The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  “I need to give this to Father Cassidy,” said Lorcan, sensing Mrs. Halstone’s unease. He smiled. “It’s a statue he needed retouching.”

  “I see. Well, I know nothing about any statue.” She held the door wide. “But do come in, Mr. Strong.”

  “Thank you.” Lorcan stepped into the hallway, taking in the mediocre portraits of long-dead celibates that lined the walls. They seemed to give the word lifeless a whole new meaning.

  “The thing is, Mr. Strong, Father Cassidy is busy at the moment, and he left word that he wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  “I see.” Lorcan looked about him again. “I suppose, in that case, I’ll come back another time. When it’s more convenient.”

  “No, no, we couldn’t have that. We can’t have you going to all that trouble only to have to come back again.” She was thinking fast. It was important to get the measure of this strange man. The ideal time was now. “Why don’t you wait here in the living room, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. I’m sure I can persuade Father Cassidy to tear himself away from his work for a few minutes.”

  “Only if you’re sure. I wouldn’t like to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  She flung open a door with a flourish and ushered him through. Lorcan grimaced at the sight of a portrait depicting a judge, inexpertly rendered in neoclassical mode. He went to a prominent table. It was spread with a map of the locality and several sheets of foolscap paper scrawled with notes. He pushed them aside and set his burden down.

  “Have a seat, won’t you?”

  “Very kind, Mrs. Halstone.”

  By the time she returned, some minutes later, the statue had been unveiled. The Virgin stood serene, the rich gold lining of her robe agleam.

  “He’ll be pleased with that, I’m sure,” Bessie said. She set a tray on a side table and began to pour tea. “I told him he had a caller, and he’ll be with you shortly. You’re an artist then?”

  “Yes. I work in Belfast, at the museum. Just home on a few weeks’ leave.”

  “That’s nice.” She offered a plate of biscuits.

  “No, thanks. My mother’s a little unwell. She runs the pub over there on High Street. I came home to help her out for a bit.”

  “Sorry to hear about your mother. Will she be all right?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s nothing too serious.”

  Lorcan appreciated that he was telling Mrs. Halstone perhaps more than he should. At the same time, he was aware that he knew more about her than he ought to. And he felt a bit guilty about that. He was thinking of what young Herkie had confided. He saw a battered woman who’d recently buried an abusive husband, left the city and her home to get a job and make a fresh start in the back of beyond. He admired the undoubted courage and fortitude such a life-changing decision must have entailed. “You’re from Belfast, too, I hear. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Bessie rounded on him, the mask of composure slipping for a second. “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, sorry…it was just that Herkie mentioned it,” he said. Then, not wanting to get Herkie into trouble, added quickly, “But he didn’t mean to tell me. It just came up in conversation.”

  “That son of mine! I don’t know what I’m going to do with him at all.” She turned her attention to the statue, inwardly cursing Herkie. “Looks lovely. You’re very talented.”

  At that moment, the door opened; Father Cassidy came in. Lorcan rose to greet him. Bessie excused herself and made to leave.

  “I’ll bring another cup, Father.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Halstone. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  She withdrew, leaving Lorcan and Father Cassidy in each other’s company. If a passerby had chosen to peep in the window, he might have detected a certain coolness between the two.

  “Pleased to meet you, Father.” He extended a hand. He reminds me of that actor, what’s his name? Gregory Peck. Younger, of course.

  “You must be Etta’s son, the artist.”

  “Yes. Lorcan Strong. I came to deliver the statue.” A bit too handsome for the solemnity of the cloth.

  “It’s very good of you…Lorcan? May I call you Lorcan?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was glad to hear you were coming home to help her out.” Father Cassidy went to an armchair. He gently tugged at the knees of his trousers, sat down, and flipped one lean thigh over the other. The move was not lost on Lorcan. Here was a man very conscious of appearances. “Staying long?”

  “Until she gets her strength back.”

  “Excellent! Now, I’m glad you called, Lorcan, because…Well, I wonder if I might ask a favor of you.”

  “Yes…well, that would depend, Father.” The artist was slightly discomforted. Please don’t let it be another paint job. On his last visit to the church, he’d noticed that the Stations of the Cross were in sore need of a reviving lick of paint.

  “I’m expecting rather a big crowd at the bingo next Saturday, you see, and I wondered would you mind helping out?”

  Ah! Not as bad as I thought. “Be glad to.”

  “Perhaps collect the entrance fee on the door? I need someone honest, with a cool head.” He fixed Lorcan with a look of pained sincerity. “Unflappable, I think, is the word I’m looking for. You strike me as someone who would be unflappable.”

  “I’m flattered that you should think so.” Lorcan could see that Father Cassidy was a man used to getting what he wanted. He supposed that the movie-star looks, in tandem with the strictures of the Roman collar, gave him a power and confidence unique among men.

  The priest got up and crossed to where the statue stood. “A fine job you’ve done with this, Lorcan. You have indeed returned the Blessed Mother to her former glory. God bless you. I’m much indebted.”

  Lorcan rose. He feared that if he lingered, another favor might be asked of him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Father. But—”

  “Oh, going already?”

  “Alas, time and duty calls.” He put his hat back on. “Very pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Lorcan,” the priest said, opening the door. “I can count on you for Saturday then? Won’t put you out in the pub, I hope?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Feel free to drop by any time.”

  “I will. Bye now.”

  The sun had disappeared by the time Lorcan emerged from the parochial house. He was disappointed, having penciled in an hour on the portrait before teatime. Never mind; as an artist one was at the mercy of the light.

  He was just about to get into his car when a voice called out.

  “Mr. Strong! Mr. Strong!”

  He turned to see Mrs. Halstone coming toward him, clutching a folded fabric. “Your wrapping. You forgot it.”

  “Oh, so I did. Thank you.” Lorcan held out a hand. “It was lovely to meet you again. Properly. Tell Herkie I’ll be wanting to see those drawings finished very soon.”

  He was pleased to see Mrs. Halstone’s wary face soften slightly. “I’ll tell him. Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Strong.”

  She turned and hurried back to the house.

  Lorcan climbed into the car and maneuvered it down the avenue. As he paused by the gates to allow a tractor to pass, he checked his rearview mirror and was amused to see that his departure was being closely monitored. At one window stood Father Cassidy; at another Mrs. Halstone.

  “Well, well, well,” he murmured, steering the car out onto the road. “I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one.”

  Three paths had crossed. A nexus had been formed, a nexus whose consequences Lorcan, at that stage, could not even begin to imagine.

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Now, son, I have a crow to pluck with you.” Bessie flopped down on the sofa, wrested the shoes from feet wrecked from a decade in four-inch heels, and sighed with relief. She’d stopped driving to work, deciding that the physical exercise would not only improve her figure but
save on petrol as well. She hadn’t reckoned, though, that such a laudable decision would result in corns the size of conkers.

  “Och, Ma. I wanna finish this dormouse ’cos Star Trek’s comin’ on!” From the moment his mother stormed through the door, he hadn’t even looked her way, so intent was he on coloring Lorcan’s drawing of the hibernating rodent.

  “Dormouse, my foot! There’ll be no TV till I hear what you’ve been up to!” Bessie hit her armrest an almighty slap. “And ye can stop that bloody drawin’ this minute. For if ye don’t I’ll come over there and tear it into wee bits.”

  Herkie knew his mother meant business and put down the coloring pencil immediately.

  “Now, I was talkin’ till that Strong man today, that odd boy that give ye them drawings, and from what he said it was plain timme ye were blabbin’ to him and tellin’ him more than what ye let on till me.”

  Herkie twisted in his chair and pulled a curl of hair down over his nose. It was a defense tactic he used when cornered and feeling guilty. “I didn’t tell him nothin’, Ma.”

  “Right. How did he know yer da was dead then?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie timme, son. Didn’t I give ye strict instructions not to talk till strangers or tell anybody our business? We’re on the run from the bloody Dentist, or did ye forget that already, ye wee dope? That man could be anybody. A Provo or a prevert or God knows what!”

  “What’s a pre-vert, Ma?”

  “Never you mind. Now, what else did ye blab till him?”

  “What ye told me till say…that I was Herkie Law—Hilton-Halstone, from the Malone Road. And…and that we were on haul’days for a bit. And I had till tell him Da was dead ’cos he asked me where he was and I wasn’t gonna tell lies, Ma.”

  “Right, so long as that was all ye told him. Where did ye meet him anyway?”

  “In the fairy’s ring where they do magic things.”

  “What! Where in-under God is that?!”

  “Och! It’s only an oul’ bunch of stones down a lane.”

  “Well, you’re to stay away from that oul’ bunch-a stones, ye hear?” She left off massaging a foot, retrieved a pair of fluffy mules from under the sofa, and slipped them on. “And ye’re tae stay away from that Strong man, d’ye hear me? I don’t know what sort of a character he is.”

  “Aye, Ma.”

  “I’ve enough on me plate without worrying about things like that. From now on ye’re gonna come to the priest’s house with me, so I can keep an eye on ye. I’m gonna ask Father Cassidy if ye can spend the afternoons with me when I’m workin’.”

  “Och, Ma. What’ll I—”

  “Now, none of yer oul’ lip, Herkie Halstone. I’ve decided, and that’s the end of it. Artists indeed!”

  She got up and started clearing the table, collecting a melamine beaker and plate—Herkie was not trusted with anything breakable—along with her own cup and saucer. “What’s the time there anyway?”

  Herkie pulled back his sleeve—only to discover that his Snoopy wristwatch was missing. He wondered about that and decided, given the circumstances, not to disclose it to his ma. He was in enough trouble already.

  “Can I have a Penguin, Ma?”

  “Go in there and put the kettle on first. Ye have till work for yer keep.”

  With the tea made, and being in a clearer frame of mind, Bessie relaxed. Her feet were returning to normal. A much-needed cigarette was aglow in the ashtray. Dolly Parton was belting out “Baby I’m Burning” on the record player. And Herkie, on his second Penguin bar, was giving her head peace. Bliss!

  She cut a generous slice of Mrs. McFadden’s purloined fruitcake and sampled a bit. “Mmmm…” The cake was surprisingly good. “That Mrs. McFadden knows her raisins from her glassy cherries, I’ll give her that!”

  “What’s glassy cherries?”

  “Nothin’, son. Just thinkin’ outside meself.”

  Herkie was happy his ma was in better form now and hoped things would stay that way. He hated it when she was cross. Since leaving Belfast it seemed she was cross most of the time. Now, though, she was calmer, tapping her foot to the music. It was a good sign. He decided to try and prolong it by telling her a joke.

  “Ma, why could the polo bear not eat the penguin?”

  “I don’t know, son. Why could the polo bear not eat the penguin?”

  “’Cos he couldn’t get the wrapper off.”

  Bessie chuckled. “Where did ye hear that, ye wee ruffian?”

  “I read it in the Cheeky Weekly. Can I get another Cheeky Weekly, Ma?”

  “Yes, son. Now, there’s something I need-a talk to ye about. It’s an important thing, so I want ye to listen. And if ye do it proper for me ye’ll get yer Cheeky Weekly. All right?”

  “Aye, Ma.”

  “Now, ye know what confession means, don’t ye?”

  Herkie screwed up his face, thinking hard. “Is it when ye go till the chapel and say bad things till the priest?”

  “Well…more or less. It’s telling the priest about all the bad things ye’ve done so he can give ye penance. In other words, the sins ye’ve committed. Now, I know ye haven’t been till confession since ye were seven, but that’s neither here nor there. Father Cassidy wants to hear our confessions this evening so we can get Holy Communion on Sunday.”

  “What’s Holy Communion?”

  “I was hopin’ ye weren’t gonna ask me that. Ye had it three years ago. It’s a wee bitta wafer ye get at the end of Mass. But in order tae get that wee bitta wafer—”

  “Aye, Miss Kerr used till give us bits of ice-cream wafer.”

  “Well, it’s more or less the same, but it’s the body of Christ as well as being a wafer. Anyway, ye have till tell Father Cassidy all the bad things ye’ve done in order tae get till ate it.”

  “Och, Ma. That’s what cannonballs do.”

  “Don’t be silly, son. Cannonballs might well do it, but we’re not talkin’ about a bunch o’ bare people runnin’ about the jungle. This is serious, holy stuff that Father Cassidy wants us till do. Now, what bad things have ye done this past month that ye can tell the priest? I’m sure there’s plenty.”

  Herkie thought about:

  Stealing the wallet from Mr. Grant’s back pocket.

  Stealing the money from Rose McFadden’s purse and pretending the old man had paid him.

  Trying to kill a bird with his catapult and hitting Mr. Strong instead.

  Working the lid, bit by bit, off the well in the backyard.

  Those were the big ones. Then there were the lesser crimes:

  Stealing chocolate bars from his mother’s special Rover tin.

  Beheading the ballerina in one of Aunt Dora’s jewelry boxes.

  Shooting the ears off the garden gnomes with his catapult on the first day in the cottage.

  Herkie avoided his mother’s accusatory eye as the great cauldron of misdeeds bubbled and spat in his small, ashamed head.

  “Don’t know, Ma.”

  “Well then, I’ll tell ye. Ye broke the head off the fairy in that jewelry box. Ye stole two Taxis and a Bandit from my biscuit tin. Ye pulled that pig’s tail belongin’ tae Mr. Grant. Ye knocked the ears off them gnomes in the garden, not tae mention the flowers ye’ve destroyed. So ye see, son, ye’re not short of sins tae tell Father Cassidy.” She got up to fetch the kettle from the stove. “And another thing. He’s gonna ask ye how long it’s been since yer last confession. And for God’s sake don’t say two years. Say two weeks. Have ye got that?”

  “Aye, Ma.”

  “Ye better mind that, son, for if ye don’t, Father Cassidy’ll think I’m bringin’ up a heathen and—”

  “What’s a heevin?”

  “Never you mind, son—and I could be outta me job. And if I’m outta me job we can’t go till yer Uncle Bert in Hackney, or till see the Statue of Liberry, either, and we’ll be stuck here, listenin’ to the cabbages growin’ and the butterflies flappin’ their wings till the cows come hom
e. D’ye understand me, son?”

  “Aye—I mean yes, Ma.”

  The sudden clip-clopping of a horse had Herkie dashing out the door.

  To his surprise, he saw Barkin’ Bob, the traveler Mr. Grant had nearly collided with on their first trip to the cottage, making his way along the main road with his cartful of junk.

  Old Bob raised a hand and Herkie naively waved back. He was not to know that in Bob-speak he’d just signaled an interest in buying his services or some of his merchandise. Before he knew it, the she-mule and her master were drawing to a halt in front of the cottage and Bob was launching into his well-practiced sales pitch.

  “Wid yer mammy want to boy a bucket, a basin, a froyin’-pan tae froy her sausages of a marnin’. Some turf for de foyer ta keep her warm on de long winter noyt?”

  Herkie looked in wonder at Barkin’ Bob’s cargo: kindling for an Eleventh Night bonfire. He saw an old radio, saucepans, a plastic Barbie with one arm, a teddy bear with no eyes, a bent shovel, rusty garden shears, an accordion with bellows ripped, a cot mattress with its stuffing hanging out, and a set of chipped mugs stamped with portraits of the Pope and the Queen. “Well, whaddya say, boy?” asked Bob, lunatic eyes blinking out of his ruined face.

  “Would ye have a head for an Action Man, mister?” Herkie—ever the opportunist—asked.

  “Nah, nuthin’ loike that.”

  “Herkie, what’s goin on out here?” Bessie stood in the doorway.

  “How ya, missus,” said Bob, raising his cowboy hat. “Wud ya like tae boy a froyin’ pan tae froy yer sausages of a marnin’, me lady?”

  “I’ve got one already,” Bessie said tartly, going over to inspect the cart.

  “Some needles and t’read for tae sew a botton on a dhress…some pegs tae hang yer warshin’ on the loin…some sunglasses ta keep de sun outta yer oyes?”

  “Well…” Bessie guessed that she wouldn’t get rid of him until she purchased something. “I’ll have that packet of clothes pegs,” she said, mindful of what Mabel McClarty had once told her concerning an aunt of hers who’d spurned a gypsy. In a matter of weeks she’d endured the palsy, the clap, and a myoclonic seizure, before finally collapsing on St. Patrick’s Day with cardiac arrest while watching a flute band play “The Fields of Athenry” as they piped their way round Carlisle Circus.