by Brian Moore
Show me a sign, she said.
CHAPTER XV
MR MICK MALLOY, cashier at the Ulster and Connaught Bank, draped his grey sports jacket neatly on a hanger and put on his black shantung work coat. He unlocked the door of his small cage and whistled a few bars from Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann as he went in. Discreetly, because old McStay hated that. Lunch at the Bodega, an occasion, it had put him in fine fettle. With two half-uns of whiskey and a glass of beer afterwards with the roast beef. By God, Mr Malloy said to himself, and all because of a horse I never saw and never will. Flammarion, my beauty, I must watch for you the next time you’re out.
John Harbinson, the messenger, was opening the doors to the public and removing the lunch card. Mr Malloy set his little cage in order. I wonder now, he said to himself, I wonder would there be a bit of golf going this week-end? He rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head speculatively. There might, there might indeed, if the weather held up at all.
Mr Mick Malloy, tall young secret gambler with devil-may-care eyes and a long humorous nose, became Mr Malloy, tall cashier with a dignified face, a gentlemanly bank clerk, a nice sort of fellow. He smiled politely at the funny-looking duck.
‘Yes, Madam?’
By the holy, thought Mr Malloy (the rake), that one wouldn’t be an occasion of sin for any man. And indeed she was a sight. On the wrong side of forty with a face as plain as a plank, and all dressed up, if you please, in a red raincoat, a red hat with a couple of terrible-looking old wax flowers in it. And two, it’s the mortal truth, two red rings on the one hand.
No mint of money there, thought Mr Malloy, the cashier.
‘I’d like to draw some money,’ said the red coat.
Mr Malloy took her book and checked it with his ledger.
‘And how much would you be wanting, Madam?’
‘Fifty pounds.’
The lot, damn near. £58 16s 2d. Minus, equals £8 16s 2d. Clerkly, Mr Malloy rechecked. Book compared. Approved. Signature on cheque. Rubber stamp. ‘And how would you like it, Madam?’
‘O, five-pound notes and one-pound notes.’
‘Fives and singles.’ Mr Malloy remembered happily the pleasant pay-off he himself had received down Union Lane just after the bank closed for lunch, two quid each way, Flammarion, there yew are, mister, the dirty bookie’s clerk said, sliding no less than sixteen quid across the counter, remembering his own good fortune, Mr Malloy paid out the money cheerfully.
She took it and her hands were trembling. Would that be a disease, is it Parkinson’s they call it? Mr Malloy (student of mankind) wondered. She has the look of a sick person, he decided, watching her count it.
Right you are. Book back. Entries made. Check. Recheck.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the book and the money, sweeping them into her big old purse.
‘Thank you, Madam. Good day to you.’
Not a single good-looking, let alone smashing, girl has walked into this bank all week, Mr Mick Malloy (philosophic philanderer) thought, watching the funny-looking duck walk away.
Ah, well! Lucky at cards. Or rather, horses. My bonny Flammarion.
Next customer!
Mister William Creegan, wine and spirit merchant, came out from the back and caught young Kelly reading a magazine. Movieland, it said in bright blue letters across the top.
‘Is that what I’m paying you for?’ Mister William Creegan said.
‘Nosir.’
‘If I catch you at it again, you can take your cards and go.’
‘Yessir.’ Young Kelly skittered away to the other end of the shop, making believe he had some bottles to put up for an order. Mister William Creegan consulted the gold half-hunter watch his own father had worn. Ten to three. He had to buy an ironing board. Later. He put the watch back in his vest pocket and arranged the gold chain across his middle.
Jing, jing, jing! the bell cried. Mister William Creegan looked over at Kelly. Never mind, his grey eyes said, I’ll take it meself.
A bit old for that sort of get-up, he thought as he cracked his solemn jaw into a smile. A red coat and she must be about the age of my Agnes.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘And what would you be wanting?’
‘Two bottles of John Jameson, please. And a bottle of gin. Gordon’s, I think.’
A lady by the sound of her. He looked at the trembling hands. Ah, dear, my fine lady, I know your trouble.
‘Mis-TER Kelly!’ Proprietor William Creegan called. ‘Two Jameson and a Gordon’s.’
‘Would that be to be sent now?’ he asked solicitously. For she’ll never have the strength to lift it herself.
‘O, dear.’
‘It’s a bit of a weight to carry,’ William Creegan, wine merchant, said. He knew his wine, his spirits.
‘Well, perhaps I could take one with me and you could send the others.’
Pencil. Order pad. All attention, he looked up.
‘And what’s the address, please?’
‘Well . . .’
Ah, I know your trouble. No priest knows better. A man gets to be a mind-reader in the business of selling spirits.
‘Now, I could give you a shopping bag, if you like,’ he said. ‘It mightn’t be so heavy after all.’
She smiled at him. She looks as if she’d been crying, God knows the troubles people have. And the trouble they bring on themselves. He looked at her left hand. No ring. Have I seen her before?
‘Good afternoon, miss,’ young Kelly said, putting the two Jamesons and the Gordon’s down on the counter.
O, he knows her, does he? A regular customer, I wonder. Well, thought Proprietor Creegan, she buys the very best.
‘That’ll be five pounds, eighteen shillings and ninepence,’ he said.
She opened her old purse and pulled a clutter of notes out of it. William Creegan, wine and spirit merchant, looked at the white fives, the green ones.
‘I’ll put it in a bag with a handle on it,’ young Kelly said. ‘Then you’ll be able to manage.’
Mister William Creegan made change. ‘Do you know her?’ he said out of the side of his mouth.
‘Sure. But she must have come into money,’ young Kelly whispered. ‘Most of the time it’s fifteen bob tonic wine. One bottle only.’
Mister William Creegan slid the cash drawer shut and turned gravely.
‘Five, eighteen and nine.’ He paid three coppers into her trembling hand. ‘That’s five nineteen. And a shilling is six.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And here’s your parcel. Can you manage it, do you think?’
She took the bag, lowered it to the floor and lifted it again. ‘O, yes, it will be all right, thank you.’
‘Thank you. Good afternoon now.’
‘Let me see now,’ the clerk said. ‘You’re the lady who telephoned from the station. Yes, here it is. A single room. Would you mind signing the register?’
He looked at the two bell-boys. They waited the word. They wore little round caps with PLAZA HOTEL across their brows.
‘Number two-one-four,’ the clerk said, handing them the keys.
‘Can I take that bag, ma’am?’ the bell-boy said, reaching for the paper bag which the lady held in her arms.
‘I, I think my trunks will be quite enough for you,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘They’re quite heavy, you know.’
‘We can manage the bag as well, ma’am.’
‘No, I’ll carry it.’ And she went shakily to the elevator.
Bottles, the hotel clerk said to himself. Bottles, by the sound of them, when she picked it up. She has the look of a school-teacher on a spree. Well, it takes all kinds. A hotel is your home. In your home, you are master, unless you offend the neighbours. Mindful of the precept, he promptly forgot the matter. He picked up the afternoon post and began the slow labour of filing it in pigeon-holes.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the older bell-boy said, pocketing silver. ‘Would you like the window open a little?’
‘No. Ju
st draw the curtains.’
‘And there’s your key, ma’am,’ the second bell-boy said.
‘Thank you. Good night.’
‘Good night. Good night. And thank you.’
They closed the door. The lady went to the wash-basin, took a glass from it and sat down in an armchair, still wearing her red hat, her red raincoat.
‘How much?’ the older bell-boy said to the younger as they sauntered down the corridor.
‘Five bob, would you believe it?’
‘Me too.’
‘She doesn’t look the type.’
‘Ah, sure you never can tell. Some of these ould dolls are rollin’ in it. And to look at her, you wouldn’t think she had tuppence.’
‘Where?’ asked Mr Lenehan.
‘To the Plaza Hotel, no less,’ Miss Friel told him. ‘You could have knocked me over with a feather when she told the taxi driver.’
‘The Plaza? Did she win the football pools or somethin’?’
‘Win nothing! Mrs Rice packed her off, bag and baggage, today. But the best of it is, she came back this afternoon to get her things. And would you believe it, she had a shopping bag full of whiskey bottles under her arm. O, I had the measure of her a long time ago!’
‘Off on a toot, eh?’
‘Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, the bad article, but I was passing quite close to her door a few minutes after she came back and what should I hear but the sound of a bottle hitting a glass.’
‘You’ve got good ears,’ Mr Lenehan said, grinning.
‘Do you want to hear the rest of it, or don’t you? I’m not going to stand here and be insulted.’
‘Now, no offence meant. So you heard her guzzlin’ it up?’
‘Heard her? Two minutes later you could hear her all over the house, singing away like a flock of parrots. I couldn’t do a stitch of reading, so I put my book down and went to her door and gave it a rap.’
‘That shook her, eh?’
‘Well, you should have seen her. She had on a red dress, bright red, you’ve never seen the like of it. And a red hat, I tell you, it was comic. “Are you leaving?“ I said. “Yes,“ she said, “I’m leaving. I’m sorry if the packing has inconvenienced you. Now, I’ve got things to do,“ she said, bold as brass. “Would you mind?“ The cheek of her! Well, I gave her a look as much as to say, I know what’s the matter with you, my lady, drunken old, cheeky old, thing. And then I just looked at the bottle. A bottle of whiskey right there on the table. And a glass half full of it, without benefit of water. I just looked at it and said, “Well, I hope you’ll keep sober until you’re ready to clear out. Because we won’t be able to carry you down the stairs.“ ’
‘And what did she say?’
‘What could she say? Half an hour later she was out in the street with Bernie Rice helping her to load her trunks on a taxi. And the cut of her! Holding this shopping bag full of booze in her arms as though it was a baby.’
‘Wait till Madden hears this,’ Mr Lenehan said. ‘That’ll put the ould Yank’s nose out of joint.’
‘Is she gone?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘No, Mama.’
‘And what about him?’
‘He’s upstairs packing now. He says he’s taking the train tonight for Dublin.’
‘He’d better. I’ll be glad to see the back of both of them. And there’ll be another at the end of the week. I gave that girl her notice this afternoon.’
‘But Mama, it’s not true what he said.’
‘Don’t you add the sin of telling lies to what you’ve done already. I had it out with that child this afternoon, I don’t want to hear another word, O, men are filthy beasts, every blessed one of them.’
‘But Mama, it was him, not me.’
‘I know it was him, the girl told me, what do you think I gave him his marching papers for? To think that a brother of mine — O, don’t say another word, it doesn’t bear thinking of.’
‘But Mama, please! Mary will tell you, I did nothing.’
‘I didn’t ask her. And I’m not going to. I just don’t want to hear it mentioned again. And Bernie, I want you to promise me one thing.’
‘What, Mama?’
‘There’s confessions tonight over at Saint Finbar’s. I want you to promise me to go. That’s not much to ask, now is it?’
‘No. I’ll go. Mama, I’m sorry about all this.’
‘Don’t try to get on the soft side of me now. It just goes to show what I’ve been saying to you all along, Bernie, if you paid more attention to your religious duties, these things wouldn’t happen. Because, Bernie, it doesn’t matter what you do in this world, it’s the next world that counts. Mass and Holy Communion would suit you better than trying to get back on my good side again. Make your peace with Our Blessed Lord, that’s what counts.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘You’ll do that now, won’t you, Bernie, for my sake? When I think of all I’ve gone through in the last week, first that woman, and then your Uncle James, a scandal, and that slip of a girl that I treated as well as if she was in her own home. Nice gratitude, I tell you.’
‘I know. But it will be all right now.’
‘I’ll make it all right, so I will. I’ll not have the whole town talking about us. I don’t want to hear another word about this, now or ever, do you hear me, Bernie?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Barman Kevin O’Kane, his red pompadour of hair bright as a brilliantine advertisement under the light, bent over and drew a glass of Guinness Double X. He sliced the head even with a ruler and placed the glass, white on rich black, in front of Major Mahaffy-Hyde. ‘So the Yankee’s gone,’ he said. ‘Well, he was a good customer, no doubt about it.’
‘A grand fellow,’ Major Mahaffy-Hyde said, drawing the glass of stout towards him. ‘A grand, open-handed, big-hearted fellow.’
Kevin O’Kane looked along the deserted expanse of mahogany, wiped himself elbow room, and leaned forward confidentially: ‘I hear tell he’s going into business in Dublin,’ he said. ‘What do you make of that, major?’
‘That’ll be the day,’ the major said, brushing foam from his straw-coloured moustache. ‘Far be it from me to doubt a man’s word, but I don’t put too much faith in that tale. You’d think the police were after him, he was so glad to get on that train.’
‘Aye, he made up his mind quick enough. Yesterday, there was no word of leaving.’
The major smiled a wicked parrot smile: ‘Or had it made up for him, Kevin lad. Did you ever think of that now? Y’know he let slip something this evening that could be a clue. It could be a clue.’
‘Just a minute, major, I’ll be right with you.’
Kevin O’Kane went down to the end of the bar, put a double Johnny Walker Black Label in front of a commercial traveller, name of Craig, made change, and returned to hear the clue.
‘Remember that woman he was going into business with? The one that turned out to be poor as a pauper? You remember that, Kevin?’
‘Aye, many’s the time he talked about the way she led him up the garden path.’
‘It could be the other way around,’ the major said. ‘Did you see his face when he came in tonight?’
‘A real thundercloud, major.’
‘Eggs-actly! Well, tonight he informs me that she’s just moved into the Plaza Hotel, if you please.’
‘Oho!’
‘And that’s not the best of it, Kevin lad. Y’see, it’s my bet he was a bit of a scoundrel, the bold James Madden. And it’s my bet he diddled her out of a bit of cash and then threw her over. And now, when he’s getting ready to skip off to Dublin, he finds out that there’s more where that came from. But not for him. D’you follow me?’
‘Aye, I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘Eggs-actly! A real Yankee-doodle blather! Too smart for his own good, do you follow me?’
CHAPTER XVI
IT WAS a lovely room, the kind of room
she never could afford in her aunt’s day, or after. A heavy broadloom carpet, golden brocade hangings and the finest soft double bed you could imagine. And central heating, comfy armchairs and no sound from the corridor. And the dinner, served on a tray, with heavy silver dish-warmers over each course, was lovely too. But there was no pleasure from the room and she left the dinner almost uneaten. What good was it, if there was no one to show it to, no one to share with?
And it was so expensive. So terribly expensive. The habits of years, the constant counting of the cost, the careful measuring of pounds, shillings and pence, wondering if there will be enough to last the week, these things become part of you; it is hard to wave them all away in a single day. Each time money had to be paid out, it had been as hard to give more, to disregard the cost, as formerly it was to make do on too little. So expensive, and really not worth it. But no, she would not count it to see how much had gone. That was not part of the bargain. She would just pull it out of her purse when it was needed, until every penny was spent. And then?
Miss Hearne stood up, drink in hand, and went to the window. She pulled aside the heavy curtains and looked out. Here, in the best hotel in the middle of Belfast. Me. But Royal Avenue was asleep, a wet grey belt studded with garish street lamps. A policeman turned his back against the wind and huddled in a doorway. A lonely tramcar clattered by, brightlit, empty, its conductor standing alone on his platform, fareless and forlorn. Traffic lights flashed red, amber and green in empty futility. Two late-goers passed below on the pavement, their voices loud, unreal in argument.
What time at all at all? My clock, she turned, balancing the drink dangerously on the window-sill, and hurried to her bag. The little travelling clock her dear aunt had received as a gift from Paris was on top. Five in the morning! How? Where did the evening go?
The bottle said: I am almost empty. It stood on the floor, near the bed, a small black accusing smoke-stack. Empty, it said, your fault.
No, she said, smiling at the bottle. You’re behind the times. There is, she told the bottle, no earthly reason to feel sorry. Because there is no heavenly reason to feel guilt. At least, nobody has shown me that there is. And I’m waiting to be shown, dear bottle. I’m waiting patiently. It’s five o’clock already.
