The Disenchanted Widow (19 page)

“Herkie.”

“Well, pleased to meet you, Herkie. That’s an unusual name. What’s that the short for?”

“Herc’lees.”

“Hmm. Hercules—the Greek strongman. Was that your father’s name?”

“Nah—no, he was called Packie, but he’d a tattoo of Herc’lees on his belly.”

“How very interesting.” Lorcan thought of the body art of skinheads and sailors. He realized he was making a value judgment. Yet the belly was nonetheless a strange part of the anatomy to have decorated. Tattoos were usually displayed proudly on those areas more readily seen. Not unless this Packie person didn’t believe in wearing a shirt. “D’you miss him?”

“Nah. He was always hittin’ me…and me ma doesn’t miss him either ’cos he was always hittin’ her, too. She says he had no head on him anyway.”

Lorcan had to smile at that, yet couldn’t but agree with the ma’s analysis. “That’s a Belfast accent, isn’t it?”

“Ehh…yes.”

“What part of Belfast are you from?”

Herkie screwed up his face in consternation, trying to remember the name of the posh street his ma had coached him on.

Lorcan waited. And waited. Perhaps this Herkie was a bit slow—but he didn’t think so. “You don’t remember?”

“Ma…Ma-hone, Mahone Road,” he said at last.

“Oh, right. I think you mean the Ma-
lone
Road.”

It was a fib, of course. Herkie neither looked nor sounded like a child of the well-heeled class that resided in that part of the city.

“Mister, why are these oul’ stones all in a big ring?”

“It’s a stone circle, Herkie. When it gets dark, the fairies come out and dance inside it.”

Herkie’s eyes widened. “Real fairies? Could I see them?”

“Yes. But there’s just one small problem.” Lorcan bent down and put on his most serious face. “They only appear to the pure of heart.”

The boy’s brows knitted in puzzlement. He couldn’t quite figure out this strange man. Had never met anyone like him before. He’d heard of fairies, though, and seen pictures of them. Miss Kerr, their teacher, had an old black-and-white photograph on the wall called
The Cottingley Fairies
. It showed a wee girl looking at fairies dancing around in a garden.

“It means, Herkie, that you have to be good before the fairies will reveal themselves to you. Which would explain—” Lorcan straightened up again and stared heavenward. “Which would explain why so few people have actually seen them. Alas, not enough good people in this cruel old world of ours, you see.”

“Mister, why d’you wear a hat and have an umbreller when it’s not rainin’?”

“Well, the hat shades my eyes from the sun, and the umbrella serves as a walking stick.”

“But why d’ye need a walkin’ stick when yer not an oul’ boy?”

“I’m glad you think I’m not. You’re an inquisitive little fellow—no bad thing in a boy. But I’ve another use for it: a litter-picker.”

“What’s that?”

“Come here. Let me demonstrate.”

Herkie followed Lorcan gingerly round behind one of the stones. He watched with great interest as the strange man poked the umbrella point into the leaves and unearthed his stack of sweet wrappers.

“Now, I wonder how
they
got there.”

“I-I dunno. Maybe the birds dropped them, sir.”

Lorcan tilted his head to one side and studied the boy. Herkie looked down at his toes again. “Now, let me see. A bird that eats
chocolate and,” he speared the coil of used caps and held it up, “shoots a toy gun into the bargain. I’d also bet that this very dexterous bird wears jeans and tries to kill other birds with a catapult. Would I be right now?”

Herkie said nothing at first, merely toyed with the slingshot, wishing he could teleport like Mr. Spock to planet Vulcan.

“Och, mister, they’re only oul’ papers. You’re like me ma. She’s always shoutin’ at me till lift papers, too. That’s why I threw them there.”

Lorcan tried not to smirk at the child’s spirited defense of his bad habits. He admired the pluck the boy was showing and wished he’d been like that when he was that age.

“Tell you what: You put all those wrappers in your pockets, and I’ll forgive you for trying to murder that poor thrush.”

Herkie nodded solemnly and went to gather up his litter. Lorcan understood, or fancied he did. He tried to imagine how it must be for a Belfast boy—of what? Eight, nine?—suddenly finding himself in a cottage on the outskirts of Tailorstown. What would he do? How would he pass the time? No wonder Herkie was amusing himself by stalking thrushes with a slingshot.

“Right. You leave those birds alone, you hear? If I catch you taking potshots at them, I’ll give you a clip round the ear. And I don’t care what your mum thinks about that.”

“I won’t, mister.”

“Lorcan.”

“I won’t, Mr. Lorcan.”

“Just make certain you don’t. Run along now. I’m sure your mother is wondering where you are.”

Herkie turned to go, but stopped. Something had caught his attention. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

“It’s a sketch pad. I like to draw. Would you care to see some?”

The boy nodded eagerly.

Lorcan laid out the sketch pad on the stump and Herkie approached shyly to have a look. He watched in amazement as page upon page of perfectly executed birds and trees and flowers were revealed to him. He gazed up at the strange man with newfound admiration.

“They’re class, Mr. Lorcan.”

“Thank you, Herkie. You could do the same if you wanted to.”

“Nah, I’m no good at drawin’, but I love colorin’-in. Me teacher said I was good ’cos I keep inside the lines.”

“Well, that’s a good start. Tell you what: You pick out the ones you like best and you can take them home and color them in. Now, which ones d’you fancy?”

“Maybe…maybe that frog.”

The bullfrog, with its spotty belly and bulging eyes, perched balefully on a riverbank boulder, was a very detailed study. In Herkie’s imagination his coloring pencils were already busy, his sharpener at the ready.

“Good. You have your work cut out for you there. Now, another one?”

Herkie turned the pages clumsily. “And this rat sleepin’ under the umbreller.”

Lorcan smiled. “That’s a dormouse, and he’s hibernating under a toadstool. That means he goes to sleep for the winter months and only wakes up in the springtime.”

He tore out the two sketches, rolled them into a baton, secured them with an elastic band, and presented them to a very pleased little boy.

“Thank you, sir—I mean Mr. Lorcan.” Herkie was amazed. All the adults he’d known so far either treated him badly or ignored him completely, but this stranger with the long hair and funny hat was different.

“Now, you’d best run along, Herkie, or your mother will be worried.”

“But when can I show them to ye?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll see me here.” He swept an arm around the clearing. “Here in nature’s living room. Now, you’ve got a lot of coloring-in to do, and I’ve got a drawing to finish. Chop-chop.”

With that, Herkie shot off. Lorcan sat down on the stump again, opened his sketchbook, and selected an interesting stand of bushes to his right.

As he began drawing, however, he could not help thinking about Herkie and his mother. He’d never heard of anyone coming all the way from Belfast to sojourn in the like of Tailorstown. There was an intriguing tale behind it all, which he reckoned, given the nature of small-town gossip, would emerge soon enough.

Chapter twenty-two

A
sk and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened. Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him! So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.”

Father Cassidy smoothed the ribbon in his heavy tome of scripture and gazed down upon his congregation. “Matthew, chapter seven, verses seven to twelve,” he intoned in a grave voice as he shut the book.

Sunday, eleven fifteen, and he was saying his final Mass of the morning. Being the later service, it was the most popular, attracting a motley bunch of parishioners: harassed parents with young children; a few disheveled, hungover men holding up the back wall, yawning. And the usual half dozen or so pietistic old ladies who attended every Mass and looked as though they’d taken root over the years in the same pews and were now wilting before the priest’s very eyes.

Father Cassidy had chosen those verses of scripture for a very good reason. The coffers were not healthy. Balancing the books had become of late a migraine-inducing chore rather than an agreeable task. Nonetheless, he regarded it as his bounden—if not sacred—duty to keep the ledger ink a deep and healthy shade of black.

Yes, he thought, isn’t it all a question of balance? To balance the books on the one hand, and to balance one’s duty to one’s flock against a higher duty: the duty to God and country.

He moved to the lectern in front of the altar, drew a deep breath, and began.

“Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?” He repeated Matthew’s words loudly as he surveyed the congregation. “Today I wish to talk about the importance of giving and about its opposite: the sin of greed and how it eats into the very core of the human heart, destroying all around it.”

Halfway down the church sat his new housekeeper, Mrs. Halstone, dressed in a frock of unseemly scarlet, more suited to the cocktail banquette than the Sunday Mass pew. She stood out starkly against the other ladies, they in their sober costumes and sensible, churchgoing hats. Father Cassidy could not but notice her. He was finding her to be an unwarranted and gaudy distraction, and it was taking a Lenten resolve for him to focus elsewhere.

As for Bessie, it being her first Mass at St. Timothy’s, she’d made a very special effort to impress the country folk. The jersey frock, another vintage cast-off from Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock’s ever-changing wardrobe circa 1965, hugged her figure in all the right places. She’d accessorized it with a daring crepe rose pinned behind her left ear. She hoped Father Cassidy would appreciate the effort she’d made and gazed up at him now, God’s inscrutable support act
up there on the stage, wearing the green and gold vestments she’d ironed—steam knob turned to max—the previous day.

A fidgety Herkie sat beside her, tapping his foot against the seat in front and fiddling with a thread on the hem of his gray serge shorts. Bessie, aware that both she and the son were the focus of attention, would, from time to time, give him a sharp prod for appearances’ sake. It was the third time in the course of ten minutes that she’d had to check him, so this time the prod was unapologetically forceful.

Herkie let out a small yelp, which caused Father Cassidy to halt briefly in his homily, and Rose McFadden, who was sitting in front with her husband, Paddy, to turn round and shush him to silence. Herkie immediately countered Rose’s rebuke by sticking out his tongue when her back was turned again.

“It is all very well,” Father Cassidy continued, “being generous to your own flesh and blood. Who, indeed, in this congregation would give his—or, indeed, her—child a stone if he asked for bread?” He scanned the expectant faces, and his eyes were drawn again to his housekeeper and her son.

Bessie smiled demurely, the wrong reaction entirely, and the priest shifted his gaze to another section of the gathering.

“But it is giving to others and not just ourselves which brings with it our heavenly reward. And giving freely, when your church requires it of you, should not have to be explained by me. But explain it I
must
!” Father Cassidy’s voice rose on the last syllable and he hit the lectern an emphatic slap.

This uncharacteristic flourish visibly jolted the gathering. Small children began to whimper, mothers to fret, and a sizable proportion of the males—including the drunks loitering at the back—woke up to discover they were not in bed after all but actually at Mass. There was much embarrassed throat-clearing and shifting in seats.

“Now,” the priest continued in a more even tone. “I do not have to remind you that the kneeling boards need reupholstering. This is for your own comfort, and especially for that of the more elderly members of the parish. The pain of arthritis and brittle bones is not something to be taken lightly in old age.” The elderly ladies at the front nodded to each other and murmured approval. “Another very necessary outlay is the belfry. It’s been worrying me for quite some time, so last week I had an engineer in for an assessment. I regret to say the news is not good. A great deal of strengthening work to the timber tower is required, since it is riddled with woodworm. As a result, the bell will have to be rehung with new fittings. God knows it could drop at any time.”

Father Cassidy paused. Bessie recrossed her legs and examined her fingernails. She was bored and just wanted to be out in the fresh air. She glanced down at Herkie and saw that he was earnestly dismantling his new plastic rosary. He’d pulled the figurine from the cross and now Jesus was curled up on the pew ledge like a swimmer about to take a nosedive. She decided to simply let him get on with it.

Farther up the church sat a man Bessie hadn’t noticed until then. He was wearing a black velvet jacket (maybe even a suit!) and she saw the glint of a gold cuff link as he turned a page of his missal. The older woman beside him, she assumed, was his mother. His proud posture and longish dark hair marked him out from the dandruffed humps and hair-oiled crops of the farming men around him. She wondered who he might be.

“These necessary improvements are rather urgent, and we need funds quickly,” the priest continued, “for, alas, such refurbishment does not come cheap. Then,” he leaned into the microphone, “I had an idea. An idea that will actually benefit all of
you
, while helping
me
.”