“Dat’ll be t’urty pence, and cheap at twoice de proice,” said Bob. “Wud ya have a drap o’ tea for a t’ursty traveler?” He unhooked a tin mug from Brenda’s left flank and passed it to her.
“I’ve none made, but I’ll get ye a drink of orange.”
Herkie watched in amazement as Bob downed the drink in one gulp.
He raised the tin mug. “God bless ya, daughtur. God bless ya, son. Giddy-up there, Brenda!” He tugged at the reins and the mule did his bidding.
Mother and son stood and watched him go.
“Ma?”
“Yes, son.”
“Ma, why does Gusty Grant call his pig Veronica and Barkin’ Bob call his horse Brenda?”
“Because, son, it’s the closest they’ll ever get tae a wommin, dirty hellions. Let that be a warnin’ tae ye.”
Several hours later, mother and son were sitting grudgingly in a pew by the confessional. Bessie found the whole idea distasteful and passed the time examining her cuticles as opposed to her conscience. She knew that for appearances’ sake she had to follow through. Father Cassidy needed to be assured that she was a bona fide member of the flock. This was a way to convince him. She still had enough of a grasp of the Ten Commandments to make a good fist of things and had already rehearsed a fairly innocuous list of sins, headed up with the obvious “sins of omission.”
There were two rows of parishioners patiently waiting their turn. An evening sun, glancing in at the windows, threw pleasing patterns of color across the altar. Jesus flickered in a red globe. The chancel brasses gleamed. A dolorous St. Timothy surveyed the scene from a flower-choked plinth. Lorcan’s revived Virgin stood proud.
The air, heavy with beeswax and varnish, was further deadened by the effort of so many consciences being scraped. A stifled cough, a sigh, the clack of rosary beads on polished wood relieved the doom-laden quiet by times. Confessing one’s darkest deeds to a man in a black cassock behind a grille in the gloom was not an easy business.
At intervals the door of the confessional would creak open. A relieved parishioner would emerge, blinking, into the light, before stealing quietly up to the altar to parrot his penance. At this small spill of activity, the tension in the gathering would ease, heads would turn, and the row of backsides, as if obeying some unspoken command, would slide as one along the polished pew to fill the space left by the most recent victim.
Josie Mulhearn, seated next to Herkie, sniffing her way through a Divine Mercy novena, shifted herself at the sound of the confessional door opening. Bessie nudged Herkie into the vacated space and whispered in his ear. “You’re next, son. Now, ye know what till say?”
“Yes, Ma.” He suddenly needed to use the toilet but appreciated it was neither the time nor the place to ask.
“Good boy.” She patted his knee.
By and by, there came a raised mumbling from inside the booth, a sure sign that Josie Mulhearn was being forgiven her sins. A minute later the door of the booth opened. Herkie shot up immediately and dashed into the box.
Disoriented by the darkness and dying for a wee, the boy resolved to get his confession over with as quickly as possible. He took a deep breath.
“Bless me, Father, for I’ve sinned. It’s two years since me last confession. I—”
“Two years, eh?”
Herkie heard the priest making disapproving noises. He pressed on.
“I stole a Taxi and—”
“A taxi?” Father Cassidy was perplexed. “And where was this…er, taxi parked?”
“In me ma’s biscuit tin. And I broke the head off a fairy and pulled Veronica’s tail. That’s all, Father.”
“Her pigtails?”
“The pig’s tail, aye.”
“And why did you do that to another child, my child?”
“’Cos she was all durty and she was gruntin’ in front of me and annoyin’ me. Canna go now?”
Herkie didn’t wait for an answer. Thirsting for freedom and the nearest lavatory, he bolted from the box and hightailed it from the church.
“Jesus Christ, son!” Bessie bawled after him, forgetting herself.
Two rows of horrified faces turned her way. A tide of embarrassment rushed up the widow’s cheeks. All eyes were upon her. There was an appalled silence. “I’m sorry, I—”
The sound of a swishing curtain behind her had all heads pivoting further round. Bessie turned to see the bewildered face of Father Cassidy.
“What on earth is going on?”
“I’m sorry, Father. My son is…it’s just that he’s…” She struggled to find a plausible excuse. “Well, he’s afraid of the dark, you see.”
“Indeed. You’d better go and see to him then!” came the curt reply.
“Yes, Father.”
“This is the house of God, not a barn dance céilí. Who’s next there?”
As a new penitent entered the booth, Bessie, under intense scrutiny, gathered up her handbag and gloves. A show of piety was called for, to buy back some much-needed dignity.
She stepped out of the pew and into the aisle, halted, gazed raptly up at the altar, crossed herself, and with head bowed, genuflected deeply.
Only then did she feel sufficiently composed to turn, face her audience, and stride briskly out of the church.
Out of the church and into the sunlight—to find Herkie, take him by the ear, and wring his bloody neck!
Chapter twenty-eight
Now, Uncle Ned, I checked with Doris Crink,” said Rose, handing the old man the first of many mugs of tea, “and she sez that she’s definitely sure she give ye the right pension money. So maybe ye just forgot that ye’d got it. For as a body gets up in years, the mind can get a bit cloudy, can it not? God, me own mind’s a bit cloudy betimes, and I don’t have as many miles on the clock as yerself.”
“Aye, maybe ye’re right,” said Ned, slurping the tea while reaching for a rocky road chocolate square. “It was only a couple-a pound anyway. Would-a been worse had it been a couple-a hundred, Rose.”
“God, Ned, now you’re talking. A couple-a hundred would-a meant callin’ in Sergeant Ranfurley. And as you well know, Ned, nothing good ever came of a policeman having tae drive his car into a body’s yard, whether it be night or day.”
Rose and Ned had no idea, of course, that just a few yards away in the back field lay the culprit. Herkie Halstone was biding his time by coloring in Lorcan’s bullfrog before making his next assault on the pension fund.
“That’s why today I took the pre-conscience of keeping the handbag with me at all times, ’cos I understood it was when I’d left it downstairs in the kitchen outta sight of me eyes that the money went missing. Who knows, but maybe Veronica hoked it out and kerried it away tae a field. Them pigs can be very clever when they want tae be.”
Rose reached for the handbag and took out the pension envelope. She counted out the money on the bedside locker. “See, Ned, there it all is. Yer two fivers and two pound coins.”
“That’s great. Just stick it in that drawer there.”
“Well, she’ll not get the chance tae put her snout in my bag again. Anyway, Uncle Ned, there’s something important I wanna run past ye, concerning Gusty.” She blew gently on her cup of hot tea before risking a sip. Ever since finding the underwear—Mrs. Hailstone’s for sure—her thoughts had been fizzling and frothing like the hot oil in Josie Mulhearn’s deep fat fryer. She could not tell Ned about the discovery, of course, but could try to solve the problem. Something had to be done, and done very quickly. A diversionary tactic was called for and Rose believed she’d come up with the ideal solution. First she needed her uncle’s opinion. “Now, I wouldn’t want him to be getting ideas about that Mrs. Hailstone,” she began. “Ye know, I nivver thought he was interested in wimmin atall, tae she arrived.”
Ned made some noncommittal noises, half-listening, more interested in his chocolate square than Gusty’s love life.
“I think the best thing that could be done is for me to introduce Gusty to
a more suitable woman, tae take his mind off that Mrs. Hailstone. And the one I think would be the right one for him is a far-out cousin of my Paddy’s from down the country that goes by the name of Greta-Concepta Curley.”
“Bit of a mouthful, that.”
“Yes, she was a Greta-Concepta Curley tae her own name before she met Tommy Shortt.”
Old Ned mulled over the unusual marriage of surnames. “Short and Curly! Like a haircut.”
“Yes indeed. But that’s neither here nor there. When I tell ye a bit about her background, ye’ll see that her and Gusty would make a great match, haircut or not.”
Ned settled into the bolster to commence his nodding dog routine. Mindful, nonetheless, that he must give his niece half an ear, lest she catch him out.
“Now, Tommy was a half-blind breadman from Buncrana. When I say breadman, Ned, I don’t mean he baked the bread, not that any man would know how tae put a scone in the oven round these parts—or any part, if truth be told, my Paddy included. No, Tommy just driv’ the van-a bread round the country.”
“And how did he drive the van round the country if he couldn’t see?”
“Oh, he kept running into people right enough, but never kilt nobody. And when people saw him coming they’d jump into the hedge, so tae get outta his way. The eyes had never been good. Clouded up with cattyracks they were. People said that it was a miracle that Greta-Concepta got any man tae take her, ’cos, well, tae put it this way, Ned, she’d be an occasion of sin for no man. But with Tommy not seeing much and her not looking like much, sure didn’t it work out all right between the pair of them.”
“God, doesn’t the Lord move in wunderous ways?”
“Well, ye would think that, Ned, wouldn’t ye? But y’know, this story doesn’t have such a good end. It started with Sergeant Ranfurley having tae put Tommy off the road. ’Cos on this partickler day, didn’t he knock the parish priest, Father Mehaffy, off his bike.” Rose saw Ned’s look of shock. “Oh, yes, knocked him clean off it, and him on his way tae expose the Blissed Sacrament at the evening devotions. Nobody knew a thing about it till wee Greta-Concepta went out for a walk with the dog, and didn’t she find Father Mehaffy lying in the ditch with his feet up in the air.”
“That musta been a shock for her!”
“Well, the light nearly left her eyes from all accounts. ‘God, Father, what are ye doin’ down there?’ sez she. And Father Mehaffy sez, ‘Your Tommy’s only after knockin’ me down, so he is.’ And Greta-Concepta would-a had a heart attack had the heart been inclined that way. ’Cos ye know, if Tommy had-a kilt the priest it would-a been a terrible thing altogether.”
“Terrible, right enough.”
“Oh, terrible,” Rose agreed. “Sure, you could be climbing Croak Patrick and hauling yourself round Lock Derg on pilgrimages with the blood running outta your bare knees from now tae the end of yer days, and ye still wouldn’t make up for a sin like that. Anyway, wee Greta-Concepta helped the priest up and brought him back with her and give him a cup of tea, as a body would.”
“And was Tommy still on Lock Derg?” asked Ned, concentration waning, eyelids beginning to droop.
“What? God, no. Tommy was nowhere near Lock Derg. He was out tootlin’ about the yard. And when he came in, if he didn’t walk right pass Father Mehaffy and out the back door, for that’s how bad the eyes were.”
“Didn’t notice the Father?”
“No, didn’t notice the Father. ‘Did ye not see me out on the road there, Tommy?’ sez the Father. ‘For ye’re only after knocking me off me bike, so ye are.’ And Tommy sez, ‘God, Father, was that you? I thought it was one of Mickey Boone’s heifers that’d broke out, and I thought I’d give her a wee dunt tae get her back in the corner field.’”
“God! He thought the heifer was the Father?”
“Yes, indeed. Thought the heifer was the Father. Anyway, tae cut a long story short, Ned, Father Mehaffy tolt Sergeant Ranfurley, and the sergeant put Tommy off the road and tolt him he wouldn’t get back on it again till he got himself a pair-a glasses up in Killoran from Mr. Millar. Ye know Mr. Mill—”
“That’s a goodun,” Ned cut in, throwing a lasso about Rose to haul her back to the point. “And diddy get the glasses, diddy?”
“Oh, he got the glasses, Ned—but here’s the best of it. With the glasses he was able tae see wee Greta-Concepta proper for the first time, and it was only then he realized she wasn’t as well-looking as he thought she was. So if he didn’t run off with another woman down the country that used tae get two crusty baps and a jam sponge off him every Friday, and was neither seen nor heard of again.”
“Boys-a-dear!”
“Oh, it took Greta-Concepta a while for tae get over it, Ned. And there was a time when the people thought she might-a had to go to the nervous hospital for tae get sorted out. But y’know, Father Mehaffy was terrible good to her. He blamed himself, ye see. For if he hadn’t told Sergeant Ranfurley about Tommy knocking him off the bike, then Tommy wouldn’t of got the glasses and wouldn’t of seen how bad wee Greta-Concepta looked, and wouldn’t of run off with that other woman that bought the crusty baps and jam sponge off him every Friday.”
Ned nodded sagely, digesting this. “God, ye never know how things is gonna work out. And how is she now, Rose?”
“Oh, she’s grand now. She had bother makin’ hens meet in the beginning, but she had a wee bitta money put past in the credit union, and she moved tae Killoran and got herself a cooking job at the Kelly Arms.” Rose took a long drink of thirst-quenching tea. “Now, wee Greta-Concepta mightn’t be much to look at, but she’s got hands for anything…a great wee worker. That’s why I think she’d be ideal for our Gusty. Let’s be honest, Ned, Gusty’s not much tae look at, either.”
A look of panic came into the old man’s eyes. He thought of this strange women coming into his house, upsetting his routine. He had to speak his mind.
“I wouldn’t want no stranger comin’ in here, pullin’ and haulin’ at me in the bed, Rose.”
“Now Greta’s not like that, Ned,” she assured him. “And a waddin’ wouldn’t be on the cards right away. What I’m proposing, Ned, is that I set up a meeting between the pair of them. Now, we wouldn’t tell Gusty, of course. But what if you and me and him go for a wee day tae Killoran and we can call in at the Kelly Arms. That way, you’d get tae meet wee Greta-Concepta, too. What d’ye think?”
“S’ppose it wouldn’t do any harm, Rose.” Ned rubbed his chin, considering. “But I don’t know about these oul’ legs of mine.”
“Now, I was just gonna say, Ned. Them legs need-a bitta exercise. Do ye no harm atall tae get outta the bed for a while. Will we say this Friday? That’ll give ye enough time tae try out your legs, and give me time tae get a shirt washed and ironed for you and Gusty.” Rose got up and lifted the tray. “Now, I’ll just get us some more tea. We’ll not say a word tae Gusty. I’ll just say we’re goin’ intae Killoran to have a word with a friend of mine and it’ll be a wee run out for the three of us.”
“Good enough.”
When Rose left the room, Ned stared out the window. He could see Rosehip Cottage from his bed. God, how things are changing, he thought to himself. Rose getting Gusty a woman because of another woman living in his sister’s house, one he’d never even met.
What would Dora make of it all?
Suddenly he felt powerless, lying there in the big bed. Maybe Rose was right. It was time to get up.
It was time to take control of things, or before he knew it, Kilfeckin Manor might be taken from under his very nose, as he lay sleeping and oblivious to it all.
Chapter twenty-nine
Having spent an exhausting afternoon cleaning the parochial house, Bessie believed she’d earned a good slosh of whiskey in her afternoon cuppa, another slice of Rose McFadden’s pilfered fruitcake, a cigarette, and Tammy Wynette’s “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” on the asthmatic record player. She’d noticed it skipping and wheezing quite a bit since the move and wondered if Herkie
’s weight had done it harm.
“D, I, V-V-V-V…” Tammy stuttered.
Bessie sighed and went over to return the stylus to its groove. She settled herself on the settee, kicked off her shoes, and lit up. Aunt Dora’s sunburst clock struck the hour of five. Herkie was still down at Kilfeckin Manor. She hoped he wouldn’t delay too much longer. This being the evening of the big jackpot bingo, she intended to be first in the queue. But for now she’d relax.
Herkie was in no hurry to return home from his failed expedition to the Grant house. He was dreading his ma’s reaction to his empty pockets. However, being a resourceful little chap, he’d already concocted an elaborate story for his ma by way of explanation.
Herkie was good at concocting plausible stories. It was a skill honed out of necessity: to keep the peace between his warring parents. Stories that often involved making excuses for his ma’s absence to the father when he’d arrive home—roaring drunk in the back of a police car with his coat hanging off and shoes missing—demanding to know where that “whore of a mawer of yours” was. And Herkie’s young brain would go into overdrive, rifling frantically through his memory file of plausible excuses as he stood, terrified, at the top of the stairs. By which time Bessie would already be out the back door and running down toward the garden shed in her nightdress.
“She’s at Grandma’s / Mabel McClarty’s / Mrs. Ruff’s down the street, Da…’cos…’cos she ran outta milk and…and…the shop was shut and Ma had tae bring her over some ’cos…she wanted till make cocoa.”
“Makin’ cocoa at this time-a the fuckin’ night, son?”
“Aye, Da. I swear, Da!”
“I’ll cocoa her when I get me fuckin’ hands on her.”
It was usually well into the early hours when the father would conduct these less than lucid exchanges with the son. Several minutes later, mercifully, he’d fall comatose on the settee. The monster asleep, the danger past, Herkie would scamper down to the garden shed to give his ma the all clear.
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