignored the insult and took another swig of Guinness.

  “What about this new wommin from Belfast that’s in your aunt’s house anyway? Are ye not lookin’ tae do a bitta amplexin’ with her? I hear she looks like a film star.” Socrates’s attitude to women was still in the larval stage.