She rooted in her handbag. Since finding the unmentionables on the barn step, she’d carried them round with her, wrapped in brown paper for modesty’s sake. Heaven forbid that Paddy should come across them.
She placed the package on the table.
“Now, don’t ask me what they are. ’Cos I think ye know only too well what they are. It’s a piece of that Mrs. Hailstone’s underwear, if I’m any judge. I found them out there on the step the other day. And don’t tell me that ye don’t know how they got there, for they didn’t get there without a pair of hands. And don’t blame Veronica this time, for she doesn’t have hands. Your Uncle Ned doesn’t have the legs to climb up that hill to Dora’s. Not that he’d ever feel inclined tae do such a thing, even if the legs were working proper. So that only leaves you, Gusty.”
He twisted in the chair. The tight girdle was hot, the suspenders digging into flesh unaccustomed to feminine restraints.
“W-well, I can explain how that pair-a things got there, Rose.” A small popping sound from the grate, a spew of sparks, and the last of the Jean Harlow contraption was roaring its way up the chimney. “I—I was clippin’ the hedge round Dora’s rosebush when I found them lyin’ in the field. They must-a blowed off the hedge when she put out the washin’, like.”
“And whyn’t ye put them back on the hedge then?”
“Well, I was gonna, only…only…” Gusty struggled, saw Dan McCloskey firing up his tractor, ripping out of the field. “Well, I was gonna, as I say…but then…but then the rain came on. Aye, the rain came on…and…and…” He stuck a finger in his ear and rotated it wildly, as if the action might trip the switch in his brain marked Ready Excuses. “And they would of got wet…aye, they would of got wet. Her car wasn’t about, so I knew she wasn’t in. So I put them in me pocket and I was gonna put them back on the hedge today. They must-a fell out of me pocket and I didn’t see them, like.”
Rose was shaking her head slowly. “This is a terrible business, Gusty. For if you started consortin’ with the like of that Mrs. Hailstone, you’d be a laughin’stock.”
“There’s no fear of that, Rose. She wouldn’t look at the like of me anyway.”
“Well, ye better let it stay that way. Uncle Ned doesn’t need no annoyance at his time of life.”
Rose got up, satisfied she’d had her say. “Now, this comin’ Thursday ye’re takin’ me and Ned tae Killoran. A friend of mine’s got a new job at the Kelly Arms in the kitchen. Do Ned good tae get outta the house for a glass of stout.”
“I’m in the Cock on Thursday afternoon,” Gusty lied, factoring his latest diversion, the Turret Room, into his hamster-wheel routine.
“I’ll have a wee word with Etta then. Lorcan can fill in for—”
“No, that’s all right, Rose.” It was best to agree with her and end his agony. “I’ll take yis tae the Kelly Arms, no bother.” He shot up quickly from the chair, his bum, paralyzed in the elasticized girdle, itching for relief.
“And as for that Mrs. Hailstone’s underwear,” Rose continued, “I’m gonna have tae give them back to her meself.”
“Aye, I better go up and get meself ready,” Gusty said, backing painfully out the door, sweat flying off him.
He gripped the banister—an iguanodon with the palsy—letting out oath-freighted sighs as he climbed.
Unbeknown to him, Rose had padded into the hallway and was tracking his progress. There was something funny about Gusty, and she was concerned. What was that black stuff under his eyes? Was he not sleeping? Or maybe it was the oil from the dry-rot can. And them cheeks were far too red to be sunburned. Was it the blood pressure? And he couldn’t sit still in the chair. Could it be the piles that were tormenting him and he was too embarrassed to say?
“Are you all right, Gusty?”
Startled, he turned.
“Naw…aye.” Then, in a flash, the perfect excuse: “It’s that oul’ bicycle of mine. I’m not used tae her yet.”
Chapter thirty-five
Bessie hung up the phone, having informed Father Cassidy that she wouldn’t be in until late afternoon. She couldn’t face him. Not yet, anyway. The risks were too great. It’s just a headache, she’d told him, and assured him she’d be fine. He’d been most sympathetic. “Take the whole day, Elizabeth,” he’d said. “I’ll manage.” Naturally she hadn’t mentioned the real reason—the aftereffects of having spent most of the previous night at the police station. He’d find out about that soon enough.
She’d sent Herkie to the shop on the pretext of buying milk. She needed to be on her own, to think things through.
She crossed to the record player. A bit of music might soothe her nerves. She unsheathed Tammy Wynette’s 20 Greatest Hits and lowered the stylus onto the vinyl. In moments the crackling static was giving way to one of the country star’s plaintive laments.
In the kitchen she tried to calm herself by making tea. The familiar ritual might clear her head, because she had to think—and think fast. The unexpected spiral of events had wrong-footed her completely.
When she and Herkie got home from the station, she’d turned the house upside down, looking for the passport and license. In the early hours she’d scoured the car, too. Nothing. The only place left was the parochial house. She’d have to go there when Father Cassidy was out of the way and do a thorough search. At three in the afternoon on Fridays he did his visits to the sick. That took him a couple of hours.
She loaded a misshapen raffia tray with the tea things. The tray had sentimental value, having belonged to her mother. Poor, long-suffering Hilda. She’d tried her best, had battled through against the odds, but her heart had given out in the end.
Strains of “I Don’t Wanna Play House” were drifting in from the living room. Bessie felt tears well up at the poignancy of the lyrics and the thought of her poor mother. She’d cooked and cleaned for most of her life. The raffia tray, which she’d made herself, held the promise that perhaps, given half a chance, she could have put more of herself out into the world.
She carried the tray through to the living room and sat down. I need a whiskey, she thought, pouring the tea. In the past, Dr. Montgomery had given her sedatives to get her through the rough patches. But there was no Dr. Montgomery now. There was no support whatsoever now. All the props had been kicked away with Packie’s death and her decision to do a runner.
She could phone Mabel McClarty at the bakery, of course; Mabel was also “bad with her nerves” at times and would maybe have a tranquilizer or two. But the thought brought another set of problems into play. Mabel didn’t drive, and there was no way Bessie could visit her. The raging face of the Dentist flashed before her. No, Belfast was no longer home. It was a bitter memory. A wound that had yet to heal.
The past held no solutions. Deep down she knew that. Going there only threw up the usual snarl of misery and regret. As for the present, well, who in this village could she turn to? The only woman she’d spoken to at length was Mrs. McFadden, and Bessie had ended up insulting her when she’d come a-calling to the parochial house with the fruit loaf.
She’d virtually no female friends. In truth, there wasn’t much for other women to like in Bessie. Her looks made her a threat on sight. She knew that. Gusty Grant? Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. How could she trust him? Besides, the price would be having to sit through a drink or a meal with him. The very idea was too unattractive to contemplate.
The only option left was to pack up the car right there and then and get the hell out. But without a driver’s license or passport, and only sixty pounds—the amount she’d managed to save to date—she would not get far.
She drew deeply on the cigarette as her gaze roamed the room. Out of necessity she’d not been able to take many of her own things from Valencia Terrace. The only bit of furniture, if you could call it that, was the record player. Dead Dora’s abundance of dusty old effects reminded her of her own lack. She couldn’t decide which state was the more desirable: too many possessions or too f
ew.
The song ended.
A hissing pause.
Then a melody she didn’t much care for: “Run, Woman, Run.” Apprehension gripped her. The song title was urging her to action. She drained the teacup, crushed out the cigarette. Went to the record player and silenced Tammy. The cops knew where she lived. They could come and arrest her at any—
A gentle knock on the door slammed a brake on that thought. She stiffened. They’re here, now. Oh, dear God! She should have got up early and simply left. Why hadn’t she done that? Why?
She moved cautiously into the hallway and put a hand on the banister. She’d slip back upstairs and lock herself in the bedroom.
“Mrs. Halstone? Are you in? It’s Lorcan, Lorcan Strong.”
She sighed with relief, but it was with anger that she pulled open the door. Was it not Lorcan Strong who’d identified the woman’s Belfast accent to the police, effectively putting her in the frame?
“What the hell are you doing here? How dare you come here!”
“Excuse me?” A shocked Lorcan held up Herkie’s Snoopy watch. “I found this…and just thought I’d—”
“Oh, you just thought, did you? Well, I’ve just spent the best part of the night in a prison cell because of you and your bloody thoughts.”
Lorcan stared. He saw that she’d been weeping. Her face was without makeup, the blonde hair awry. It was as though she’d aged by several years overnight.
“May I come in? I need to know what I’m being accused of. I’m sure there’s been a mistake, unless it’s your form to go around accusing innocent people without hearing their side of things.”
Bessie faltered. He had a point. And it was clear that he wouldn’t be going anywhere until he got answers. Hard on the heels of this thought came the notion that it might be best not to make an enemy of this man. Since her arrival in Tailorstown, he was the only person who’d genuinely tried to befriend her and the boy. All at once she felt uncomfortable and regretted her rudeness. Her hand relaxed on the door handle. She stood back to let him in.
“I’ve just made tea. Would you like some?”
“Yes…please. Thank you.”
She fetched a cup and saucer.
Lorcan sat down in one of the armchairs. He removed his hat and laid the Snoopy watch carefully on the coffee table. He noticed her hands trembling with the teapot, the spout joggling on the cup rim. He thought of Ranfurley, knew something of what she must have endured at the police station. To spare her further unease, and to break the pained silence, he looked away from her, his eyes taking in the cluttered room, and asked, “You like it here?”
She made no reply.
“I have an idea what Sergeant Ranfurley told you,” he ventured, taking the cup and saucer from her. “Did he claim that I’d said the woman who robbed me had an accent like yours?”
“Too right he did.”
“Well, let me assure you that I said nothing of the sort. He inferred that himself.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She could not meet his eye. Wanted desperately to light another cigarette but knew her unsteady hands would betray her nervousness. Her disheveled appearance was making her feel vulnerable. No makeup. Nothing to hide behind. Why on earth did I let him in?
“I believe you,” she said, “but the truth isn’t important to the RUC in times like these, is it?” Her eyes were on her mother’s misshapen serving tray. “They see a woman on her own with a child, and…” She trailed off, not knowing what she was saying. Part of her wanted him to leave, but another part was saying Trust this man; he’s on your side.
Lorcan took a sip of tea. It was too strong. Builder’s tea. The kind his father used to favor. He put the cup down gently on the saucer. “And?”
“And…and…a woman on her own…well, she’s an easy target, isn’t she?”
She fumbled a cigarette from the pack. It dropped onto the coffee table. Lorcan retrieved it and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers. Embarrassment flared in him as he struck a match.
“Here, let me,” he said.
“Thanks.”
There was another awkward pause. “Sorry, I forgot to offer you one.”
“No, it’s all right. I don’t smoke. Tried a few times but…hmm…” He noted her hands, the fingers flat, square-tipped. The skin abraded. Dishpan hands. “Where did you go when you left the bingo hall?”
“Why are you asking me that?” The words plucked from the air, harsh and defensive.
“Sorry, I—I only ask because if someone saw you, they could provide an alibi or something.”
“I walked back here. I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t see anyone.”
“Look, I’m only trying to help.” He was studying her face in profile. The nose was definitely Modigliani. The clean jawline just a hint of Kauffman. Mixed media on paper probably more flattering than paint. There was little color to work with, though. “It can’t be easy, losing your husband and having to—”
“No, it wasn’t—isn’t.” She didn’t like where the conversation was heading. “You shouldn’t believe all Herkie tells you. He’s just a boy.”
“But your husband is—”
“Dead, yes. That bit’s true.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t a happy marriage, if you must know. I doubt if many of them are. People pretend. Women pretend.”
Lorcan was lost for words. He watched her stub out the cigarette with a studied diligence. She might have been stubbing out the memory of the husband. The cuff of her blue sweater was frayed. The beige skirt had seen better days. A section of hem had come loose and been crudely sewn with black thread. The poise he’d observed in the church grounds was gone. She sat there staring blankly at the tea things. There was a great deal of repressed emotion packed into that look. He thought of what Herkie had told him about his father. “He was always hittin’ me, and me ma, too.”
A great wave of pity swept over him.
“You’re young…you can marry again.” He let loose the words, then quickly wished he could take them back.
“Why in God’s name would I want to?”
It was best to change the subject. “Do you…do you miss Belfast?”
“No.”
“Can’t say I miss it, either.”
A car passed by on its way into town. They heard the note of its engine change as it rounded the bend. Lorcan thought of other lives being led; Bessie thought of escape.
“Can I trust you?” she blurted out, taking him by surprise.
“Trust me? Well…well, of course you can.”
“How can I if I don’t know you?”
“Well, the only way you’ll find out is by trusting me. That’s the paradox.”
She did not know what the big word meant.
“I can’t,” she began. “I can’t…” She looked away from him, unable to meet his eye. “It’s just that…I’ve lost my passport and my driving license.”
“That’s easily remedied. Just put in applications for new ones. You can pick up the forms at the post office.”
Bessie didn’t know how to phrase what she wished to say next. Instead she broke down and began to sob.
Lorcan, discomforted, drew a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and reached it across to her. “Here,” he said gently.
She took it and dabbed her tears.
“Look, Mrs. Halstone, I promise you that whatever you have to say will remain with me. Things are never as bad as they seem if you talk them over.”
She looked up at him. He smiled at her reassuringly.
“I want to help you and Herkie. Now what’s the matter?”
“I’m…I’m not who I say I am…I mean my name isn’t really Elizabeth Halstone. My name’s Bessie Lawless and I’m…I’m on the run from the IRA. They think…they think I’ve got money my husband stole.”
Lorcan was gobsmacked. Lawless. The name had opened a door in his memory.
Suddenly he was back in Nansen Street, a witl
ess man’s screams in his ears, the Dentist head-butting a door with rage. “Now Lawless’s whore of a wife has took off with my money. But, d’ye see, when I get me hands on her, I’ll…”
“Go on,” he said carefully.
“He—Packie—he did a bank job for them and hid the money in our old house…in Belfast. Then…then he was killed in a car accident before…before he could tell them where he’d stashed it…They were comin’, ye see, to the house to get it and I had to run for my life with Herkie.”
Lorcan nodded, hoping she wouldn’t sense his own alarm. “And the money? Do you…do you know what became of it?”
“No. I looked everywhere in the house ’cos I wanted them to have it. When I couldn’t find it, I had to leave, ’cos I knew they wouldn’t believe me and I…and I couldn’t take…” She reached for the teacup. The tea was stone cold, but she gulped some anyway.
“You couldn’t take…?”
“Another visit from him.” In her imagination she felt again the rough hands about her throat. Gusts of whiskey-breath on her averted face. “I’m givin’ ye two days tae mourn yer useless husband, ’cos I’m considerate like that. Then I’ll be back for my money.”
“Him?”
“The enforcer, Fionntann Blennerhassett. Or the Dentist, as he’s called.”
“Ma…I’m back,” came a voice from outside.
“Herkie!” Bessie sat up quickly and dried her eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t the artist himself,” said Lorcan, already on his feet.
“Mr. Lorcan!”
“Look what I found.” Lorcan held up the watch.
Herkie’s face lit up. He made a grab for it. “Gee, me watch.”
“No, no. What do you say to Mr. Strong, son?”
“Sorry. Thank you, Mr. Strong.”
Lorcan took the boy’s wrist and fastened the watch in place. “There you go!”
“I’m nearly finished the drawin’, Mr. Lorcan.”
“Excellent, Herkie. The fairies are waiting with the prize money.”
The Disenchanted Widow Page 24
