The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  “If you say so, Mr. Strong,” she said, faking a smile. Being a mother, albeit a flawed one, she was wary of strangers—and especially those who took an interest in children. “Bye now.”

  She took Herkie firmly by the hand and walked away.

  Lorcan stood and watched their old car disappear through the gates. At close quarters he’d observed beauty on the wane: the dyed hair and dulled complexion. Read penury in the worn fabric of the scarlet dress, the dusty rose in her hair, the scuffed toes of the high-heeled shoes.

  He sensed a life of desperation beneath the pretense and felt compassion for her—but in particular for the little boy unwittingly caught up in it all.

  He found himself pondering the pair as he got back into his own car.

  “I thought you’d forgotten all about me,” Etta Strong said from the backseat, fingering her matinee pearls and peering at him through the spotted netting of a complicated hat. She preferred to sit in the rear, in case their neighbor, old Mr. Bagley, needed a lift. “I could see you were very taken with that Mrs. Halstone. And I have to warn you, Lorcan: she wouldn’t be suitable, having a son and a past, and perhaps a reputation. Rose filled me in.”

  “We mustn’t listen to gossip, Mother,” he said, putting the car into reverse. “I wasn’t ‘very taken’ with her, as you say. The boy, Herkie, is sweet. A bit lost, which isn’t so surprising…I’d like to keep an eye on him. That’s all.”

  “Yes, well, but what is she like?”

  “Polite…enough.” Lorcan guided the car out through the gates and onto the main road.

  “I wonder why she’s come to Tailorstown.”

  “Yes, you may well wonder.”

  Farther along, they caught sight of Mr. Bagley, laboring valiantly on his bad leg.

  “Oh, sound the horn, will you, dear? I know he turns off his hearing aid during Mass.”

  “Well, who could blame him? That new priest of yours had me bored senseless.”

  Etta tut-tutted as Lorcan pulled up alongside the old man. He sounded the horn, but Mr. Bagley simply carried on heroically, oblivious to the car and the world around him.

  The dutiful son got out and helped the enfeebled gentleman aboard. Why the poor fellow didn’t just stay in bed of a Sunday morning was a mystery to him. But Lorcan had been away too long. Like a stage actor who’d left the set to stretch himself, there was no longer a part for him to play. By rights he should have been in a cameo role, but increasingly, with each return visit to Tailorstown, he felt relegated to the workaday duties of a stagehand.

  Chapter twenty-three

  Father Cassidy sighed with an air of splendid satisfaction and sat down in his armchair. He’d just finished another excellent lunch and was looking forward to a cigarette while he perused the newspapers.

  Two o’clock on the Lord’s Day, it being the busiest morning of the week—two Masses, two homilies, the ever-present possibility of a baptism—always brought with it a great sense of relief. Today, fortunately, there was no fresh addition to the flock and hence no claimant on his precious time. The day was his until devotions at six.

  He lit a cigarette as his thoughts meandered back over his morning’s work. The sermon had gone well, and it gave him great satisfaction that his new bingo plans had met such approbation. He congratulated himself again on having hit on such an excellent idea, the perfect way to bolster parish funds and take care of his private affairs without attracting unwelcome attention. He was also heartened to see Mrs. Halstone at Mass. She had not been to confession, however, nor had she received Communion. This was a trifle worrying. Receiving the sacraments was a given for any housekeeper of his. He made a mental note to have a quiet word.

  That said, until her arrival his palate had never experienced such flavorsome cuisine; nor, indeed, had the kitchen Aga ever cooked up such a variety of dishes. Today she hadn’t disappointed: coq au vin followed by Baked Alaska, a dessert that seemed to defy the laws of thermodynamics. Oven-baked ice cream. How ingenious. Who would have thought such a feat possible?

  He must request a repeat for the following Sunday. Bishop Delahant would be calling for his fiscal appraisal of the parish books. Father Cassidy was not looking forward to that. Money was always a difficult subject for him. But who knew, after a fine meal and news of his plans for the bingo, things might not look so bleak.

  He reflected that life was infinitely more relaxed with Mrs. Halstone about. Not only was she a wonderful cook, but also, with her living so near the village, there was no need for her to lodge at the parochial house. Such a situation suited him admirably. Miss Beard had been a real encumbrance in that respect. Her bedroom on the upper story, directly above his own, had proven rather unsettling to begin with. Often he’d been disturbed by her lumbering about in the early hours, his chandelier tinkling its dissent from the minute she rose. He’d been summoning the courage to ask her to move. After all, there were a number of other bedrooms to choose from. But hadn’t Providence intervened at that crucial moment, laying her poor mother low and thereby solving the problem? God did indeed move in mysterious ways.

  So her departure, while disruptive initially—thanks to Mrs. McFadden’s daily pestering—had, in the end, brought a whole new set of possibilities into play: the stranger, Mrs. Halstone; a much-improved diet; and perhaps most important of all, blissfully muted mornings.

  In the parochial kitchen, Bessie was tidying up. Since hearing the odd thumps upstairs a few days earlier, she had been putting off cleaning up there. Perhaps Father Cassidy could enlighten her. She’d mention it to him before leaving.

  Now, though, as she set about her chores—drying dishes, binning leftovers, wiping surfaces clean—the stranger, Lorcan Strong, was stealing into her thoughts.

  An artist! Herkie had mentioned meeting someone a few days earlier. He’d shown her a couple of drawings, but she’d barely paid them any heed. Now all was becoming clear.

  Her immediate feeling on seeing him there with her son had been one of suspicion. Why would a man like that take an interest in a young boy? What was he after? She mistrusted men with good reason, tending, as she did, to see them all through the pernicious prism of her father and the dissolute Packie.

  She opened a cupboard, pushed aside a soup tureen big enough to bathe a baby in, and began placing the dried china on a shelf.

  The artist was well-off. That she could tell straightaway from the fine suit and spotless white shirt. And intelligent—those eyes scanning her like that. He wasn’t doing that out of interest, though. It was more like taking the measure of her. Well, him being an artist, maybe he looked at everybody that way, viewing everybody as a possible sitter. She remembered Loose Lily from her secondary-school days. Lily had gone from being a part-time stripper to an artist’s model without breaking a fingernail. Well, it was easier and much better paid, apparently, taking your clothes off for the sake of art instead of for a roomful of greasy builder’s mates down the Brendan Behan Pub of a Saturday night. Maybe Lorcan Strong was sizing her up with just that in mind, deciding how to catch the best bits of her with his paintbrush.

  She shut the cupboard door and unsheathed her hands from the clammy Marigold gloves. The nail polish on her right hand was chipped. He’d have seen that. Oh dear!

  There was some Beaujolais left over from the coq au vin. That would cheer her up a bit. She fetched it from the refrigerator, poured some into a mug, and took a sip. She’d come up with an ingenious way of keeping herself irrigated with the odd tipple by opting mostly for those recipes that required a splash of alcohol in the mix. Father Cassidy had no idea he was footing her drinks bill. And that, she hoped, would be the way things would remain. Even if he did find out, she had the perfect explanation.

  It was half past two. Time she was gone anyway.

  She’d made enough lunch for four, so Father Cassidy’s dinner was already taken care of. An added advantage of her new job was that Herkie and she could feed themselves well, at the priest’s expense, which meant she di
dn’t have to make many inroads into the paltry salary he paid her.

  Scanning the immaculate kitchen, she felt smug with a job well done. She drained the last of the wine, ran the mug under the tap, and removed her apron. Then she took a sprig of parsley from a pot on the windowsill and chewed on it to banish any telltale whiffs.

  At the mirror by the door she reapplied her lipstick, powdered her nose, patted her hair, drew on her cardigan, and picked up her bag of filched food. It was time to bid her employer good day.

  But as she neared his study door she heard talking. He was obviously on the phone. His voice had a playful edge that she hadn’t heard before. Playful and Father Cassidy did not normally belong in the same sentence. She wondered who he could be talking to and strained to hear a tidbit, but all she got back was an animated murmuring punctuated by the odd, suggestive snigger. In Bessie’s world, only a woman could have that effect on a man, celibate or not.

  Never one to stand on ceremony, she barged straight in.

  “Well, I’m away now, Father. Was there anything more?”

  He gave a start and quickly palmed the receiver.

  “Mrs. Halstone!”

  “Sorry, Father. Didn’t know you were on the phone.”

  “Well, yes…just a moment.” She’d rattled him. A rare thing, indeed. A first. Then: “Let me finish this call, Mrs. Halstone, if I may. I need a private word with you.”

  He indicated a chair, and spoke into the phone again. “I’ll have to call you back. Sorry about that. Bye now.” He hung up.

  A bit abrupt with that caller, Bessie thought. The tension she’d created needed smoothing. “Was the lunch all right, Father?”

  “Lunch was excellent…yes, excellent, as always.”

  “Thank you. Glad to hear it. Do you need me at six?”

  “Yes indeed…Well, no…no, as a matter of fact. You don’t need to come back.” He was studying the carpet, distracted. “I have to go out. Yes, out…parish business. We priests are rarely off duty, alas.”

  She saw that he could not meet her eye. Still thinking about the secret woman. Men!

  She wondered again about that “parish business.” He could be away for hours at a time and could never say exactly when he’d be back for supper. He tended of late to disappear in the afternoon. Hence she found herself making meals in advance, for him to reheat on his return.

  “Right,” she said. “Well, if you’re sure. It’s no—”

  “Yes, absolutely. You enjoy the rest of your Sunday.” He turned his gaze to the window. Bessie studied the back of his neatly groomed head. “Lovely weather,” he continued. “You should take a trip to the seaside. Portaluce. It’s not far. I’m sure your boy would love it.”

  “Maybe I will.” He probably spends longer at the mirror on his hair than I do on mine. What’s the point of that if he can’t marry? But an affair on the sly? “And the private word, Father?”

  He turned to her, puzzled. “Private word?”

  “Yes, you said you wanted a private word a minute ago, when you were on the phone.”

  “Oh, of course!” His voice took on a confidential tone. “It’s a delicate matter, Mrs. Halstone, but one I feel a little uneasy about.”

  “Oh.” Had he smelled the alcohol on her breath? Impossible. Not from that distance. Not unless he’s got the snout of a bloody Labrador. And even so, the parsley would have foiled him. “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Halstone?”

  “Well…no, Father, if you don’t mind. My son, y’see. What was it about?”

  “Yes indeed, how remiss of me. I’ll come straight to the point then. It’s just that, well…it’s just that I haven’t seen you, or indeed your son, receiving.”

  Bessie was flummoxed. What in heaven’s name is he on about? Receiving what? Stolen goods? Gentlemen callers? “Sorry…receiving what, Father?”

  “Oh, you don’t understand the term. I see. Well, what I mean is that I haven’t seen you receiving Holy Communion. It’s an important part of the Mass. In fact, attending Mass and not receiving the sacrament is akin to—” Father Cassidy gazed heavenward and stirred the air in an effort to conjure up an appropriate comparison. “Akin to, shall we say…attending a banquet, suffering hunger pangs, and not partaking of the sumptuous feast laid on especially for you.”

  For a moment Bessie was lost for words, but she rallied, biting back impatience and affecting interest. “If…if you say so, Father.”

  “Yes, why go hungry when spiritual sustenance can be had right there at the altar?”

  And why don’t you give my head peace and let me get on? I cook and clean for you. Isn’t that enough?

  “You’ll see us at the altar next Sunday, Father, that’s for sure.”

  “Excellent. I hear confessions every Saturday morning and evening, as you know. Confession is an important prerequisite of repentance. Preparing the ground, as it were. Tilling the soil. Rooting out the weeds.” He checked himself. “But you must get on, Mrs. Halstone. I’ve delayed you quite long enough.”

  Too right ye have. “Oh, that’s all right, Father.” Confession, indeed! “If that’s all?”

  “Yes, yes…of course.”

  She made to leave, then wavered. “Oh, Father…”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re alone here, aren’t we?”

  He arched a Gregory Peck eyebrow. “We? I don’t follow you, Mrs. Halstone.”

  “Well, Father, what I mean to say is…you’re…you’re the only one that lives here?”

  He stared. She felt her cheeks heating up; his coldness had her flustered.

  “Well, it’s…it’s just that, the other day I thought I heard someone upstairs. But…but you were out.”

  “Oh.” His face relaxed. “An old house like this.” He scanned the ceiling. “It creaks, it groans. I expect we’ll all be doing the same in our old age.”

  “R-right, but—”

  “Now, Miss Beard would blame him.” He indicated the portrait over the mantelshelf. “Judge Cosgrove Carson, God rest him. He built this house in eighteen hundred and ten. Lived to the ripe old age of ninety-eight. A good man. Yes, a very good man. He bequeathed this house and its lands to the Church.”

  “Are you saying it’s his ghost, Father?”

  He smiled. “No, no. I said Miss Beard tends to believe in such things. The dead don’t come back, Mrs. Halstone.” He left off his inspection of Judge Cosgrove. “No, the dead do not return. So you either imagined the noises or simply heard creaking timbers.” He plucked at imaginary lint on his sleeve, looked back at her, and smiled. “I’ll hear your confession this Saturday. And the boy’s, too, of course.”

  She was being dismissed. She wouldn’t be getting a straight answer.

  “Yes…well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said.

  As Bessie exited the room she felt uneasy. Father Cassidy was being less than truthful; she was certain of it. There was something not quite right about St. Timothy’s parochial house and its handsome incumbent.

  Disquiet tugged at her. She wondered what it was she’d let herself in for.

  Chapter twenty-four

  We’re getting there, my dear Countess, and not before time. In fact—” Lorcan stayed his hand and shifted his gaze to the watch on his wrist. “In fact, another ten days at most should finish you. Yes, finish you and liberate me.”

  It was early morning in his studio. He sat in front of the easel, concentrating on the Countess’s chin and jawline. Every morning since coming to Tailorstown he’d risen at six to spend three hours on the portrait. He needed the luminous clarity of the light in those precious hours. Flesh tones demanded a delicate touch, the keenest eye, the sharpest focus. Besides which, painting in oils was a painstaking process that could not be rushed, due to the various drying times required when layering pigments. The earlier the start, the better.

  The silence of sunup aided his concentration, too.

  With the aid of his loupe, he compared the photograph of Reynolds’s original po
rtrait with his own efforts. He nodded in satisfaction, set the instrument aside, and took up his brush again. As he blended paint, he was appreciating the harmonious chatter of birds in the trees beyond the square. Very soon, the churr of car engines would overwhelm such agreeable music, as man and his works intruded upon another day.

  With this thought came the idea of escape, of finally casting off the Dentist’s yoke and being free of the tyrant. Four long weeks of sustained effort were enough for any man. He was tired. He yearned to have his life back. But how, short of killing him, could he rid himself of the monster?

  He stopped the brushwork. No, no, he could never kill a man. Even swatting a fly was difficult enough. Perhaps someone else would take him out. There were sure to be whole battalions of enemies simply waiting their chance, biding their time.

  He dipped the brush into some linseed oil and brought it back to the canvas, moving now to shade in the hollow in the Countess’s throat. But apart from the unlikely scenario of the Dentist’s demise, what would ensure his freedom? Perhaps he could flee, go abroad. America? Yes, it was always a possibility. Aunt Bronagh, his mother’s colorful sister, was forever inviting him.

  In a sideboard drawer downstairs lay an accumulation of international money orders, sent by his aunt on successive birthdays. He recalled that the first little gift dated from the occasion of his twenty-first birthday. Year upon year the money orders would arrive, each one no great fortune in itself—$20 here, $50 there—but over time they amounted to quite a tidy sum, more than enough to cover his return airfare to Florida, with generous spending money. That, of course, was his aunt’s intention.

  But somehow he couldn’t picture himself living under the same roof as Bronagh. She was so unlike his mother; she was a woman who believed in enjoying life to the full, having survived three husbands, four stepsons, a couple of heart attacks, and a botched face-lift. Retirement had not blunted her joie de vivre. Latterly the septuagenarian had found herself paid work as a fitness instructor in a Miami care home, where she’d recently put her back out while demonstrating the spine-stretcher resistance movement on a wonky Wunda Chair.