The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  Now, as he dawdled up the back field, completed drawing under his arm, his little face puckered in consternation, Herkie was going over the story again, just to be sure he had it right.

  When I was comin’ in till the yard the ambulance came till the house and took the oul’ boy out on a stretcher, ’cos he must-a been sick. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open and maybe he was dead. The woman with the big white shoes was crying and Veronica the pig was going mad. Gusty Grant came outta the house and locked the back door and put the pig in the pen. Then the woman with the big white shoes said: “You run on back tae your mother, Herkie, for there’s no messages tae be run the day, for poor Ned’ll maybe not last the night, the poor creature.” Then Gusty and her got in the truck and went away.

  He felt confident with the story, and with the oul’ boy away in the hospital there would be no need for his ma to send him down to the big house again.

  Not so eager to return home, Herkie decided to head for the fairy ring. Mr. Lorcan usually drew his pictures there in the afternoon, and he could show him the finished drawings.

  Lorcan, seated on his tree stump, eyes closed under the warming breath of the sun, was relishing the peace and quiet in his favorite spot. He looked forward to these contemplative respites from the exertions—and, indeed, the people—of the day.

  Sitting there in the woodland clearing among the sacred stones gave him entry to a sacred space, just as painting did. The stillness soothed the soul. What was it Picasso had said? “Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life.”

  The scrunch of bracken underfoot broke in on his musings. An intruder approached. He tilted his hat—to see Herkie standing a few feet away.

  “Ah, Mr. Herkie Halstone. I thought it might be you.”

  “Were you sleepin’, Mr. Lorcan?”

  Herkie had been observing him for a few minutes from behind a tree. The strange artist had been sitting there as still as one of the stones.

  “Sleeping, Herkie? No, I shut my eyes in order to see. It’s what we artists do.”

  “Huh?”

  He removed his hat and swept an arm wide. “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods…There is society, where none intrudes.”

  “What?”

  “Lord Byron. Don’t mind me, Herkie. Come, sit.” He patted the tree stump beside him and smiled. “I do believe I see a finished sketch under that arm.”

  Herkie sat down sheepishly and handed over the drawing. “The fur on the rat—I mean dormouse—was hard till do ’cos me sharp’ner was blunt.”

  Lorcan was studying the drawing. “Excellent work, Herkie! Excellent!” There was a large circular mark in the blue sky with yellow spokes emanating from it. “I like that Van Gogh sun. Why did you add it?”

  “Nah, me ma set her tea down on it when I wasn’t lookin’, and so I made it into a sun.”

  “Very clever, that. Shows initiative. Not many artists could do that, you know.”

  He was glad to see the compliment lighting up Herkie’s face. But not for long. Something was amiss.

  “Would you like another sketch? Got plenty that need your master’s touch.”

  The boy didn’t answer. He bent down and rubbed the back of his leg. He’d taken six of the best on the backs of both legs for affronting his ma at confession.

  “Did the nettles get you? Nasty things.” On closer inspection, however, Lorcan saw that the welt marks were not stings. They’d been made by a rod. “How is your mother, by the way?”

  “She’s always mad at me. Said I wasn’t to come here no more.”

  “Ah. Right.”

  There was a pause.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t then.”

  “She said you might be a Provo, or a prevert, or something.”

  “I think she meant pervert.” He wasn’t so surprised at Mrs. Halstone’s poor opinion of him. He was guessing that her background predisposed her to be wary of all strangers, male strangers in particular. A thought occurred to him.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school, Herkie?”

  “Me ma said it’s all right. She sez I never larned much when I was in it anyway.”

  Lorcan was aghast.

  “She sez I have to earn me keep and I can’t do that in school. ’Cos Da didn’t leave us a pot tae piss in. That’s what she sez.”

  What a terrible burden to place on the poor child!

  “She has a way with words, your mother, I’ll give her that. But I don’t thinks she means what she says. School is the best place for you to be right now, Herkie. You’ll miss out on so much if you don’t go.”

  He saw the boy chew over the words. He thought he might be getting through. Then: “Mr. Lorcan, what’s a Peepin’ Tom?”

  Provos? Perverts? Peepin’ Toms? What on earth was she filling the child’s head with?

  “Where did you pick up that name, Herkie?”

  “Me ma sez there’s one down in the big white house…and she sez he’s a durty brute and she’ll have tae buy nets for the windee.”

  Dear me, thought Lorcan. Well, it’s hardly old Ned. That left Gusty. No great surprises there. Gusty would rarely come across the like of the glamorous Mrs. Halstone in the normal run of things.

  “Well, a Peeping Tom is someone who looks through other people’s windows when they shouldn’t. But you mustn’t be worrying about silly things like that, Herkie.” He patted the boy’s knee. “Great artists like you have more important things to think about. Isn’t that right?”

  Herkie smiled up at him, delighting in the praise.

  “Tell you what. Here’s another project for you. A more difficult one, mind, but I think you’ve proved yourself, Herkie.”

  Lorcan turned the pages of his sketchbook and found a drawing that would easily tax the painting capabilities of the great Henri Rousseau. The beautiful pencil study of wildflowers had taken the best part of three hours: a mosaic of intricate clumps showing tufted vetch, cow parsley, marsh marigolds, and meadowsweet. He tore off the page.

  “There you go. That should keep you busy for a while.”

  Herkie’s face shone; he was marveling at the detail. Then he looked up at Lorcan, wonder losing ground to uncertainty. “What…what if I mess it up? Can’t sharp me pencils no more.”

  “Nonsense. You’re an expert now, Herkie.” He reached into a pocket and produced a sharpener. “There. A gift for you.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  Knowing how much pressure the child was under to “earn his keep,” he said, “Tell you what, Herkie, if you color that picture in really, really well, I’ll give you a prize.”

  “What prize, Mr. Lorcan? Is it sweets?”

  “Oh, no, far more important than sweets. Now, let’s see. I’ll have to put on my thinking cap and ask the fairies first. They’re far wiser than I am.”

  Lorcan made a great show of pulling the hat over his eyes again, folding his arms and tilting his head skyward.

  Herkie waited, watching closely.

  After a couple of tense moments, he sighed deeply and removed the hat. He threw Herkie a suspicion-filled, sidelong glance. It did not bode well. Herkie’s expectant face drooped and his shoulders slumped.

  “What prize did the fairies say?”

  “Well, it was very interesting. They said if you color the sketch well, you’ll get third prize. That’s fifty pence. If you color it in very well, you’ll get second prize. That’ll be a whole one pound.”

  Herkie’s heart leaped at the thought of earning money for doing something he really enjoyed. He punched the air, unable to contain his excitement. “What’s the first prize?”

  “If it’s brilliant,” Lorcan continued, “and I mean really, really brilliant, you’ll be in line for first prize of…drumroll…first prize of a whopping two pounds and fifty lovely pence!”

  “Wheeee!” Herkie cried, jumping up and down. “I’m-gonna-get-first-prize. I’m-gonna-get-first-prize!”

  “Well, you better go home and get started on it right away. The
sooner you finish it, the sooner you’ll have your prize money.”

  Needing no further encouragement, the boy shot off.

  “Thanks, Mr. Lorcan!” he called over his shoulder. Then, halting, he turned back. “Oh, and Mr. Lorcan…”

  “Yes?”

  “Can ye say thanks till the fairies, too?”

  Lorcan raised his hat. “They’ve heard you already, Herkie. They’ve heard you already.”

  Chapter thirty

  So many showed up for Father Cassidy’s big bingo event that in the end there weren’t enough tickets and chairs, and people had to be turned away.

  Lorcan sat behind a table in the lobby alongside sixteen-year-old Fergal O’Toole, a spindly, nervous boy whom Father Cassidy had drafted in at the last minute to assist him.

  Judging from the moil of accents, the entire population of Ireland might have descended on Tailorstown. They’d come from all arts and parts, from up and down the country. Women mostly. Great gabbling, wagering hordes of them, flushed with the excitement of it all. Freed briefly from the drudgery of sink and stove, they were determined to make the most of it. They laughed. They joked. Their perfume sweetened the air and their fake jewelry glittered. They wore their Sunday best, clutched pencils and clipboards—the armory of the seasoned bingo player—ready to do battle.

  In their wake trailed the husbands, reduced now to the role of mere drivers, cowed into silence by the sheer numbers of the female kind. Dotted throughout the swell of marrieds were other men, the plainly wifeless ones who, without the benefit of a hectoring spouse—“Clean yerself up a bit. Ye’re not goin’ out in that!”—or indeed a looking glass, appeared as though they’d garbed themselves up in the dark.

  Many faces swam out of the past at Lorcan. Kindly faces lined by time and circumstance but still recognizable as the postmistress, the dinner lady, the school nurse from his childhood.

  “Still paintin’ the pitchers, are ye, Lorcan?” asked a little round woman worrying a purse out from the depths of a mighty alligator handbag—Lorcan had lost count of the number of times he’d been asked such a question—and immediately he was back in junior school, being handed a plate of boiled bacon and cabbage from the dimpled hand of Miss Alice Mulvany.

  “Miss Mulvany…very good to see you,” he said, accepting her fiver. “Oh, yes, still brandishing the brush for my sins.”

  “You were always great at the drawin’ when ye were wee, so ye were.” She dropped the purse into the jaws of the mighty bag and snapped it shut. “And isn’t it grand ye’ve made a job of it in the city.”

  “God save us, Lorcan, ye made a great hand of the Virgin,” cut in Rose McFadden. “Didn’t he, Josie?”

  “Oh, wonderful, Lorcan, so it was,” Josie agreed. “Everybody’s talkin’ ’bout how well she looks.”

  Next up was Socrates O’Sullivan. “Gimme two-a them boys, will ye?” he said in the patois of the locale.

  “They’re the last two left, Mr. Strong,” a voice broke in. It was Fergal. The boy had been so quiet that Lorcan, preoccupied with dealing with queries as to the state of his health, his mother, his job, et cetera, had forgotten he still sat next to him.

  “Gosh! Are you sure?”

  “Just as well I got here in time, so,” said Socrates, smiling broadly while a line of expectant faces began to scowl and look askance.

  “That’s not fair, so it’s not!” cried a woman whose bad perm and scalded cheeks hinted at many a suffering bout at the hairdressers. “Me and my Mickey came all the way from Muff, so we did.”

  Within seconds the relaxed jollity of the evening was on the turn.

  “Aye, and I just walked three mile,” a thickset man with an alkie nose protested. “Who’s in charge here?”

  All accusing eyes were on Lorcan. Not having factored in such a confrontation, he was at a loss. “Well, Father Cassidy’s in charge. I don’t suppose he expected such a big turnout.” Neither do I expect him to be able to conjure bingo cards out of thin air because you lot came late. Wisely, he decided to keep that last thought to himself.

  “Well, we’re standin’ our ground tae we get our cards,” said the stick-wielding walker, his tiny eyes ablaze with a fundamentalist fervor.

  “Aye, we’re all standin’ our ground,” the sheep behind him bleated.

  At that, the rear doors, which young Fergal had gone to shut, were pushed open again.

  In breezed Bessie.

  “Thank heavens I made it on time! Good evening, Mr. Strong.”

  “Hmmph!” the woman with the bad perm sniffed. “Mister Strong indeed! And you’ve wasted yer time, missus. There’s no cards left, accordin’ tae him!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Halstone,” Lorcan said, trying to sound as genial as possible.

  “But I’m the priest’s housekeeper!” whinnied Bessie. “If anyone deserves a card, it’s me.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Aye, and why should that make you any better than the rest of us?” Bad Perm’s cheeks were getting redder as she rounded on Bessie. There came murmurs of agreement from the assembly.

  “I’m sure my employer, Father Cassidy—the man running this event—would beg to differ, madam.” Bessie pouted.

  Lorcan, sensing that something unpleasant might develop between the two ladies, moved quickly to quell matters.

  “Look,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get Father Cassidy to come out here. Perhaps he can sort something out.”

  He opened the doors to the bingo hall. The place was packed, the noise level at an animated high. Father Cassidy was nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly, mercifully, a hush fell on the gathering. The reason? Fred McCrum, used-car salesman by day, emcee and resident bingo-caller by night, had clambered onto the stage. He tapped the microphone.

  “Testin’ one two, one two.”

  The mike squealed and shuddered.

  “Evenin’ tae yis all,” said Fred. “Now, a few wee things tae mention afore we get started.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “There’s a blue Robin Riley, reg number en eye double-ye wan four-four five, blockin’ the gate tae Scrunty Branny’s back feel. Could the owner please move it, as Scrunty needs tae get his cows in for the milkin’.”

  Someone at the front approached the stage. Fred leaned over, unmooring his comb-over in an inelegant manner. There was a whispered exchange and an audible titter from those nearest the front. The emcee straightened up, red-faced. He returned to the microphone.

  “Now, I’ve just been told that the blue Robin Riley belongs tae Deaf Mick. So cud somebody that knows deaf Mick go and get the keys aff him and move it, please? All eyes down for the first single line, a tenner.”

  Lorcan espied Father Cassidy stage left. He waved to him, but the priest’s eyes were firmly fixed on Fred and the ball machine.

  “Baker’s bun…sixty-one. Young and keen…fifteen. Dirty Gertie, number thirty…”

  “Check!” a voice shouted.

  There was a ripple of dissent, and all heads turned to see Rose McFadden waving her bingo book in the air.

  “Ye cudn’t of checked,” said Fred. “Ye have tae get the five numbers in a row, so ye have.”

  “Oh, God-blissus-and-savus!” cried Rose. “I thought it was the three, with the excitement of it. D’ye not get nothin’ for the three?”

  “Naw, ye get nothin’ for the three, ye bloody eejit!” a man at the back called out. “Get on with it, Fred, or we’ll be here all fuckin’ night.”

  A round of applause had an embarrassed Rose sitting down again. Father Cassidy leaped onto the stage and grabbed the mike. Silence fell like a guillotine blade.

  “That’s enough! There’ll be no bad language in this hall. Now, at the risk of repeating himself for a third time, Fred will run through the rules again.”

  He handed the mike back to Fred and got down off the stage.

  Lorcan sighed.

  “D’ye want me tae go and get Father Cassidy?” said young Fergal, joining him.

  �
�If you wouldn’t mind, Fergal.”

  Moments later the priest was making his way through a congested side aisle—a veritable Moses parting the Red Sea—to arrive, unruffled, in front of the disgruntled would-be bingo players.

  Lorcan noted a distinct loosening in the air at the sight of the priest. The woman with the bad perm beamed broadly and nearly curtsied. Her husband removed his cap and crushed it apologetically between his big, hairy paws. The puce-nosed hiker dropped his pugnacious pose. He stood more erectly, in deference.

  “Good evening, Father,” said Bessie, simpering.

  “Mrs. Halstone. Good evening.” He smiled at the group, turning on the charm. “Now, what have we got here?”

  “We’ve run out of cards, Father,” Lorcan said pointedly. “And these people are none too happy.”

  “I do apologize. That, unfortunately, is the risk one runs when the stakes are high.”

  “I think at the very least I should get one,” Bessie declared.

  “Yes…well,” Father Cassidy emitted a small sigh, waved a hand. “I do understand your disappointment, Mrs. Halstone, but one must be fair in this situation. These people came late, as did you, therefore all of you have missed out on this occasion. However, there is always next time. No one is saying the jackpot will be won tonight.”

  Bad Perm snickered.

  Bessie breathed tersely through her nose. “Never mind,” she said, not bothering with the “Father” honorific. She was seething at his total disregard for her position, but seizing the reins of propriety before Bad Perm could get there, said, “Gambling isn’t really my thing anyway. See you tomorrow then.”

  She went out, not bothering to shut the door.

  “We were just sayin’ what a pity we didn’t come earlier,” Bad Perm said into the chilly pause.

  “Aye, it’s our own fault, Father,” the husband agreed. “We’ll know better the next time.”

  The rest of the group, unable to meet Father Cassidy’s blessed gaze, shifted uneasily, surveyed the floor, and murmured assent.