He’d also thought of another excellent way to thwart her. On her days in attendance, like the present one, he’d leave the truck at Grant Auto Repairs and take his bicycle instead. That way she’d have no idea that he was even in the house.
Late afternoon, two hours before his evening stint at the Crowing Cock, and Gusty was standing, sweating and gasping, before a gilded cheval mirror, trussed like a festive roast. It had taken him a good ten minutes of squishing and squashing to get the two-way stretch panty girdle on. A further ten minutes had gone into positioning the falsies—since finding the first pair, he’d uncovered two more sets of different shapes and sizes—under the strap-adjusting nightmare that was the conical cup bra. Jezsis! This wommin business was harder work than stripping a bloody engine.
Leaving that aside, however, he was well-pleased with the astonishing transformation the hosiery had wrought. He ran his hands over his curvaceous silhouette—hairy chest and extremities notwithstanding—and delighted in the sheer, tightening feel of the fabric that gripped him in all the right places. He pranced and capered in his reflected glory, turning and twisting to get the most fetching views of his rear and legs.
In a corner, gathering dust, lay a pile of discarded copies of Reader’s Digest and National Geographic. His longtime hunger for arcane facts about life and the universe had of late been supplanted by urges of an entirely different order.
Veronica, installed on her usual couch, was not a concern. She was fully occupied with a pair of gold-mesh harem slippers, worrying the laces free and sinking her snout into the soft, silky linings for a quick snooze whenever the task grew tiresome. Occasionally she’d turn one piggy eye on her master and give a small, satisfied grunt, which Gusty interpreted as a sign of approval.
Pleased with his choice of underwear, he sashayed over to one of Lucien-Percy’s satinwood closets.
There were three, and they took up most of the back wall. Each held a mesmerizing collection of day and evening apparel, which had hung there undisturbed since their owner’s demise all those years before. One closet was stuffed with cocktail dresses and ball gowns; another held flirty casual wear, punctuated by a mink stole or two. The third was given over to shoes and handbags.
As well as all that, he had chanced upon an ebonized ottoman, which, to his joy, had revealed a variety of wigs—both blonde and brunette—three large jewelry boxes brimming with baubles, and several beaded pouches of cosmetics.
He began to rummage through the ball gowns, marveling at the extraordinary range of fabrics. He’d yet to put names to the textiles but in time would learn to distinguish his taffetas and chiffons from his crinolines and tulles. The styles were just as varied: strapless, backless, halter-necked, low-cut, high-cut, long, short, flapper, sheath, gathered, full-skirted, and plain.
A geranium-pink shift with a plunging neckline of Battenburg lace, gold lamé trim glinting at cuff and hem, caught his eye. He released it from the row of tightly packed garments and set it to one side.
Now: shoes. There was a bewildering array of calf-straining stilettos in metallic and suede. He reached for a fetching pair of peep-toe slingbacks in burnt orange with diamanté bows and gold spike heels. A shimmering rhinestone handbag completed the ensemble.
Time to dress.
So engrossed had Gusty been in his wardrobe that Rose’s arrival had escaped his notice. This was all the more remarkable because Rose, already an hour in the house, had been making quite a bit of noise. Not only had she washed the dishes and mopped the floors, but she’d also helped Ned to get up, got him dressed, and settled him into a lawn chair in the back garden.
The planned meet between Greta-Concepta and Gusty would be coming round soon, and it was important to Rose that Ned, her ally and support in the venture, should “get the legs out and about and workin’ proper” before the great event. God forbid that he should be unsteady on his feet on such an important day. A day that Gusty had no idea was in the offing.
“Now, they say the whole lot was took, Uncle Ned,” Rose said, filling her uncle in on the latest news regarding the theft of the bingo money. She was sitting beside him at a wrought-iron table with lion-paw legs, which had stood bogged in the soil of the back garden since Lord Kilfeckin’s day. On the table sat a jug of lemon cordial, a plate of meringue nests, and a folded copy of The Mid-Ulster Vindicator. “And poor Lorcan, heavens above, nearly got shot.”
“That’s the worst I ever heard,” said Ned. He sat with a herringbone rug over his knees, a frayed Panama hat shielding his eyes from the sun. “Just as well they didn’t shoot Father Cassidy.”
“Oh, they would never shoot a priest.” Rose dipped her chin at the very utterance of such a sacrilege. “But between you and me, Uncle Ned, they say it was a wommin that did the robbin’. And not any wommin, either, but one with a Belfast accent.” She threw a glance up at Rosehip Cottage. “Have you seen that Mrs. Hailstone yet through them spyglasses o’ Gusty’s?”
“Nah, he won’t lend them to me…I don’t see much of him anyway since he started tae work on the roof up above.”
“Now, from what Josie tolt me, Mrs. Hailstone didn’t get into the bingo on account of being late and not gettin’ no ticket. So maybe she took it badly and grabbed the bag when she got the chance. Another wee nest, Ned?” Rose proffered the plate.
The old man selected a meringue and bit into it, flakes showering the herringbone rug. He took a swig of lemonade to help the confectionery on its way. When he considered Rose’s theory regarding the bingo robbery, he saw more holes in it than the tea-leaf strainer on a plate in front of him.
“God, I don’t think a wommin would do the like-a that, all the same,” he said. “How could she knock a man clean out?”
“Well, in the ordinary run of things, Uncle Ned, I’d maybe be inclined tae agree with you. But ye know, when I see what she puts on tae go tae holy Mass, it’s not a modest wommin in a sensible dhress I’m looking at, but a brazen hussy in a frock so tight it’d make a blind man blush…maybe even give him a seizure.”
A grand mal seizure might have been in store for Rose had she seen what was going on just three floors above her head.
Gusty, fully attired now in the shift dress, big feet wedged into the frail slingbacks, was clopping about the room, admiring his stunning transformation. The girdle sucked him in, the bra pushed him out, creating an hourglass figure to rival that of a Hollywood siren. Rhinestone chandelier clips swung from his earlobes; an expandable timepiece gripped his wrist. And, to complete the look, an eight-strand pearl choker was doing its best to mask that unsightly Adam’s apple.
It was hot in the room. He decided to throw caution to the wind and open a few windows before starting on the pièce de résistance: his face.
At the dressing table several cosmetic bags lay upended. A seduction of lipstick tubes, powder compacts, and makeup pots glittered and winked for his attention.
He couldn’t wait to try them all out.
Installing himself on the bay stool, he turned his back on the piglet, removed his big glasses, and blindly set to work.
“What color was the dhress, Rose?” asked Ned, rheumy eyes suddenly agleam. He was trying to conjure up an image of the comely Mrs. Hailstone. Her name had rarely left the lips of his nephew and niece, and he was growing more curious by the day.
“What does it matter about the color?” Rose sniffed. She swept crumbs from her pristine apron. Poured more of the cordial into the frosty pause.
Ned rubbed his chin, conscious that he’d spoken out of turn, and tracked the progress of one of the Muscovy ducks as it waddled across the yard.
“It was the sort of article,” Rose continued, “which a particular kind-a woman would wear tae bed, not in the church. And that’s all you need tae know.”
“Aye…What about that Vindicator there?”
Ned had heard enough about the Belfast woman for the time being and was becoming irritated by Rose’s ramblings.
“Yes, Uncle Ned, I w
as just comin’ to it.” She drew a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket and picked up the newspaper. “I s’ppose it’s the ‘Round the County Roundup’ you’ll be wantin’ tae hear first?”
Up in the Turret Room, Gusty was dipping his garage-stained fingers into a dainty pot of Helena Rubinstein rouge. Totally absorbed now in the application of his makeup, he’d forgotten all about Veronica. Didn’t really care what she got up to, as long as she left him alone.
Unnoticed, the piglet had left the sofa and was snuffling about the room, intent on mischief. She discovered the set of falsies that her flustered master had let fall. They still lay in the corner where they’d come to rest.
She trailed them across to the window seat.
“Now, the weekly darts championship in O’Shea’s pub last Sa’rday night,” read Rose, “was won by Jamie McCloone. Jamie received a plague for his efforts from county councilor John Madden.”
“That’ll be a plack, I’d say,” Ned grunted.
“God, but ye know, ye’re right! Jamie received a plack for his efforts from John Madden,” quoth Rose, newspaper held two inches from her nose. “I must get an eye test with Mr. Millar in Killoran one-a these days.”
“What about Jamie, Rose?” Ned tilted the mouse-nibbled brim of his Panama. “Never see him about much. But then I wouldn’t see much with these oul’ legs of mine being the way they are.”
“Well, them oul’ legs is outta the bed now, Uncle Ned, and you’ll be able tae see as much as you like. Oh, doin’ the best is Jamie. He takes regular haul’days with his sister, Lydeea, down in Cork. She married Dr. O’Connor, don’t ye know.”
“That’s a fair bit tae go on a tractor tae see somebody.”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t take the tractor. He gets the bus. I make him a packed lunch, some rock buns, and a jam tart for the journey. Would be too long a journey for a man tae go without a bun or biscuit inside him. Anyway, here’s the best of it, Ned. If he didn’t become an uncle last year, tae twins, no less.”
“Ye don’t say!”
“Yes, indeed. A wee boy and a wee girl: Becky and Colm. Jamie calls them Bec and Col for short. Did I mention them before, did I?”
This was the umpteenth time in the course of a year that Ned had heard about Jamie and the twins. But Ned’s memory loss was Rose’s gossip-mongering gain.
“Aye, maybe ye did, Rose.”
She consulted the Vindicator once more. “Now where was I, afore I went down the side road with Bec and Col? Oh, yes: here we are. ‘Madame Calinda will be reading fortunes at the Royal Neptune Hotel for one night only this coming Friday. A half-hour consolation with the famous physic will cost three pound and fippence.’”
“That’ll be psychic,” corrected Ned. “You’d wunder why she needs the fippence.”
“Well, ye know, if she got ten customers and—”
Whump!
With a flash of pink rubber, a set of falsies struck the table.
Their speed and trajectory caused them to bounce three feet into the air. They landed in the grass—nipples up—close to where Ned was seated.
The old man leaned over, peering in astonishment. “Jezsis boys!” was all he could manage.
Rose got slowly to her feet. The blood had drained from her face. She beheld the strange object. A look of fright and disgust had taken hold of her features, making her eyes stand on end. She could have been Father Merrin of The Exorcist confronting the demoniac Regan for the first time.
“Oh, Jesus and the holy martyrs!”
“What kinda things are they, Rose, atall, atall?” Ned was easing himself out of his chair with the aid of his blackthorn stick. He tilted back the Panama hat and squinted to take a better look.
“Stay away from them, Uncle Ned!” She was frantic. “Them’s durty things.”
But Ned’s curiosity was aroused, and there was no stopping him. He went to the fallen falsies and, with one deft motion, slipped the blackthorn stick under the band that joined the rubber hemispheres. He lifted them up out of the grass and swung the stick in Rose’s direction.
“Oh, Lord-blissus-and-savus! Get them durty things away from me this minute, Uncle Ned!”
Rose was thinking on her feet. She snatched up the copy of the Vindicator with both hands, wrapped it hurriedly about the falsies, effectively relieving Ned of the burden. Her heart was pounding. She held the paper-wrapped bundle at arm’s length, as though its contagion might infect her, and let it fall in the grass.
Where had the disgusting things come from? Had a bird dropped them? Unlikely. She looked up at the top story.
And spied Veronica.
The piglet’s head was jutting out over the window ledge of the Turret Room. As Rose watched in dismay, the animal moved its head from side to side, ears flapping. Its piggy eyes were searching for something down below. Rose guessed what that something might be. She was appalled.
“Gusty, are you up there?” she roared.
There was no answer. Veronica stared down at her, blinking rapidly in the sunlight.
“Where is he?” She looked back at Ned.
To her disgust, the old man had lifted off the newspaper and was down on his knees. “I think it’s one-a them brassy ears but with a—”
“Don’t you dare touch them things!” She snatched up the rubber boobs and wrapped them more tightly in the Vindicator. “They’re goin’ on the hearth fire this very minute.”
Up above, a window was banged shut.
“Whyn’t ye say Gusty was up there?”
“I thought I tolt ye he was fixin’ the roof.”
Rose glanced down the yard. “Where’s his truck then?”
Ned searched for the answer in the garden grass.
“I don’t know what’s goin’ on in this house atall, atall!” She thrust the scandalous parcel under her arm. “But the Divil himself is in it. Father Cassidy will have tae come and bless the place. The people were right tae say this was a bad house. There’s no religion about it. Brassy ears indeed!”
Mrs. McFadden turned on her heel and marched inside to incinerate the breasts and have it out with her errant cousin.
Chapter thirty-four
The piglet, ears flat, curly tail held high, bolted from the Turret Room and down the stairs, squealing like the Banshee of Beara at a Hallows’ Eve moon.
“I wanna word with you, Gusty. And I want it now.” Rose’s voice rising up from the stairwell, words slicing the air like scimitar blades.
Ah, Jezsis!
He tore off the jewelry, peeled off the dress, threw the bra and falsies into the closet. No time to lose the girdle and finicky suspender belt. They’d have to stay put. The boots and baggy boiler suit would cover all.
He hauled them on.
“Gusty, do I have tae climb these stairs with me bad legs or what?” Rose’s voice more shrill now, querulous, stabbing into his ears.
Christ! What if she did climb up?
He dashed to the door. “I’m comin’ now!” he shouted, stalling her, buying precious time.
He scoped wildly about the room.
The cosmetics!
Open pots of rouge and tubes of lipstick littered the dressing table. He lunged toward it, tripping over the gout stool, wrenched open the top drawer, and swept the lot into it. As he slammed it shut, a tacky pantomime dame—rouged cheeks, croquet-hoop brows raised in painted surprise—stared back from the mirror.
Bloody hell! The makeup.
No soap or water in the room. He seized a fistful of brocade drape and used it to rub it off.
He dashed down the stairs.
“Now, Gusty, you come in here this minute.” Rose stood in the mouth of the kitchen door, feet planted firmly, arms folded tightly across her chest. “I need a private word with you.”
He followed her meekly. Slid into a chair by the scrub-washed table, adjusted his big spectacles, uncertainty holding sway. Christ, what if she notices some of the makeup? Maybe the curtain didn’t get it all off. How the blazes am
I gonna explain that?
The odor of burning rubber hung on the air. A spluttering and spitting from the coal-banked hearth told him that Lucien-Percy’s funbags were being unceremoniously cremated.
No big deal. He had a couple of spare sets upstairs.
“Now, that pig o’ yours just dropped a pair-a things on top of Ned and me. Things that only the Divil himself would have about him. You’re up tae something up there, and it’s got nothin’ tae do with fixin’ a roof, if truth be told.”
Gusty, face burning, feeling as frantic as a ferret in a footlocker, tried to remain calm. He gazed past her out the window to see a neighbor, Dan McCloskey, chopping wood in a far field. The thuck, thuck of his ax reached into the room. God, if he could just be out there, like him. He concentrated on Dan, bent like a birch branch over the labor, and tried to summon forth a plausible explanation.
“Well, it’s like this,” he began, “Veronica found them pair-a things up in—up in the roof space, and—and when I went tae grab them, begod if she didn’t shoot past me intae…intae one-a the rooms, and—and threw them out the windee. They musta been lyin’ up there from Kilfeckin’s day ’cos I never seen them afore.”
“I hope ye’re tellin’ me the truth, Gusty, ’cos if you’re not, I’ll have tae get Father Cassidy tae come and put the holy watter on ye here and say a Mass.”
“No call for that, Rose. Swear tae God! I’ll soon be finished up with the roof anyway.” He saw Dan straighten, chuck the split wood onto a trailer, swing up into the tractor seat. Gusty placed his palms on the table. “Needa be gettin’ ready for the Cock this evenin’. Time’s goin’ on, so it is.”
“You just sit your ground there, Gusty.” Rose was grim-faced. “I’m not finished with you, not by a long sock.” The image of Mrs. Hailstone’s briefs was flapping wildly in her head, like a flag atop a tyrant’s palace. “That’s not the only thing I have tae discuss with ye.”
The Disenchanted Widow Page 23
