Bessie managed a smile. “I don’t know what any of this men’s talk is about.”
“Well, I’d best be off.” He ruffled Herkie’s curls. “You take care of your mum, you hear?”
“Aye—I mean yes, Mr. Lorcan. Ma, can I watch the TV?”
“Go on then.”
On the doorstep Lorcan turned to her. “I want to help you, you and Herkie. Don’t worry about Ranfurley. They have more important things to deal with these days. Your passport would be the least of his worries.”
“I have to find it. The only place I haven’t looked is the parochial house.”
“There you are.”
“But…but what if Father Cassidy finds it? He’ll know I’m not who I say I am and…oh, God!” Bessie clasped her face in her hands, the tears welling up again. “They’ll lock me up and take Herkie away.”
Laughter from a sitcom filtered through the door, as if mocking her. Lorcan quietly pulled the door to.
“Look, that’s not going to happen. Go to the parochial house and check. Father Cassidy wouldn’t do that. He’s a priest, after all.”
Bessie grasped his arm. “Will you take care of Herkie if anything happens to me? Please…please, Mr. Strong. I—I need to know. There’s nobody else I can…”
Lorcan felt her grip tighten. He looked into her desperate, frightened eyes, astonished at the earnestness of her pleading.
“Of course I will,” he reassured her, “but that’s not going to happen.” He reached into an inside pocket and took out a card. “My number at the pub. Just ring me.”
Bessie withdrew her hand from his arm, suddenly self-conscious. She studied the card. “Thank you, Mr. Strong.”
“Lorcan.”
“Lorcan.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry…sorry for…but I don’t know anyone round here. I—”
“It’s all right. Thank you for the tea, Elizabeth—I mean Bessie.”
She stood, not looking at him, her hand covering her mouth.
“Call me later on,” he said. “I’ll be at the pub all evening. Let me know if you find the passport. We’ll figure something out, all right?”
He was glad to see her smile as he turned to go.
Chapter thirty-six
Having left Rosehip Cottage, Lorcan strode along the road leading back to Tailorstown, deep in thought. Nature’s beauty might have been unfurling around him, rogue clouds playing catch-up with the sun, but the artist in him, normally alert to these subtle shifts, was off duty on this occasion.
Elizabeth Halstone—or, rather, Bessie Lawless—and their recent conversation were laying siege to his thoughts. A problem shared might indeed be a problem halved in the normal run of things, but not in this instance it wasn’t. Blennerhassett was no problem halved. He was a curse, a pestilence that blighted the lives of those who had the misfortune to stray into his path. How could Lorcan confide to Bessie that he, too, was a victim, that his fears were just as visceral as hers? Why burden her? She was suffering enough. Had enough to carry on her own.
In his mind’s eye he saw her sitting in the drab cottage, frail and alone, kneading the handkerchief. He thought of little Herkie, naive and blameless, with his catapult and coloring pencils; a boy already damaged, but young enough not to be beyond salvation, and deserving of a better future than the one welling viciously out of the mother’s past. What would become of him if the mother were to meet with a mishap? He had to do something to help them. To help the mother. For, deep down, he sensed there was another Bessie, a caring, lovable one that had never received the nurturing. He reflected now that perhaps, with the right attention and sufficient time on a sun-facing slope, maybe—just maybe—she could blossom.
On the edge of town he stood into the hedge. The itinerant Barkin’ Bob was approaching, his junk cart bouncing precariously over the stones.
Bob, a regular on the road since Lorcan’s school days, had served in the Irish Army. A rejected man. Spurned, looked down upon by his fellow countrymen because he’d switched uniforms to fight for the British against Hitler in World War II.
Lorcan reflected on the courage such an act must have demanded—to fight the evil of fascism for the greater good. Bob had taken part in the D-Day landings. Had helped liberate the German death camp at Bergen-Belsen.
Man and beast trundled past, Bob acknowledging Lorcan’s gesture by giving his own tattered greeting.
The horrors he’d witnessed and the brutal treatment he’d faced on his return home—dismissed from the army and stripped of everything—had left him a broken man. Out of desperation he’d sought and found Jesus. Now he traveled the roads, spreading the word and selling his wares.
Lorcan was still thinking of Bob as he entered the town and made his way along the High Street. Must be amazing to live so freely with no ties whatsoever. The lines of a poem by W. B. Yeats came to him:
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress.
The poet could have been describing Bob.
He’d planned on using the bar entrance, to see what Gusty might be up to, but changed his mind.
In the hallway he slid his umbrella into the brass bucket by the hallstand mirror and hung up his hat. He sniffed the air. Cigar smoke. Odd. Not unless Gusty Grant had started to smoke the vile things.
He overheard voices in the living room. His mother had a visitor. She sounded quite animated.
He listened. It was a man’s voice. Dread seized him as he laid a hand on the doorknob. He knew that voice. He knew before he opened the door on the terrible tableau.
There, seated on the sofa—cup and saucer in hand, pinkie extended, a plump cigar burning in an ashtray—was the Dentist.
“Lorcan, there you are at last,” his mother said. “You never told me about your friend Mr. Blennerhassett.”
The Dentist winked at Lorcan. “Just passing through, Lorcan, as I was tellin’ your lovely mammy here. Thought I’d drop in and see how you were gettin’ on with that wee commission ye’re doing for me.”
Lorcan’s voice splintered. “R-r-right.”
“You never mentioned you were doing a painting for Mr. Blennerhassett, dear. I was telling him about that awful business with the bingo money—”
“Terrible business altogether,” the Dentist said, nodding his bald pate in mock concern. “And how are ye now, Lorcan? Is the head still sore?”
“I’m fine.” Lorcan’s shock was morphing into anger. He backed out of the room. “The picture’s upstairs if you want to see it. I’ll be with you shortly, Mother.”
The artist waited until they’d mounted the stairs and he’d shut the studio door.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?”
“Oooh, very nice,” the Dentist cooed, going immediately to the portrait of the Countess on the easel. “Ye’re nearly finished, if I’m any judge. But you’re the expert, so ye are.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
The Dentist swung round and caught Lorcan’s cravat, twisting viciously as he shoved him up against the wall.
“Is that a good enough answer for yeh? Now, I don’t like yer attitude one wee bit, me boy. Nothing like yer lovely mammy down there. A real lady.”
Lorcan stared into the murderous eyes, courage deserting him.
“Fine wee place ye’ve got here. Pity if it all went up in smoke with yer mammy inside. But sure wouldn’t ye get it back on the insurance…the price of this place, I mean. It’s not all bad news. See that Mervyn Campbell’s clothes shop in Carngorm? We gave him a fifteen-minute warning. We’re considerate like that. Time for him and the missus tae get out. That’s ’cos Mervyn always give us what we wanted. No backchat. No questions ast. But see you, that disrespect ye’ve just showed—tut-tut-tut. I might now be inclined tae give no warnin’ atall. Be a pity, wouldn’t it? For no way could ye claim back that
nice mammy of yours on the insurance. ’Cos she’s priceless, if ye get me drift. Isn’t that right?”
Lorcan was gasping for air. Blood pounded in his eardrums. The room was beginning to spin.
“Answer me.”
“N-no, I—I wouldn’t—w-w-want that,” he spluttered. “I’m sorry, really sorry. I—I didn’t know what I was saying.”
The Dentist eased his grip.
“That’s better. Now, ye have a week from today tae finish that pitcher. If it’s not ready when I come callin’ again, you’ll be sorry. Is that understood?” He shot his cuffs and smoothed down the outsize jacket of his chalk-stripe suit. “Need tae be on me way. I’ll say cheerio tae yer mammy on the way out. Thank her for the brew and the nice wee fruit scone.” At the door he turned. “Aren’t you the lucky boy now, with a mammy like that.”
He opened the door.
Lorcan, still struggling to get his breath back, was fighting the urge to pick up the nearest chair and break it over the monster’s back.
He fought the urge—and won. The Dentist left, shutting the door softly behind him.
From downstairs came the sound of his mother’s voice. He stumbled across to the door, opening it a crack to listen.
“Well, were you pleased with Lorcan’s work, Mr. Blennerhassett?”
“As pleased as punch, Mrs. Strong, but he’s got a wee bit more tae do.”
“He’s a perfectionist, you know. He gets that from me, I’m afraid.”
“Never a bad quality in an artist, Mrs. Strong. That’s why I chose him. Well, I’ll be off. Thank you for the tea. You make a lovely wee fruit scone, if I may say so.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Blennerhassett! Hopefully we’ll meet again.”
“We certainly will, Mrs. Strong. We certainly will. Good day to ye now.”
Lorcan heard the front door close.
“Lorcan!” Etta called up the stairs. “There’s still some tea in the pot. Would you like some?”
“Yes, I’ll be down in a minute.”
He went immediately to his bedroom at the front of the house and peered through the curtains. Blennerhassett was getting into a green Ford Cortina, not his usual Austin Princess. He watched as he swung the car onto the main thoroughfare. Would he take the Killoran road heading back to Belfast or the road to Carngorm? The Carngorm road would take him past Bessie’s cottage. What if he spotted her little car? It was distinctive enough, and it would be parked out front. Worse still, what if he saw her and Herkie out walking? The consequences were too horrific to contemplate.
“Lorcan, what are you doing up there?” His mother was in the hallway again.
“Coming…just changing my shoes.”
The Ford Cortina sat idling at the T-junction.
“Please, God, let him go—” Before he’d got to the end of the sentence, Blennerhassett was turning, mercifully, onto the Killoran road. The road that would take him back to Belfast.
Bessie and Herkie were safe.
The danger had passed, quite literally, for now at least.
Chapter thirty-seven
Bessie sat on the edge of the bed, having woken from a brief nap. Exhaustion was overtaking her, but she had to stay focused.
Lorcan’s visit had unsettled her—yet galvanized her, too. She held fast to the idea that she’d done the right thing by confiding in him. He was a respectable man. She hadn’t met many of those in her life. It was fortunate that Herkie had happened across him in the stone circle. She thought back to all the vile judgments she’d made about him and felt ashamed. The tears were brewing again. God, why could she not simply trust people? Why was everyone an enemy on sight?
Suddenly vexed, and conscious of the repetitive frustration of her life, she picked up a hairbrush and flung it at the far wall.
Glass shattered.
“Oh, Christ!”
She’d struck one of Aunt Dora’s holy pictures—St. Clare, Patron Saint of Embroidery. Aunt Dora had painstakingly sewn the caption in neat letters of purple cross-stitch.
The sound of the shattering glass had brought Herkie to the top of the stairs.
“What’d ye brek, Ma?”
She went and retrieved the hairbrush, returned it to the dressing table.
“Nothin’, son. The brush just flew out of me hand. Is Star Trek over?”
“Aye. I’m hungry, Ma.”
“Well, you’ll have tae go without your tea for a bit, son. You’re comin’ with me till the priest’s house.”
“Och, Ma!”
“We have to find me passport, son.” She bent down and gripped his shoulders. “It’s very important, ’cos if I don’t find it we can’t go to England, or Amerikay, or anywhere. We’ll be stuck here, and ye don’t want that.”
Herkie shook his head. “Why were you cryin’, Ma?”
“I wasn’t cryin’, son…just one of me heads. Tell ye what: After we’re finished we’ll go into Killoran for fish an’ chips. How’s that?”
Herkie’s cheeks dimpled with delight. “Can I have red sauce on me chips?”
She hugged him to her, the thought of separation, of losing him, triggering a newfound intimacy. “Course ye can, son. Brown as well, if ye like. Now, change into your blue T-shirt—I washed it yesterday—and we’ll go.”
She kissed him.
“Och, Ma!” He rubbed his cheek vigorously, as though to rid himself of the contagion.
He dashed from the room, the thought of the fish supper muting all notions of protest about having to change. Bessie got to her feet. The broken picture and Gusty Grant’s reaction would have to keep. Laying her hands on the passport was now the priority. Father Cassidy would be away until six. It was nearing four. She had plenty of time to do a thorough search.
Twenty minutes later she was parking the Morris Traveller at the rear of the priest’s house. Better not to alert undue attention by parking at the front.
“Now, Herkie,” she said, turning the key in the back door and entering the kitchen, “don’t touch anything, d’ye hear me?”
Herkie, clutching his headless Action Man, was already scanning the worktops for things of interest to “play” with.
She plopped her bag on the table. “I need ye to help me. And the first thing I want ye to do is get down on your knees and look under them cupboards for me. I don’t want tae split me good skirt.”
She found a torch on the windowsill.
“And here, use that. It’ll be dark under there. There’s a good boy.”
Herkie took the flashlight and fell to the task with relish. Heaven knew what he might find under the ancient furniture. The corpse of a small animal, perhaps, or even better, some lost coins.
Meanwhile, Bessie made a search of the drawers in the glass case. She rooted through the top two, the ones she would normally have used. She upended cutlery and linen, a set of gaudy Antrim Coast place mats and coasters. Nothing. The drawers underneath likewise held few surprises: crumpled prayer leaflets, receipts and bills, bits of string.
She sighed. It was a pointless exercise. There was little chance of finding the passport in a drawer anyhow. Why would she have taken it from her bag in the first place?
“Yuk! It’s all dirty down here, Ma.”
“Is that all ye can tell me?”
“I think I see a dead mouse.”
“Well for God’s sake leave it there!”
“Or maybe it’s a—”
“Shush!” She thought she’d heard something upstairs.
She tiptoed to the kitchen door, opening it a fraction.
Herkie, still kneeling, looked up at her. Bessie put a finger to her lips.
Footsteps were moving across the landing.
If it was Father Cassidy, she had a story already planned: She’d forgotten her purse and only discovered it missing when she went to buy more headache pills. But how could it be him? His car was not outside.
A feeling of dread seized her. Who else would be upstairs in the house? The judge’s ghost? Father Ca
ssidy’s secret woman? She’d always had her suspicions—a handsome man like him. Hardly, though, in this close-knit community. The risk would be too great. If he were having an affair, it would be conducted far away from the parish.
A burglar? Oh, my God, what if it’s a burglar? But at this time of day?
She reached across and slid a knife from the block on the bench.
“Ma!” whispered Herkie, attempting to get up.
She turned her head and threw him a warning look. He sat back down again.
Heavy footsteps were coming down the stairs.
She had the best vantage point. The kitchen’s location at the rear of the hallway meant she’d have sight of the intruder’s back before he became aware of her.
A tattooed forearm appeared on the banister. That ruled out Father Cassidy, Betty Beard, or a secret mistress. A T-shirt above belted denims, dark hair, slim build. The man reached the bottom of the stairs, lingered for a moment, then moved with a casual air toward the front door—as if he knew the place well.
A burglar wouldn’t behave like that. He wouldn’t exit by the front door, either.
Bessie’s grip tightened on the knife handle. She stepped into the hallway, shutting the door on Herkie.
“Excuse me!”
The man turned.
Young, late twenties, fit-looking; she wouldn’t like to mess with him. His narrow face had a crafty look she didn’t care for.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He grinned. “Well, well—the housemaid, I presume. I wondered when our paths would cross. You’re an improvement on oul’ Beardie Drawers, I’ll give ye that.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and made to slink down the hall toward her.
“Stay where you are! I’ve got a knife and I’ll use it if I have to.” Fear was pulling moisture from her mouth, trying to knock the legs from under her.
“Oh, nice way to treat a fellow worker. You city wimmin—a hard lot ye are.” He made an exaggerated curtsy. “Charles H. Sproule, but ye can call me Chuck.”
“Father Cassidy never mentioned you. I’ve been here nearly a month and I’ve never seen you working here.”
The Disenchanted Widow Page 25
