The Disenchanted Widow (12 page)

Yes, even if this “strange wommin” turned out to have webbed feet and a horn in the middle of her forehead, he felt sure he’d still be employing her.

Chapter fourteen

B
essie sat at Aunt Dora’s dressing table and reached for her smokes. Today was an important day, one that would require a generous measure of restraint. An interview with a priest wasn’t something she’d factored into her game plan. But urgent measures were called for, she reminded herself. She needed money—and fast. With last week’s family allowance almost gone, the job would plug the gap, for now.

A masquerade was called for. A pretense to respectability. Good posture, a coordinated outfit, and a posh accent could carry the day and progress things considerably. Had it not done so for the formidable Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock?

She’d learned a lot from her glamorous former employer, a woman who, according to Bessie’s dear-departed mother, hadn’t had a brass farthing until Mr. Peacock, a wealthy accountant, showed up. On their honeymoon he’d done the decent thing: lost his balance on board a Cunard cruise liner and pitched face-first into the Atlantic swell. His widow had inherited half a million. Not bad going for a slapper from the Lower Falls. Who was to say she hadn’t helped him over the side?

Father Cassidy had sounded like a real gent on the phone. Her interview was in a couple of hours’ time. The problem was, he was
requesting references from both My Lovely Buns bakery
and
the Plaza hotel, Belfast. The bakery was straightforward enough: Mabel McClarty, her colleague and friend, had written a reference a year earlier when Bessie, in desperation following yet another beating from Packie, thought she should move to another part of Belfast.

Yet in truth she’d never actually “cooked” at the elegant, five-star Plaza. Her brief tenure there, between skivvying for Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock and courting Packie, had included the most menial of kitchen duties: chopping vegetables and peeling potatoes if a member of staff fell ill. Still, what would a bumpkin priest know about anything, stuck in a parochial house half his life with nothing but a Bible and the parish accounts to keep him occupied?

She had, however, “befriended” a guest at the Plaza: a certain Colonel Padraig Redmond Murphy, who occupied a permanent suite on the third floor. She knew he was nothing but a dirty old man, but his tips were good. Bessie, always one for thinking ahead, had asked the colonel to write her a reference on the hotel’s embossed stationery. It was her way of getting back at the German head chef, who’d rejected her pastry-cook application. Little did she know back then how serendipitous that move would prove to be.

She left the fag in the mouth of a china frog at her elbow and dipped into the bottom drawer of the bureau. Squashed on top of Aunt Dora’s ancient underwear was Bessie’s filing cabinet: a Walker’s Shortbread tin in which she kept her confidential correspondence.

She flipped through the contents of the tin, delving down through her past, a paper trail of triumphs and tribulations—the latter, she reflected ruefully, massively outweighing the former.

A black-and-white snapshot fluttered onto the bed, and in an instant a gust of memory had her falling down a hole into the past.

A miniature bride with hands joined, white rosary beads entwined in her fingers, stared back up at her. Her First Communion.

“
Ma, can I put me dress on now?
”

“
It’s only half eight. Mass isn’t till ten. You’ll get it dirty. Eat yer porridge up
.”

“
Ma, pleeasse!
”

“
Shut up, Bessie. Give my head some peace!
”

“
I’ll put it on her.
”
Da getting up from the sofa, newspaper sliding to the floor.

“
No, Da! Ma, don’t let him…please
.”

“
I said I’ll fuckin’ put it on ye! Get into that bedroom now or I’ll knock yer fuckin’ head in
.”

Ma turning from the sink.
“
Leave her alone! Your hands are dirty, like yer bloody mind.
”

A fist flying out. Her mother falling. Blood spotting the floor tiles like crimson rain.

“
Oh, Jesus. Ma!
”

Bessie blinked away the tears before they had a chance to flow. She was good at that. A carapace of basalt, brilliant and hard against men and the world, had been laid down early. Layer upon sorry layer, ossifying down the years.

She returned the snapshot to the biscuit tin. Reaching for the cigarette again, hand quivering, she took a deep drag as she read through the colonel’s reference.

When she’d first seen what Colonel Murphy—retired, confused, dementia galloping through his brain like pigweed on a dung heap—had written in his reference, she’d been a bit concerned by its lascivious connotations but was in no position to object or ask him to write it again.

To whom it may concern:

Miss Elizabeth Halstone has worked under me for the past year. She is an excellent hostess, committed to her work and very good with her hands. In fact, what has impressed me most about her is her willingness to go that extra mile just to please the customer. She is discreet, flexible, can work on her own initiative, and is able to apply herself with energy and enthusiasm to whatever is requested of her. I would highly recommend her for any future positions she may wish to apply for. All in all she is a magnificent hostess.

Yours Sincerely,

Padraig Redmond Murphy (Colonel)

P.S. Her puddings are particularly splendid.

The comment about the puddings she had asked him to add, believing, wisely, that it might be necessary to mention a bit about the cookery in order to clarify matters.

With a satisfied nod, she slipped the reference back into the envelope and put it in her handbag. She checked her watch. Herkie was away, monitoring activity at the big house, and would be up at any minute.

Time to get dressed.

She bent down to her underwear drawer and extracted a panty girdle and longline bra. She’d planned on wearing what she referred to as her tweed “interview” suit: a cast-off from Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock’s winter wardrobe, circa 1968. However, it being a petite size 10 and Bessie being a healthy size 12, she needed all the help she could muster to achieve a pleasing yet voluptuous silhouette.

After slipping into the underwear and donning the suit, she stepped back from the mirror, squinting through a fog of cigarette smoke. She adjusted the jacket and appraised her bosom. Wisely, she decided that showing several inches of cleavage to Father Cassidy might not be
comme il faut
—not on a first meeting, anyway. She found a scarf and tucked it into place. A final squirt of Rapture cologne down her front and up her skirt, and Mrs. Elizabeth
Halstone was ready to face a rather late breakfast, the day, and whatever the good Father was likely to throw at her.

“Ma, Ma!” shouted Herkie, blundering through the door, breathless from the exertions of his reconnaissance mission. His yellow T-shirt had a big grass stain down the front and his bare knees were muddy.

His mother, smoking while stabbing at sausages in the frying pan, wetting tea, and laying the table to the yammering squawks of “I Will Survive” on the record player, was none too pleased at the interruption. Time was marching on, and she didn’t need any annoyance.

“Look at the state of
you
, son. What were you doin’ down there, havin’ a fight with a bloody dunkey? Away up them stairs and change! I’ve an important day ahead of me the day, what with the parish priest, and I don’t want no bother from
you
. Ye can tell me all about it when we’re eating.”

Five minutes later they were tucking into brunch—Bessie to her fry-up and Herkie to a bowl of cornflakes with a mountain of sugar on top, a chocolate éclair to follow.

“Now, what have you got for me, son? Who did you see?”

“Mr. Grant!”

Bessie stalled her fork. “What was
he
doing there?”

“I saw him coming outta the house, Ma. Then making faces at himself in a windee.”

“Are ye sure it was him?”

“Aye, ’cos he had big, flappy trousers and big glasses on him, and the pig was with him.”

Bessie chewed her food thoughtfully. What was Grant up to? Why hadn’t he mentioned that he lived down the hill?

“But I saw an oul’ boy as well. He lives upstairs and wears a cap.”

“And how did ye see him?”

“’Cos he peed out the windee…down on the ducks.”

“Well, that’s not so surprisin’ with bogmen, but don’t use that durty word in front-a me, son. We have to speak proper in this place. Mind what I told you.”

“Aye, Ma…sorry—yes, Ma.”

“Anything else?”

“I saw the oul’ boy pee—I mean going till the toilet—out the windee, and then Mr. Grant came with a bucket and fed the pig and started makin’ faces at himself in another windee. After that he took a big, long fork and hit the oul’ boy’s windee with it, and the oul’ boy put his head out and Mr. Grant shouted up at him, ‘Am goin’ tae see me cock about the night,’ or something, d’ye—”

“
What
did I say about using durty words in front-a me?”

“What durty word, Ma?”

“Never you mind.” She studied the tablecloth, trying to figure out what Gusty Grant might have meant. Then it dawned on her. “That’ll be the Crowing Cock pub…he mentioned he did a bit of work there in the evenings. Then what happened?”

Herkie screwed up his eyes, thinking hard.

“Then the oul’ boy shouted down, ‘Get me a flake and some glassy-ear-mince’ or something like that.” He took a deep breath. “And then Mr. Grant went ‘Och, away with yeh, ye oul’ shite,’ and drived—”

Whack!
Bessie’s hand smote the table. “If you come out with any more of that filth, son, I’ll be taking off them shorts and beating yer bum so hard you’ll not be sitting down for a week! D’ye hear me?”

Herkie lifted his glass of milk in both hands and took a long draft. He eyed his ma over the rim of the glass. Her next question would be whether he’d gone inside the house, and he was trying to predict how mad she’d be if he told her he had not. He decided to stall her by keeping outside in the yard of the big house and hoped she’d forget to ask.

“Did ye—”

“Oh, and outside there were some oul’ stupid cows in a field and four ducks covered in pee because the oul’ boy had peed—went tae the toilet on them—and—”

“Now, that’s
enough
! I warned ye about that language. And a lotta good any of it is to me, son.” Bessie was becoming irritated. A piece of bacon had dropped into her cleavage, and she was checking for a stain on her good silk scarf.

“So, ye went inside the house when Grant left. I hope ye did, son, for ye’ll get the back a me hand if ye wasted time down there, lyin’ in a field watchin’ pigs and cows and some oul’ boy peein’ on ducks.”

“I
did
go in the house, Ma.” Herkie began mushing up his cornflakes with the back of his spoon, unable to meet his mother’s eye. “It had big stairs goin’ up, and a big lamp with four arms up in the roof.”

“Aye, a likely story, son. I could-a told ye that meself, and I haven’t put me toe near the place. Ye didn’t go in the house, so don’t lie timme, son. Ye can lie to strangers but not yer ma.”

Herkie gazed into his cereal bowl, cheeks suffused with shame.

“Right, son, you’re going down there again the morra when he goes to the pub, and you’re gonna pay a visit tae that oul’ boy. You’re gonna knock the door first—to be mannerly—poke your head in and shout up ‘Hello’ when you’re goin’ up the stairs. That way, he’ll know you’re not a burglar. He’s maybe in bed and can’t get about, and that’s good. For ye can be his friend and help him out. He’ll slip ye a bob or two ’cos he’ll be grateful for the company. And that’s good for him, and you and me, too.”

Herkie signaled his frustration with his usual kicking of the table leg.

“
Cut that out, son.
Now, if ye come back to me the morra with them pockets empty, I’ll be lockin’ that cupboard and ye’ll get no
sweets for a fortnight. D’ye hear me?” Bessie stood up and drained the last of her tea.

“Och, Ma!” Nothing dismayed Herkie more than the thought of going without his sweet treats.

“Right, I’m away now.” She went to a mirror above the mantelshelf, unsheathed a lipstick tube, and reapplied a generous slash of Outrageous Red.

“Now, lock that door behind me and don’t let nobody in, unless it’s Mr. Grant. He said something about doing the garden. We have to keep on the right side of him until we get on our feet. So, if he comes, make him a drop of tea if he asks for it.”

“Aye—yes, Ma.”

“And another thing, son. Put out that washing on the back hedge for me.”

“Yes, Ma.”

She stood back from the mirror to admire herself, went to it again, teased at her hair, patted her lapels, then bent to the armchair for her handbag.

In the meantime, Herkie had picked up one of Dora’s many ornaments crowding the windowsill—a leprechaun playing an accordion—and was figuring out how he might remove its head when his ma was out of the way.

“Now look, son!” She took hold of his wrist and gave his hand a sharp slap. “What did I tell ye about touchin’ Dora Grant’s things?”

Herkie sheepishly replaced the leprechaun. “Sorry, Ma.”

“Now, mind to be polite to Mr. Grant if he calls, and remember what I said about being posh and speaking proper like Mrs. Peacock.”

“Aye, Ma. I mean yes, Ma.”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Herkie.”

“Oh, for
God’s
sake! Herkie what?”

“Herkie Law—”

“
Ah!
”

“Herkie Halson.”

“Now, Herkie, don’t try my patience or I’ll—”

“Sorry, Ma. Herkie Halstone.”

“That’s more like it. Where do we come from?”

“Belfast.”

“
Where
in Belfast?”

“Mahone Road.”

“Ma
lone
Road, son.”