The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  Yes, Aunt Bronagh was always a possibility, but only for the most extreme circumstance.

  He smiled at the thought of her. Knew everything there was to know about her life through a frenetic correspondence of lavender-scented letters she kept up with his mother. Missives he was tasked to read aloud every time he returned home. With the passing of the years, Aunt Bronagh’s handwriting had come to resemble a series of phonetic glyphs from an ancient scribe. Writing that was, of late, challenging even for his mother’s lollipop magnifying glass.

  How would he ever keep up with Bronagh’s energetic lifestyle if he did decide to relocate stateside? He imagined there were no speed limits on the pace of life in Miami. The very thought exhausted him.

  No, life was infinitely less complicated in Northern Ireland—for all its troubles. And nowhere less complicated or slower than in dear old Tailorstown.

  He was amazed at how easily he’d fallen into a routine since coming home. He didn’t really miss the museum, being under the yoke of the meddling curator or at the mercy of the chivvying Stanley. There was relief also in being free of his digs; no longer having to thwart Mrs. Hipple’s fry-ups was doing his digestion a world of good.

  Yes, banishment to Tailorstown had given him pause. Had forced upon him the need to stand back, take stock, evaluate his life and the direction it was heading in. Prior to this enforced break, he’d been seeing just as far into the future as a narrow beam might allow. Getting up. Going to work. Coming home to dine, read, reflect, before finally falling asleep under the eiderdown quilt of his rented bed. Now things had switched to full beam. There were matters that needed attending to. Decisions to be made. He could see all too clearly that only he could sort it all out: his mother, the business, his career.

  Change was in the air. Life was demanding a different kind of action.

  A couple of hours later, with the light altering and the demands of the day upon him, Lorcan stopped work, cleaned his brushes, and went to look in on his mother.

  He found her in the living room as usual, cup of tea in hand, feet resting on the pouf, and the ever-present radio tuned to Radio Ulster.

  “Morning, son,” she said, her eyes going immediately to the headless statue on the dresser.

  “Morning, Mother. Yes, I know. She’ll be conjoined this very day.”

  “It’s just that Rose said that Father Cassidy said…well, there’s an ugly gap, you see, to the right of the altar, and it looks—”

  “As though she’s been assumed into heaven.”

  “Away with you! I was going to say it looks bad.”

  “Indeed! We can’t have that.”

  He went through to the kitchen, helped himself to coffee, and carried it back into the living room.

  “Father Cassidy is going to be raking in so much money from his new bingo initiative,” he said, sitting down opposite her, “he could buy himself a new statue. I thought gambling was a sin, anyway.”

  “Yes, well…he’s very thrifty, you know,” said Etta, blinking rapidly—a surefire indication to Lorcan that she didn’t approve of his criticism. “Raising money for church funds couldn’t be classed as gambling. It’s all in a good cause, you see.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Now, Rose said she’d call by this afternoon. She’ll take the statue round to Father Cassidy if it’s finished. She’s very good like that, Rose.”

  Lorcan felt a small panic rising at the mention of Rose’s name. In his experience the woman rarely gave her mouth a break. At their last encounter, she’d swamped him with a tsunami of information concerning the assorted ailments various people in the parish had suffered in his absence.

  No, his time was precious. Rose was best avoided.

  “Oh, no need for that! I’ll deliver the statue myself. I would like to meet the good Father in person…get the measure of him.”

  “Just a minute, son,” said Etta, raising the volume on the radio.

  “The security alert follows a coded message to the Samaritans in the early morning. The green Renault was left outside Milligan’s fashion shop in Canal Street. The area has now been made safe. Key holders have been asked to check their premises. This is the second bomb alert in Carngorm—”

  “God, Lorcan, isn’t it dreadful? That’s just up the road from us.”

  “I know.” Lorcan’s grip on the coffee mug tightened. This rural outpost was a safe place, surely. Bombs and bullets were the language of the city he had left behind. The image of the decrepit house on Nansen Street rose in his mind like a dark cloud. It was as if the nastiness had followed him.

  “What do those boys think they’re about at all?”

  “Don’t worry, Mother. Nothing’s going to happen here.” Lorcan was at a loss. “Milligan’s must’ve been targeted because it’s in a mixed community.” Though he knew the real reason lay with the passing of Bobby Sands and the imminent death of hunger striker number two: local man, Francis Hughes.

  Etta put a hand to her heart and sighed. “Now that you say it, son, you know I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, Ivan Milligan married a Catholic, but he didn’t turn himself. Although I believe that the children are being brought up in the faith.”

  He finished his coffee and got up. “Now don’t waste your time worrying about those idiots. Nobody was hurt, and that’s the main thing.” He went to the dresser and picked up the statue. “The Blessed Mother needs to get her head in order. I’ll fix her this very minute.”

  “Thank you, son. Father Cassidy will be pleased. Now, Rose will be calling and I’m sure she’d like to see you.”

  “Mother, I’m not in to anyone for the next two hours—and most especially not to Rose McFadden, d’you hear?”

  “Yes, Lorcan dear. But y’know, Rose means well.”

  “That’s as may be, but my ears need protecting from women like Rose, and I do not wish my day to be spoiled before it has properly begun.”

  At that same moment, the connecting door between the bar and the Strong home creaked open and the voice of Gusty was heard to say, “Aye, go on in there, Rose. Etta’s in the sittin’ room, so she is.”

  Lorcan made a dash down the hallway, the statue under one arm. He sprinted up the stairs and was in his studio with door secured before Mrs. McFadden had her first “Cooee” out in greeting.

  Chapter twenty-five

  I s’ppose ye heard about that new wommin gettin’ the job with the Father,” said Rose, buttering a fruit scone with a generous knob of Kerrygold. “I was very put out, Josie, and I don’t mind sayin’ it. For I thought he’d take me, a member of the parish, afore a stranger like that.”

  A slow noon in the Cozy Corner Café, and Rose, having left Etta Strong’s, was enjoying her thrice-weekly confab with the proprietor. They sat at a vinyl-clad table to the right of the counter: Josie’s table. It was within easy reach of kitchen and till—the two most important things in Josie’s life since her husband, Amos, had been taken suddenly with hypertension and an enlarged heart into St. Timothy’s cemetery in 1975, barely six months into their tenure at the Cozy Corner.

  “Oh, no good’ll come outta that, Rose,” said Josie, warming to the theme while replenishing the rock-fern teacups. “I knew that her and that son were a pair-a bad ones when I first laid me eyes on them. And her all done up like Murphy’s mare. I believe that’s a wig she wears, ’cos the color of that hair could only come out of a bottle.”

  “God, Josie, d’ye think Father Cassidy could be led astray? They’re great wee scones. Was it the baking powder or the self-raisin’ ye used?”

  “The self-raisin’, Rose. Well, ye know, I’d put nothin’ past her, but she’s not livin’ under the same roof as the Father, so the Father’s safe enough. And besides that, the priest’s a wise man. I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s seen the Divil in a pair-a high heels and a tight skirt.”

  Rose munched her scone, deep in thought. She needed to confide in someone; she couldn’t keep her fears about Gusty to herself. Josie was a
friend, even though she had a mouth on her the size of the Foyle Estuary. But Rose could live with that. She had to share her concerns.

  “It’s just that…well, it’s just that I’d be terrible afeard for our Gusty.”

  “Och, Rose, I wouldn’t think she’d look at the like of Gusty.”

  Rose dropped her voice to a confessional whisper and leaned over the table. “Maybe not, Josie. But that’s not tae say Gusty might not have his own designs. Now, I wouldn’t mention the like-a this tae nobody but yerself. Not even my Paddy. And what I’m gonna tell ye is for your ears only, but God forbid, Josie, the eyes nearly fell outta me head when I seen them.”

  Rose paused for breath, wondering how she was going to phrase the scandalous tidbit. Josie, eager to hear more, leaned closer.

  “And what was it, Rose, that nearly made the eyes fall outta yer head?”

  “Well, they could only be hers. Ye know I do a bitta tidyin’ up for Ned once a week. Not that it makes much of a differs, truth be told, for him and Gusty are the durtiest pair-a men God put breath in.”

  “Aye, I know that,” said Josie, having heard Rose’s observations on her relatives’ hygiene habits a hundred times before and eager for a slice of fresh gossip. There’d been a distinct lack of scandal in the town of late, and she was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t simply invent a bit herself to spice things up. There was only so much mileage in Screw-loose John’s breakdown, Margie Mullard’s weight gain, and Johnny Byrne watering Mrs. Tuft’s hanging baskets three times in one day and her husband away at the plowing trials in Termonfeckin.

  “But what was it that ye found?” Josie asked, exasperated.

  “I was just comin’ to that. I came across them in the backyard, no less. Lacy red things they were.”

  Josie’s mouth was agape. Lacy red things. Her tiny eyes fixed on Rose. Seconds passed. Lacy red things. Her mind was a maelstrom of bawdy imaginings.

  “Heaven’s above, Rose. What were they?”

  “Howyiz! Josie, me oul’ fat hen! Long time no see.”

  The ladies turned.

  Chuck Sproule had entered the premises and was sidling up to the counter.

  “Ye’re not wanted in here!” cried Josie, immediately on her feet and making for the protection of the counter.

  “Now, what way’s that to treat an oul’ friend who hasn’t had a bit of good grub since last Christmas?” Chuck stretched himself out over the counter, rested his elbows on the marbled Formica, cupped his chin, and studied Josie’s chalkboard menu.

  “Maybe,” said Rose, getting up, “I should be going, Josie…”

  “You sit yer ground there, Rose,” Josie said, shooting Rose a don’t-leave-me-alone-with-this-pup-what-if-he-groped-me look, and Rose sank reluctantly back into the chair with a gasp and a squeak. “Nobody’s goin’ nowhere but this boy, so they’re not.”

  “Aye,” said Chuck with a smirk, “you sit right where ye are, Rose, and finish yer tea. A burger and chip’ll do me nicely, Josie. Plenty of onions on the bun.”

  “Ye’re gettin’ nothin’ in here, ye unmannerly lout. Now, get out or I’ll call Sergeant Ranfurley.”

  “Aye, right, and what law would I be brekkin’, askin’ ye for a burger and chip?”

  Josie was caught on the hop. She looked to Rose for help.

  “I think it might be called intrudement on a body’s entry, Josie. And your mother wouldn’t be very proud of you, Chuck, if she thought ye were breakin’ the law again, and you only outta prison.”

  “Och, Rose. Now, I’d love tae see things from your point of view but, ye know, there’s just one wee problem. I don’t think I’d be able to get me head that far up yer arse.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Josie cried. “Right. That’s it. I’m gonna ring the sergeant this very second.”

  Rose, hot, bothered, and disgusted, grabbed up The People’s Friend to fan her burning cheeks.

  “There’ll be no need for that,” came a voice from the doorway.

  The trio turned to see Father Cassidy. He glowered at young Sproule, who immediately unpeeled himself from the counter and stood up straight. He could have been a private in the presence of his commanding officer, so complete was the change in the young rascal.

  “Thank God it’s you, Father!” gasped Rose, dropping the magazine and rising up with a look that aped a visionary at Fatima.

  “The Lord himself sent ye in the nick of time,” added a relieved Josie. “This boy was goin’ over some very durty talk, and—”

  “Yes, the Devil makes light work for durty hands, Father,” put in Rose.

  Father Cassidy gave her a bemused look. “There’s no need for explanation, ladies,” he said. Then, turning to Chuck: “Now, apologize for your appalling behavior.”

  “I’m sorry, ladies,” said Chuck, looking nervous.

  “Good. Now, you’re coming with me. You need work to do, and there are plenty of jobs that need doing at the parochial house.”

  Father Cassidy ordered Chuck out with a curt nod. A tense silence followed the ruffian’s exit.

  “Father, just one wee thing,” said Rose, for whom lulls of any kind were a perversion. “Did ye get that wee fruit loaf I left round for ye?”

  Father Cassidy had no recollection of having eaten a fruit loaf but knew better than to admit as much. “Yes indeed, Rose. It was lovely. Most kind of you. Now I need to be going.”

  At that point two hungry schoolboys entered. The priest used the diversion to make his escape. Rose gathered up her bags.

  “God, Josie, I’d better be going, too. It’s time for my Paddy’s tea. Isn’t it great that the Father enjoyed me wee fruit loaf?”

  “But Rose,” said Josie, ignoring the boys and following her to the door, “what about the lacy red things?”

  “What lacy red things?”

  “Ye were tellin’ me about Gusty and a pair-a things that ye found in the yard.”

  “Oh, God save us, Josie, I’ll call in the morra tae tell ye the rest of that. There’s too much tae go over now, and I would need-a be sittin’ down with a cuppa tea, so ye could get the full pitcher of the shock that I got.”

  “Right ye be, Rose.”

  Josie turned back inside, annoyed that her peek through the keyhole had been thwarted. She’d just have to wait. All the same, there was enough mileage in that phrase, “lacy red things,” to kick-start a fresh bit of gossip without delay. Why wait until tomorrow?

  Her next customer was in for a treat.

  Chapter twenty-six

  Lorcan ran an appraising eye over the reassembled Blessed Mother. In the space of two hours he’d not only attached the head with quick-drying plaster but brought her back to vibrant life with some acrylic paint. The original had been crude, and that fact made his retouching easier.

  The Virgin now sported a pair of rouged cheeks that would not look out of place in the Folies Bergère. A bad-tempered serpent at her feet had been revivified with a startling coat of phthalo green, its terrifying fangs brought out with some brilliant white. He’d reserved the gilding of the inside of the cloak until last. With that final application, the lady shone.

  Perfect.

  Now all he need do was wrap her up in a suitable length of cotton and deliver her to Father Cassidy.

  “Butter? Check. Caster sugar? Check. Ground almonds? Check. Lemon juice? Check.” Bessie stood in the parochial kitchen, ticking off the ingredients on her recipe for lemon drizzle cake. It had been one of Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock’s favorites. “When life gives you lemons, make lemon drizzle cake!” she used to say.

  Father Cassidy was in his study working on the parish accounts. She felt safer when he was around. Since hearing the strange noises upstairs, she’d tried, as far as possible, not to be alone in the house. If his secret lady friend or the ghost of old Judge Carson was hanging around up there, she’d no desire to bump into either of them, even in the daylight hours. Her employer still hadn’t requested that she clean his bedroom, which Bessie thou
ght rather odd. But then, in the present circumstances, she wouldn’t be in any hurry to ask him. He could do as he pleased, so long as he paid her on time and didn’t ask too many questions. She smiled to herself; it was an amicable arrangement.

  “Now, the flour…and…” She reached across the table and lifted a bottle of Bristol Cream sherry. “A nip of this to perk it up, and a wee sip to perk me up.”

  She cocked an ear. Father Cassidy had a very light footfall due to the soft soles of his suede shoes. She couldn’t risk pouring herself a glass. He just might materialize in the doorway.

  She listened, looked down at the bottle, decided she was safe enough, and sloshed some into a mug.

  The sweet, syrupy taste hit the back of her throat, bringing back memories of half-forgotten Christmases. Her mother used to buy a bottle to carry her through those festive days—those inevitably stress-filled festive days. There were so many blighted Yuletides in Bessie’s childhood.

  She gripped the mug, knuckles whitening. Just another sip. The clouds were gathering again. The sagging, rain-fat clouds she never seemed fully able to outrun. But she would not be swamped. She was a woman now. A vulnerable child no more.

  She plonked the mug back down. Stepped back from the table.

  At that moment the doorbell sounded.

  “Damn!” She tore off her apron. Dived on the parsley plant and stuffed a generous wad into her mouth.

  In the hallway she checked herself in the mirror before opening the front door.

  She was surprised to find Herkie’s new friend, the weirdo artist, on the doorstep. He was holding a bulky object wrapped in cloth.

  “Mrs. Halstone. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mister…eh…”

  “Lorcan Strong. We met after Mass. Remember?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Strong.” Bessie patted her hair. She regretted not having taken the time to do her lipstick. Well, she’d thought it was probably Mrs. McFadden again with another piece of cookery for the priest.