The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  “God, canna, Ma?”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Coo-ee, Mrs. Hailstone! It’s only me: Rose McFadden.”

  “Oh, God!” Flustered, Lorcan threw Bessie a warning look and took Herkie by the hand. “See you later.”

  With that, he and the boy dashed out the back door, leaving Bessie to her fate.

  Bessie opened the front door on a panting Rose weighed down by carrier bags.

  “God-blissus, Mrs. Hailstone, are ye all right? Gusty said he saw the amb’lance earlier and I thought something terrible had happened to ye.”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Bessie, shutting the door behind her, and wondering how on earth she was going to explain the ambulance. “Come in and sit down. I’ve just made a pot of tea.”

  Rose eyed the inviting table of goodies. “Well, I wouldn’t mind a wee cup atall, Mrs. Hailstone.” She eased herself into a chair with a sigh. “God, me back. I feel like Barkin’ Bob’s mule, truth be told.” Her eyes roamed over the table. “What a lovely spread. Did ye bake all this yerself?”

  “Oh, it’s just simple stuff,” said Bessie, making light of the complicated marble cake, the dainty Viennese whirls. She refreshed the teapot and poured a cup. “I enjoy making my own things.”

  “I agree with ye entirely, Mrs. Hailstone.” She shed an Aran cardigan and hung it on the back of the chair. “There’s nothing like yer own bitta bakin’. As I always say tae my Paddy: You don’t know the Divil what’s in any of that shop-bought stuff, or what kinda durty kitchens they’ve come outta. A friend of mine worked in a bakery once, and she tolt me she wouldn’t ate a crumb of anything she made, for the man runnin’ it was inclined tae stick his fingers into every bowl of stuff she was mixin’, and accordin’ tae her, his hands neither seen soap or watter from one end of the week tae the next.”

  Bessie nodded in understanding. Mrs. McFadden could have been describing her former boss, Scottie “Butler” Yeats from My Lovely Buns.

  Rose drew a breath and dived into a shopping bag. “And on that very subject of bakin’ and the like, Mrs. Hailstone, I brought ye a wee gift.”

  “Oh!”

  She produced a cake tin and took off the lid. “Me toffee tipsy Irish whiskey layer cake with crushed nuts and touch-o’-mint,” Rose announced proudly. “The one—” She stopped abruptly and pressed a hand to her bosom at the very memory of it. “God, I still get the palpitations even thinkin’ about that day. Ye were so good to sort it all out. That’s why I thought I’d make ye the wee cake as a present, like.”

  Bessie took the tin. “Oh, you shouldn’t have, Mrs. McFadden…but thank you very much. It looks delicious.”

  “I’m glad ye like it. A lot of work went intae it. Wouldn’t be a cake I’d make very often.” She reached for a Viennese whirl. “Only for special occasions, if ye get me meanin’. And what was the amb’lance doin’ here did ye say?”

  Bessie, unused to Mrs. McFadden’s tendency to skip from topic to topic, was caught off guard. She took a mouthful of tea to buy time.

  “What ambulance was that?”

  “Oh, the one Gusty saw comin’ outta the backyard there this mornin’. He thought he saw a fire engine, too. But since he didn’t see no flames comin’ outta the roof, he thought maybe it was just a red van. ’Cos ye know, Freddie Dabbs, the butcher, drives a red van, and maybe he was leavin’ off a bitta beef with ye. Dora used tae buy a pound-a mince steak and a bag-a chicken giblets off him every Monday, for a drop-o’ soup tae take her through the week. But…” Rose reached for the teacup.

  Bessie, sitting there nodding politely, wisely decided to let Rose ramble on. Now she understood completely why Lorcan was always so eager to get out of the woman’s way.

  “…and anyway, as I was sayin’, Mrs. Hailstone—and I said this tae me Uncle Ned, too, when I was makin’ his bed this mornin’ and gettin’ him intae a clean set of drawers: ‘That amb’lance,’ sez I…‘that amb’lance maybe broke down and pulled intae Dora’s yard for tae—’”

  “Gosh, you’re spot-on,” said Bessie with relief, offering Rose a slice of marble cake. “The engine was overheatin’ and he called in here for some water.”

  “There ye go!” Rose smiled broadly. “God, I just knew I was right. Wait tae I tell Uncle Ned that.”

  Bessie eyed the clock and tried not to yawn.

  Rose coughed politely. Then: “Now, there’s another wee thing of a delicate nature I need tae straighten out with ye.” She rummaged in her handbag and brought out a small brown paper bag. She pushed it across the table.

  Bessie was nonplussed. It had been an extraordinary day so far. She’d nearly lost her life at the hands of the Dentist, but instead, he had lost his at the bottom of a well not ten yards from where they were sitting.

  Her thoughts raced. She opened the bag with a sense of foreboding, and drew forth her missing panties.

  “My goodness, how did you come across these?”

  “Well, tae cut a long story short, I was ridin’ me bike along the county road out there on me way intae the town last week, when I saw them lyin’ on the roadside.”

  Rose felt bad about telling the lie to cover up for Gusty. She fully intended to confess the sin to Father Cassidy the following Saturday evening.

  “Now, I had an idea they might-a been yours when I saw them, and not the underwear of any of the wimmin livin’ round these parts. For most of the wimmin in these parts—meself included—would be wearin’ the full brief ’cos we wouldn’t be able tae get intae a pair of wee skimpy things like that. Not that I’m sayin’ there’s anything wrong with them, mind you. It’s just that when a wommin gets up in years, like meself, she gets a wee bit broader of the beam, if ye get me meanin’.”

  “Can’t understand how they made their way all the way out to the road. I had them pinned on the line.”

  “Well, ye know, Mrs. Hailstone, maybe the wind blew them off.” A force-twelve hurricane couldn’t carry them that far, Bessie thought. “Or maybe a magpie caught a-holt of them.”

  Rose saw Bessie’s look of incredulity. “Oh, d’ye see them black-beaked scissortails? They’d take the food outta yer mouth if ye forgot tae shut it when ye were eatin’. But of course a city wommin like yourself wouldn’t be expected to know the like of that.”

  Bessie’s eyelids were beginning to droop, but she clung on, prepared to learn the thieving habits of every magpie in the vicinity of Tailorstown. Then, mercifully—

  “God, is that the time? I have tae get my Paddy his tea. If he doesn’t have it on the dot of three he gets that old acid influx, so he does.”

  Bessie helped Rose to her feet.

  “Thanks very much for the lovely cake, Mrs. McFadden.” She held up the lingerie. “And these.”

  “That’s no bother atall. Now, there’s just one more wee thing, Mrs. Hailstone.” Her voice dropped to a confessional whisper. Bessie, suddenly fearful she might decide to sit down again, moved to the door. “Now, that lovely wee boy of yours, wee Herkie…ye wouldn’t mind sendin’ him down to Uncle Ned’s the morra in the forenoon? Ned has a few wee jobs that need doin’ round the place. And he’s been so good so far.”

  “No problem, Mrs. McFadden. I could use the hour of peace.”

  “Oh, and another wee thing, Mrs. Hailstone. This is just for your ears, mind, but I think it’s good tae warn ye, ’cos tae be forewarned is tae have four arms, or whatever it is they say.

  “I was talkin’ tae Betty Beard the other day and she tolt me her mother is very well mended. She’d come down with a Baker’s cyst, don’t ye know. Betty sez she’ll be comin’ back tae her job next week. Now, I’m sure Father Cassidy will be tellin’ ye that the morra anyway. But it’s good tae be a couple-a steps ahead, is it not?”

  Little does she know, thought Bessie, as she finally—and with immense relief—shut the door on Mrs. McFadden. With a bit of luck, Father Cassidy wouldn’t even have the luxury of telling her that her job was finished. If there was any justice in the
world, he was in the clink by this stage, counting the bars on his cell window, as opposed to counting his priestly blessings.

  Chapter forty-six

  Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes: work never begun.

  Lorcan Strong stared at the unfinished portrait of the Countess, turning over in his mind the aptness of the observation. Yet he felt certain that Christina Rossetti had not been pondering the whole sorry field of reproduction painting and counterfeit art when she coined those words.

  Sir Joshua Reynolds’s portrait had indeed been a thing of beauty—but no more. The villainous had forced the guiltless to misappropriate its beauty for the purpose of duping the unsuspecting. Lorcan’s hand—his right hand, which had brought so many things of beauty into the world, whether by breathing new life into an Old Master or deepening the mystery of reality through his own work—had created that: an exact replica of a masterpiece.

  Esthetic desecration should be alien to an artist’s hands. Those hands are for giving, not taking; for creating and sharing, not grasping and amassing for oneself.

  With that in mind he crossed to the portrait, took a steadying breath, raised a craft knife, and prepared to commit his first act of vandalism against—but for the sake of—true art.

  And so the blade went through the Countess of Clanwilliam: through the flesh tints of her plain visage, the muted hues of her pale bosom, into the rich fabric of the magenta dress, the delicate leaves of the book she held.

  He sliced through the Van Dyke browns, the Prussian greens, the indigo sky, the carmine roses, the glossy black of her abundant hair, until the fruits of the hours and days of his forced labor behind locked doors hung in tatters, unrecognizable in the wooden frame.

  The assault over, he lifted the ruined work off the easel, ripped the shreds from the stretcher, levered the staples from the frame, broke it up, and tossed the lot into a garbage bag.

  He would not be saving the stretcher for another canvas. Every trace of the painting had to go. As with Blennerhassett himself, he wanted the thing out of his life for good. He understood Bessie’s need to get away from the cottage. The ill-starred well would always be a reminder. He, on the other hand, need not be party to such reminders. He could destroy the object. Burn it. Bury it. Throw it into the nearest river and hope to forget it.

  He heard the phone ring as he was securing the bag. A few seconds later, his mother’s voice, calling up to him. “Lorcan, dear…one of your colleagues…Stanley from the museum.”

  He went down the stairs, gripping the garbage bag.

  “Stanley, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “How ye, Lorcan…Some good news and bad. Which d’ye want first?”

  “Now, let me guess…The Empire’s been bombed, but luckily you weren’t in it at the time.”

  “Not funny! No, oul’ Feel-the-Pain’s in hospital…Isn’t expected tae last.”

  “That is bad news.” Lorcan was recalling that his last conversation with Fielding-Payne had been less than cordial, with a heated exchange on the finer points of ladies’ corsets. “He seemed in rude good health when I last saw him.”

  “Aye, it happened only a couple of days ago. They say it’s a stroke. There’s word that the powers that be are gonna ask you tae take his place.”

  “Don’t know why they’d want me.” He was aware that Stanley liked a bit of gossip. He guessed it came from isolation, of a working life spent handling fossils in a darkened room for most of the day.

  “Well ye see, his niece is doin’ your job now. Nice bitta skirt she is, too. Would suit you down to the ground. I’m sure they wouldn’t want till be sendin’ her away just ’cos you’re comin’ back. Well I hope they’re not, anyway, ’cos—”

  “Get to the point, Stanley. Is this one of your inventions?”

  “No, it’s true! Catherine at reception said she’d typed the letter till ye yesterday. Just thought I’d let ye know in advance, like. You’ll soon be back anyway.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. Well, thanks for letting me know, Stanley.”

  “No bother.”

  “See ye soon then. Regards to Catherine.”

  “Will do…Oh, Lorcan, hold on a wee minute.”

  “Yes?”

  “See, when ye take over…ye wouldn’t do a mate a favor and get me moved out of them bloody fossils, would yeh?”

  Lorcan grinned. Stanley looking after his own interests, as usual.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s high time you moved on from there. I’m told there’s a vacancy in Stone Age Artifacts.”

  “But…but…”

  “Not modern enough? Right you be, Stanley: Bronze Age Implements it is then. I’ll make it a priority.”

  “Now, come down here to the kitchen, Herkie,” Rose said kindly. “The work ye’re gonna be doing for Uncle Ned might take a lot outta a wee boy like you. So a wee bite tae eat first, tae keep yer strength up.”

  Herkie struggled up onto a high stool, eyes widening at the feast laid out on the table. There was a hefty slice of sponge cake, a Wagon Wheel, two bourbon creams, and a jam tart. Rose had provided the banquet as a salve to ease Herkie’s pain. For what she had to say to him would be discomforting at best.

  “Now, you and me’s gonna have a wee talk while ye eat that,” she said, pouring Herkie a glass of fizzy orange and sitting down opposite.

  “How much are ye gonna pay me?” asked the bold Herkie—never one to mince his words when it came to the subject of money. A childhood spent hearing his mother complain about not having enough of it, and his jobless father concocting ways of relieving other people of theirs, had him believing that theft was the speediest and most painless method of acquiring it.

  He took the slice of sponge cake in both hands.

  “Now, Herkie, I think ye have a wee confession tae make?”

  “I said me confession last Sa’rday.” He well remembered the embarrassment he’d caused his mother and the resulting drubbing he’d taken on the backs of the legs.

  “Aye, so ye did, but did ye tell Father Cassidy about the pension money ye stole outta me handbag, son?”

  Herkie took a gulp of orange and gaped at Rose over the rim of the glass, cheeks going pink.

  She waited for his shame to subside and for an explanation to be offered. When none was forthcoming, she said, “Now, I know it was you, so don’t deny it.”

  Herkie had a sudden brainwave. Through the open door he heard Veronica snuffling about the yard. “Maybe the pig took it.”

  Rose tried not to smile. “Well, ye see, Veronica wouldn’t be able to open the big clip on my handbag. And before ye blame Gusty…”

  She reached into her apron pocket and drew out the telltale Milky Way wrapper. Rose had held on to the evidence, fully intending to report the theft to Sergeant Ranfurley. But the bomb scare had intervened, and while it had created unprecedented upset in her life, God-blissus-and-savus, it had nonetheless solved the riddle of the stolen pension.

  “I found that outside there on the doorstep and neither Gusty nor Veronica eat choclit bars, truth be told.”

  Herkie knew the game was up. Two fat tears rolled out of his baby-blue eyes and traveled all the way down his cheeks, to fall off his chin and onto the plate.

  “Don’t tell me ma! She’ll kill me, so she will.”

  “No, I’m not gonna tell yer ma. That’s why I brought ye down here. Ye’re gonna do a bit of tidying up round the place, tae make up for the money ye stole. ’Cos ye have tae do penance for breaking the Eighth Commandment. Ye get nothing in life for free, Herkie. Is that all right now?”

  Herkie nodded, mollified that his sin would be kept secret. The backs of his legs would remain pain free, and his ma would never know about all the lies he’d told her regarding his expeditions to Kilfeckin Manor.

  He could live with that.

  Chapter forty-seven

  Are you looking for something, dear?” asked Etta Strong, coming into the living room.

 
She had entered through the door that led from the bar to their living quarters. Lorcan had not been expecting that.

  He quickly stuffed the wad of Aunt Bronagh’s international money orders into his trouser pocket and turned to face his mother. He noted she’d been to the hairdresser.

  “No…no, just…just seem to have mislaid one of my cuff links,” he said, abashed. “You’re not back at your station already, are you? I’m surprised.”

  “Oh, my legs are fine now. And, if I’m honest, I missed the banter…Chatting to customers keeps me occupied.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, no, son. You carry on. Brother Brendan is out there, counting the takings from his charity boxes. You know how long it takes him. His eyesight isn’t the best. I thought I’d get him a cup of tea.”

  “Wouldn’t a pair of glasses be more appropriate?”

  “Away on with you.” She headed in the direction of the kitchen but paused. “Oh, before I forget. Socrates says he lost his dentures on Saturday night. You didn’t come across them, did you?”

  Lorcan, bemused: “No. I don’t believe I did.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, I think I’d remember something like that. How on earth do you mislay a set of dentures?”

  “They’re a new set, you see, and he had them wrapped in a hankie in his pocket.”

  “What stunning logic! They don’t call him Socrates for nothing, do they?”

  “Now, don’t be cruel, dear. He was keeping them out until he got used to them.”

  “I don’t really see, but—”

  “Oh, another thing, now that I’ve got your ear.” Etta came closer to him, her voice a whisper. “It’s about Gusty.”

  “Why are you whispering? There’s no one around, and you’re not in the confessional.”

  “Shush!” She cast a look at the open door. She heard Brother Brendan coughing softly and the chink of coins. She caught Lorcan’s arm. “I’m worried about Gusty.”

  “Er, right. Why?”

  “Well, when he was leaning over to change one of the beer kegs yesterday, I’ll swear I saw the strap of a lady’s slip sticking out from under his shirt.”