Ned’s face broadened into a toothless smile when he saw his favorite niece in the doorway.
“God, Rose, is it yerself? I didn’t hear ye come in there.” The old man’s voice, normally all grinding gears and anger shifts for the nephew, was softer now, holding a cadence that only his niece and a few others could draw forth. “Ye can turn that wireless off, ’cos there’s nothin’ on it but things for nippers at this time-a day.”
“Don’t stir yourself, Uncle Ned,” Rose said, setting her tray down. “And don’t forget to put yer teeth in.”
“Begod, I thought I had them in me already.”
Ned took the dentures from a chipped mug on the locker, a mug that read TEETH, LIKE STARS, COME OUT AT NIGHT. The dentures had belonged to his dead brother, Silvester. Ned, a man who believed in letting nothing go to waste, had made sure to remove them from the still-fresh corpse—along with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles—just as St. Peter was throwing open the pearly gates and Mr. Turtle, the undertaker, was en route to dress the body.
“So, how’ve ye been since I last seen ye, Uncle Ned?” Rose asked kindly, pulling up a Chippendale chair and settling herself. “How’s that old chest?”
“Ah, now. Dr. Brewster was over yesterday and put the scope on me, and said it was nothin’ but a wee touch of indigestion. He give me a bottle for the tickle of it.”
“Well, y’know, Ned, my Paddy had that old tickle, too, and Dr. Brewster tolt him something the same. But he tolt him that it would be highly desirable if he give up the smokin’. Those were the very words he used: ‘highly desirable.’”
Ned registered Rose’s hint at his pipe smoking, but said nothing. His pipe was one of the few pleasures left to him, and he’d no intention of giving it up.
“So I got him a bottle of Mrs. Troutman’s Chesty Solutions,” continued Rose, “and d’ye know, he took a couple of sips and the cough went away. So I’ll get you a bottle of it for you, too, next time I’m comin’.”
She poured tea and proffered a plate of cake.
“Good enough,” said Ned, his hand, now resembling a redemption claw in an arcade machine, grabbing up the cake.
“But there’s something else I wanna tell ye. Something that’ll cure ye completely of that chest of yours, as well as any other pain or ache a body might be suffering, and it doesn’t involve a tablet or hospital or anything like that, ’cos it’s a miracle.”
Ned pushed himself up on the time-worn bolster, hope inflating like a birthday balloon. A miracle cure! Something that might render him virile and robust and full of pep once more. What could it be?
“Now…it concerns an Italian saint by the name of Padre Pio.”
“Aw, I see,” said Ned glumly, the balloon of hope shrinking miserably. He had little time for prayers and saints. He’d had enough of religion with his late wife, who’d been a wimple away from a convent when they met, and throughout most of their marriage had blamed him for parting her from her vocation.
“Now don’t dismiss it just yet,” said Rose. “A friend of mine, Amy Peebles, has a cousin who’s a priest with the Passionate Fathers.” (To be sure, Amy had told her it was Passionist Fathers, but Rose had a sow’s ear for enunciation at the best of times.) “And she sez that he was in Rome last week and was give a glove of Padre Pio’s, which cures the people. Amy said that, if ye like, the priest could call and give ye a rub with it. ’Cos he’s very powerful, Padre Pio. Now, some would say ye suffer more when ye ask him for things—for just like them boxes of Milk Tray choclits, ye never know what ye’re gonna get. There was a man down the country that Amy tolt me about. An Abraham Branny, suffered terrible with the palpitations. Got Ham for short. He would have been related to a…”
Ned switched off and just let Rose run on. There was no point in trying to stop her. For like most of the county councilors he heard on Good Morning Ulster, much of what she said slipped in through the ears without bothering the brain too much. So he faked attention, enjoying the sound of a woman’s voice in the big empty house, and giving the odd nod now and again to let her know he hadn’t fallen into a coma. When he checked back in, his niece was still on the subject of Padre Pio.
“…and the way I heard it, when Ham had finished up the novena to Padre Pio, on the ninth day, if he didn’t go and drop dead havin’ a sausage supper and a cuppa tea.”
“God-oh,” said Ned, not a little shocked at this unexpected outcome. “He got rid of the palpitations right enough.”
“Yes indeed, he got ridda the palpitations and the novena was answered right enough, Uncle Ned, but not in the way Ham wanted. That’s the wee risk ye run when ye ask Padre Pio for things. ’Cos maybe he thought it was better tae take Ham home tae the Lord and be done with it, than have him sufferin’ on with the palpitations and him not gettin’ no relief.”
“God, I don’t think I’d bother with that glove, Rose. I’d rather put up with the bad chest than be kerried outta here feet first.”
“Just thought I’d mention it anyway,” said Rose. “’Cos the Passionate Father doesn’t get tae visit the North very often with the glove.”
Ned sighed, not wishing to hear any more about passionate priests, or saints’ gloves, or people dying.
“Any news from the town, Rose? Sure a hear nothin’ from one end of the week tae the other, and since Gusty started doing turns for Etta Strong, he comes in here at night with drink on him…and it takes him so bloody long tae tell me things, I fall asleep afore he gets tae the end of it.”
“Well, y’know, Gusty was never much good at the conversing unless it’s about some of them odd things he doz be readin’ about, like goblins or goats or whatever. But here’s the thing, Uncle Ned: All that drinkin’s gonna stop. Etta’s son, Lorcan, is home for a while.”
“God, Gusty never tolt me that.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, Ned, would he? For Lorcan’ll put him round the corners and he’ll not be able tae drink as much when Lorcan’s about.” Rose cast a glance at the window. “Does he talk about that Mrs. Hailstone woman, does he?”
“Naw, sez only that she’s rentin’ Dora’s. That’s as far as I know. I haven’t seen her meself, but Gusty says he sees her betimes in the mornin’ out the back, smokin’ in a night frock.”
Rose was scandalized. “A night frock?”
“Aye, a short red boy he sez.”
“Well, God save us all! And how did Gusty know it was a night frock and not a dress? ’Cos I know he’d never of seen a woman in the like of one of them. But at the same time, with the clothes they’re makin’ nowadays, there’s not much of a difference between what they wear tae the bed and wear tae the shops anyway.”
“He got himself a pair a them binoc’lars last week from some magazine so he could get closer up on her.”
“What!”
“Oh, aye. A great pair-a things altogether, from what he tells me.”
Rose was appalled. Gusty looking at Mrs. Hailstone’s breasts!
“What? What great pair-a things?”
“The Vintage Towers. They’re that big, ye could see Venus through them, begod! He’ll not give them tae me…afeard of me drappin’ them with these oul’ shaky hands. But, ye know, I wouldn’t mind seein’ her close-up meself. Gusty sez she’s very well-lookin’.”
For one rare and remarkable minute, Rose was lost for words. Heavens above, who would have thought that a strange woman could arrive on the hill into old Dora’s place out of nowhere and upset Gusty and Ned’s way of going? Have them thinking about things that maybe a man shouldn’t be thinking about.
Ned was worth quite a lot of money, what with Kilfeckin Manor full of antiques and a good seventy acres of land, which would naturally pass to Gusty.
It was time for Rose to speak her mind.
“Well, ye know, I met her the other day…called round to the priest’s house tae give the Father a fruit loaf just like this one here. And if she didn’t take it from me and shut the door in me face. Wouldn’t let me in for a cuppa tea. I
should hope that Gusty isn’t getting no ideas about her.”
“Well, ye know, when he was leanin’ over tae straighten up the bed for me yesterday, I thought I got a whiff of perfume off him and—”
“See? What did I tell yeh? It’s only a—”
“But Rose, I don’t think it would be hers. Etta Strong was maybe sprayin’ some on herself and he caught a bit of it in the pub. A wommin would need-a be bloody desperate to look at the like of Gusty. And that Mrs. Hailstone’s too well-lookin’ from what I hear, tae be that desp’rate.”
“Well, that’s where I disagree with you entirely,” Rose shot back. She could have been a barrister at the bench pouncing on the perfume as that all-important “aggravating factor” to prove her case. “As you well know, a man could have a face on him like the back end of a Bilberry goat and the brains of a monkey, but if he’s got a bitta money about him and a field or two under him, there’s a type of wommin that’d still be after him. I believe they call them gold miners, and if I’m any judge, that Mrs. Hailstone’s a gold miner.”
She studied Ned’s patchwork quilt, hoping it might give her some hints on solving the problem of Mrs. Hailstone, but all she got back was a dizzy head and sore eyes.
Then another snippet to bolster her defense. “Now that I mind, there was a wommin down the country Josie tolt me about. She was that plain-lookin’ that not even the tide would take her out. But when her father died, leavin’ her a farm of land, if the men weren’t all buzzin’ round her like midges on a Mullingar heifer’s rump. So it works both ways, so it does.”
She paused.
“God, Uncle Ned, before I forget: your pension money.”
Ned trembled the teacup back unto the saucer, wondering how to phrase the next comment. “Did ye know, Rose, that last week there was a couple o’ pound of it missin’?”
“Now, that couldn’t be right.”
“Well, I don’t know. I thought maybe ye dropped it on the road somewhere. Then I thought maybe ye dropped it in the yard, but Gusty said he had a good look about and there was no sign of it. And God, now when I think of it, he sez he’s lost his wallet, too.”
“Well, that’s the queerest thing.” Rose studied Ned’s quilt once more, hoping she might find the answer in a section of four-patch block. “Not unless, Ned…not unless Doris Crink didn’t count it right. But that would be a first for Doris, ’cos she’s never done that afore.” Rose got up. “I’ll just get me bag. Hold on a wee minute.”
On her way down the stairs, Rose got a bad feeling. And it wasn’t just a hangover from the beheading of the statue, unfortunate though that incident was. At breakfast that morning, she’d knocked over the saltcellar, and she remembered now that she maybe hadn’t thrown a big enough pinch of it over her left shoulder, to dispel the bad luck that was sure to follow.
Then there was that lone magpie she’d seen on the way to Ned’s. She’d taken a hand off the handlebar to wave away the bodement, only to nearly crash the bike into Bumper Grimes’s bread van. No, something bad was in the air—and she had an idea who might be bringing it about.
Down in the kitchen she checked her bag. The pension envelope contained two fivers but the two pound coins and ten pence were missing. She emptied the contents of the handbag out onto the table. Maybe they’d slid down into the bottom of the bag with the jolting of the bike. Ned’s long lane had many a bump in it.
But no. There was no sign of the missing coins.
She hurried outside and looked about, but all was quiet. The cows were in the field and Veronica in her pen. The ducks were swimming contentedly on the little pond at the far end of the yard, unruffled.
Something caught her eye, lying by the barn door. Something red. Couldn’t be a sock, thought Rose. Gusty and Ned wear only brown or black. She bent down and picked it up.
“Oh, Jesus and his Blissed Mother!” She was holding a pair of lady’s panties.
She looked back up the hill at Rosehip Cottage. There was no doubt in her mind who owned the scandalous bit of lingerie. But how, she thought, did they get from up there to down here? They didn’t get to the barn door without a pair of hands—and she thought she could guess whom those hands belonged to. Affronted, she stuffed the offensive panties into her apron pocket and hurried back up the yard.
On the step, another surprise awaited her. She stooped and picked up the wrapper from a Milky Way bar. Neither Gusty nor Ned ate chocolate bars.
God-blissus-and-savus, what was going on? And how, oh how, was she going to tell Uncle Ned that part of his pension money—money she was in charge of—was missing for the second week in a row?
Chapter twenty-one
The stone circle was an extraordinary feature, set on a sheltered stretch of land that bordered two properties. Few people ventured there. The circle, an ancient relic from the Neolithic period, was held in superstitious awe and reverence by the locals, considered a sacred place that one disturbed at one’s peril. It was reached by a small track that connected old Ned Grant’s house with the Killoran Road.
Seated on his usual old tree stump, Lorcan inhaled deeply. On this, his second visit to the hideaway, he was savoring afresh the peace and tranquillity, marveling at the beauty shed by the trees surrounding him: a crackling rug of leaves and twiglets. This was a world away from Belfast.
He scanned the undergrowth, alive to the tonal shifts, the harmonizing hues that appeared so random to the untrained eye but which, to his artist’s eye, were the very patterns of nature.
But what, he asked himself, was this? It clearly did not belong. He bent over and speared the offending piece of litter with his umbrella point. An empty Malteser bag. How singularly improper! And it wasn’t alone. He found another pile of wrappers behind the stump, along with a spent roll of caps of the kind used in toy pistols. A trespasser was using his refuge. And from the evidence, it was an untidy young boy with a very sweet tooth.
He tut-tutted, resolving to pick up all the litter as soon as he completed his drawing.
Just then, as if prompting him to action, a thrush flitted down and settled on one of the lowest boughs of the nearest beech tree. It was a magnificent creature, all speckled brown and with eyes like tiny black pearls that seemed to miss nothing. Lorcan, with slow and easy movements, took his pencils from his breast pocket and opened the sketchbook. The thrush continued its business of preening its feathers.
Whack!
The bird flew away—and Lorcan jumped. He’d been struck in the left shoulder. It hurt.
An air gun, he thought at once. His fingers went to the place. But his jacket hadn’t been holed. He looked behind him, wincing.
A boy stood on the track leading to the Grant house. He was chubby, with blond curly hair, and attired in jeans, a grubby T-shirt, and a pair of equally grubby trainers. In his right hand he held a slingshot.
“What the devil do you think you’re playing at? You hit me with that thing!”
“Sorry, mister. I-I was tryin’ till get the bird.”
“And just why were you trying to get the bird, may I ask? What did the bird ever do to you?”
“Nothin’, mister. It’s just an oul’ bird.”
“I’ll have you know it’s a thrush, not ‘an oul’ bird,’ and there aren’t that many of them about. There’d be even fewer with lads like you, with nothing better to do than use them for target practice.”
“Aye, mister—I mean yes, mister.” Herkie stood gazing up at the odd-looking man in the funny hat. He’d never seen his like before and was intrigued. “Why are you talkin’ all posh, mister?”
“Perhaps because I am posh! Where are your parents? Do they know you’re killing off God’s creatures?”
“I’ve only me ma. Me da’s dead.”
Lorcan bit his lip. He regarded the young boy with fresh eyes. There was something about his plump little face that reminded him of himself at that age. He picked up his sketch pad and umbrella and went to him.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear about
your dad,” he said. “I suppose that explains something about your errant behavior. But it doesn’t excuse it, not for a minute. You mustn’t go round shooting at birds, you know. They’re lovely creatures. And they keep the pests down so they’re useful into the bargain. Birds probably don’t like the sight of us much, but they don’t go round attacking us, now do they?”
Herkie gazed down at the toes of his trainers, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“No, mister, but me ma doesn’t like them, neither. They keep shittin’ on the roof of the car. And one day they shit on her head and she was ragin’, so she was.”
Lorcan flinched at the boy’s cavalier use of foul language.
“Well, they don’t do that on purpose. Where do you live?”
“Up there.”
“You’re a Grant?”
“Nah. We live in an oul’ doll’s house up the hill. We’re on haul’days, so we are.”
“What, old Dora’s place?”
“Aye—I mean yes.”
He suddenly recalled Gusty’s conversation with Socrates in the bar. So this must be the son of the “film star.”
“I see,” he said. “I’m Lorcan, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Herkie.”
“Well, pleased to meet you, Herkie. That’s an unusual name. What’s that the short for?”
“Herc’lees.”
“Hmm. Hercules—the Greek strongman. Was that your father’s name?”
“Nah—no, he was called Packie, but he’d a tattoo of Herc’lees on his belly.”
“How very interesting.” Lorcan thought of the body art of skinheads and sailors. He realized he was making a value judgment. Yet the belly was nonetheless a strange part of the anatomy to have decorated. Tattoos were usually displayed proudly on those areas more readily seen. Not unless this Packie person didn’t believe in wearing a shirt. “D’you miss him?”
“Nah. He was always hittin’ me…and me ma doesn’t miss him either ’cos he was always hittin’ her, too. She says he had no head on him anyway.”
Lorcan had to smile at that, yet couldn’t but agree with the ma’s analysis. “That’s a Belfast accent, isn’t it?”
The Disenchanted Widow Page 14
