The Disenchanted Widow (3 page)

But Bessie’s unfamiliarity with maps ensured that, barely an hour into the journey, she found herself hopelessly lost on a series
of rural roads without signposts. Herkie, still sitting regally atop the record player, was enjoying the novelty of it all. He’d never seen sheep or cattle up close and was paying more attention to them than to the map spread out on his knees—the map he was supposed to be following.

They drew up at a crossroads.

“Right, where to now, son?”

“Take a left, Ma,” he said immediately, gazing in fascination at a goat tethered in a nearby field.

Bessie glanced over at him, irritated.

“How can ye be so sure, son?” She yanked the map away from him. “And is it any wonder we’re friggin’ lost: yer readin’ that map
upside down
.”

“But I see a signpost at the bottom, Ma. That’ll tell us where till go.”

“Right, if you send me the wrong way again, I’ll put ye in a field with them bloody sheep, and
they
can take ye to yer Auntie Joan’s.”

The sign read
TAILORSTOWN
, but it wasn’t marked on the map. Since they were in the middle of nowhere and heading nowhere, she decided to follow the sign and get a fill-up of petrol at least.

Some ten minutes later, they pulled into what appeared to be a filling station on the outskirts of the village.

God, she wondered, drawing the car to a halt, does anybody live here at all?

The filling station had an unsettling air about it. It looked by turns deserted and inhabited; smoke was curling up from what appeared to be a car-exhaust chimney pot set atop a dilapidated, two-room dwelling with a sagging roof tufted with weeds and patched here and there with flattened beer cans. At one window a set of lace curtains was half drawn. At another a piece of faded chipboard was doing duty as a windowpane.

In front stood two fuel pumps.

Farther down the yard, an open-fronted garage had a sign proclaiming Grant Auto Repairs in sun-bleached lettering. Several vehicles were scattered about in various stages of disassembly. A field to the rear was strewn with more bits of rusting car parts. A bomb might have exploded some years before and no one had bothered to clear up the mess.

Apart from a couple of hens pecking the ground, there was little sign of life.

The widow sounded the horn and waited.

“Can I get out and play with them birds, Ma?” asked Herkie, fascinated by the hens and thirsting for his freedom. Sitting on the record player for so long had given him pink welts on the back of his legs.

“No, you stay where you are, son. God knows what sort of lunatic lives here. Ye might end up in a pot o’ Lurgan stew or something, and we wouldn’t want that.”

“Och, Ma, that’s silly. Cannonballs do that.” Herkie began bumping his head off the car ceiling to relieve his boredom.

“And how d’ye know a cannonball doesn’t live here? I saw a film called
The Texas Chainsaw Masker
once, and these mountain men did that to a couple of city people who stopped to get petrol off them. Hauled them into the kitchen of a house just like that, and made a dinner out of the pair of them that fed them for a whole—”

“God, Ma, what’s
that
?”

Bessie hoisted herself up in the seat. “What?”

“There!”

A small, fat animal was streaking toward the car, grunting and snorting.

“Jesus!”

“Is it a dog, Ma?”

“No, son. It’s a bloody pig!”

She was just reaching for the ignition key when a middle-aged man emerged from the depths of the garage, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He cut an odd figure as he loped up the yard: tall and rangy, clad in a set of outsize overalls that flapped about him like tenting in a gale. The piglet, sporting a black backside and matching face, raced to him.

He stooped down to stroke it.

“What did I tell you? Only a lunatic could live—”

“Didn’t hear ye there,” said the man, ducking close to the car window. “But Veronica here’s got better ears than me.”

Bessie recoiled from his unshaven jib and barn-owl eyes magnified behind thick lenses. “That’s all right,” she said. “Three pounds’ worth of four-star, please.”

“Ye’re not from round these parts, are ye, ’cos I never seen ye afore. Then again, I don’t get many comin’ round here anyway.”

How surprising!
“No, we’re just passing through.”

“Headin’ far, are ye?” He rubbernecked Herkie while waiting for the pause to be filled by explanation, but Bessie had no intention of disclosing too much to anyone—least of all this stranger.

“Just over the border.”

“Ye’ve got a bit tae go then. Ye’ll be wantin’ yer oil and watter checked?”

The widow had never thought of checking those. That had been Packie’s job.

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He filled the tank, then raised the bonnet.

“Ma, can I go to the toilet?” Herkie was clutching his crotch, face crumpled in pretend agony. He reckoned he’d be safe enough, she supposed, now that the ax murderer was fully occupied with the car.

“How bad d’ye need-a go, son?”

“I’m burstin’, Ma!”

She stuck her head out the window. “Can my boy use your toilet?”

“Aye, just go behind the hedge there,” came the reply. “That’s the on’y toilet there is.”

“Did ye hear that? No luxuries here, son. Watch that pig doesn’t take a bite outta yer bum.”

“Och, Ma!”

Herkie slunk off to the field. Veronica, in the inquisitive manner of piglets, trotted after him.

It was stifling in the car, and the raised bonnet was obscuring her view. Bessie pushed open the door.

“Everything all right?” she asked, sidestepping what appeared to be Veronica’s poo—well, she hoped so, anyway—and coming round to the front of the vehicle.

The mechanic squinted up at her, looking decidedly worried.

“Well, now, ever’thing would be all right if ye weren’t goin’ far. Ye see, that fan belt’s about tae go, and if ye broke down ye’d be stuck, ’cos there’s not much ’tween here and the border. Ye can risk it if ye like, but if I were you I’d get it fixed right away.”

That was all she needed to hear. The very thought of breaking down and being marooned in this Bally-go-Backward was unthinkable. At the same time, she wondered: How can I be sure this man is being straight with me? The old car, rarely off the road, had seldom given any trouble (apart from that time in 1978 she mistook the brake for the accelerator and plowed into the back of Mr. Yummy’s ice-cream van, double-parked outside the Department of Health and Social Security office).

“Oh, that’s news to me,” she said, feigning calmness and composure. “The fan belt, eh? Are you sure about that?”

“Well, I’ll show yeh.”

He bent over the engine and ran a hand under the belt. “See that?” Bessie leaned in warily, affecting interest and expertise. “Far too much play. Too tight’s bad enough, but too loose is even worse. Did ye notice her squealin’ after ye started her?”

Damn
. She had, right enough. She was recalling the high-pitched protest that kick-started her getaway from Valencia Terrace.

He knew what he was talking about.

Herkie returned from his comfort break, hitching up his jeans. The piglet, much to Bessie’s relief, now had its snout stuck in a tractor tire and was busily occupied.

“What’s wrong, Ma?”

“Never you mind, son. Can you fix it for me
now
then?” she asked the man, shielding her eyes from the sun and wondering how in God’s name she was going to pay him.

“Could fix it for ye surely, if I had the part. But I don’t have the part, ye see.”

Bessie waited for more, but the mechanic simply adjusted his specs, rubbed his nose, inspected the toes of his size twelves.

“Could you get the part and fix it for me then?”

She had the feeling that she might take root and start growing chest hair if he didn’t get a move on. She’d heard that country people were a bit slow, but this was ridiculous.

“Could get ye the part surely, but I’d have tae go into Killoran tae get it, and that’s the thing.”

Herkie, bored with the adult talk, had wandered over to Veronica and hunkered down beside her. He was deciding whether to pull her ears, tweak her tail, or poke her fat belly—in short, deciding which molestation might produce the most discomfort for the piglet and therefore the most entertainment for him.

“And could you do that?” Bessie asked patiently. “Go into Kill…Kill…whatever?”

“Killoran. Naw, ’cos Willie-Tom is closed the day. His ma’s in the hospital, ye see…skidded on a mat when she was gettin’ her hair done in Hilda Cahoon’s hair saloon and broke her hip. Hilda had tae get the amb’lance, ’cos she couldn’t get herself up.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but—”

“Ye could try McMurty in the town but he’d charge ye an arm and a leg, ’cos he’s got bigger overheads than me. He’d do a quicker job for ye, right enuff, but I’d put money on it that it wouldn’t be as good a job as I’d do. I take me time, ye see, on account of havin’ a bit more of it on me hands out here, not bein’ in the town, like.”

“Look, I’ll tell you what: I’ll just—”

“They’re queuing up for McMurty in the town but that’s only ’cos he’s in the town and not out here in the cawntry like me…I couldn’t guarantee that ye wouldn’t have a wait on yer hands there, too. He could say he’d have it for yeh this evenin’, then ye could go back this evenin’ and he’d tell ye a different story altogether. He’s like that, ye see. And at the end of the day he’d charge ye more, ’cos as I say, he’s got bigger overheads than me…”

Bessie realized it was pointless trying to interrupt. She was put in mind of her old refrigerator. It, too, had a habit of droning on in similar fashion. A swift kick in the right spot usually sorted
it
out. However, in this case such a tactic might prove highly inadvisable. She’d simply have to endure it. Let the mechanic say his piece. He’d peter out eventually.

“…but it’s a free cawntry and it’s up tae
you
. As I say, I’ll do it for ye as soon as Willie-Tom opens the morra…couldn’t say fairer than that. I would of done it for ye today if Willie-Tom’s mother hadn’t skidded on that mat. But a body never knows from one day till the next what’s gonna happen. So it’s up tae you what ye want tae do.”

“Look, I’ll just risk it then,” the widow said, not wanting to hear any more calendar entries for Willie-Tom’s trials—past, present, and to come. She gave him the money for the petrol. “I’ve had no problems so far. What do I owe you for the—”

“
Squeeeeee!
”

They turned as one to see a frantic piglet hurtling down the yard toward the safety of the shed.

“Get back here, you little shit!” Bessie snarled at her son. Then, realizing her mask had slipped, she moved swiftly to repair the damage. “So sorry,” she told the man. “He’s not used to animals, I’m afraid. You know what city boys are like.”

“Aye, a-do.” The mechanic glared at Herkie as he sidled back to stand sheepishly beside his mother. “That wee pig does nobody no harm.”

“Say sorry to Mister…eh…”

“Grant.”

“Say sorry to Mr. Grant, son.”

“Sorry, Mr. Grant,” said a suitably chastened Herkie.

“Now, what do I owe you for the oil?”

“Oh, the oil’s on me.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Grant.”

“I’m Augustus.” He held out a grubby hand. “But I get Gusty for short. And who would
you
be?”

“Halstone,” she said at once, giving his hand the briefest of shakes, a smile flashing like a blade. “
Mrs
. Halstone.” Had he looked even a teeny bit well-off, she’d have used her first name.

“Ma, that’s not our—”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Grant,” she said, a bit too loudly. Then, through gritted teeth: “
Herkie
, come on now. Let’s go.”

Herkie once again climbed aboard the record player. Bessie settled herself into the driver’s seat.

She threw the car into reverse and drove out onto the main road.

The mechanic stood in the middle of his junkyard, tracking her every move. She rounded a bend. He slid from view. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Please, God, let the bloody fan belt hold!

Chapter four

T
he road Bessie found herself on a few minutes out of Grant’s garage was, like her past, a bumpy one. She raised dust and scattered crows as she roared along, trying not to think about the events that had brought her to this sorry remove.

For life had never been easy for the careworn blonde with eyes as sad as twilight. What with an alcoholic father and his foul-wafting rages, a harassed mother stretched out on Christ’s suffering cross, and the grudging, green-eyed sister Joan, any happiness that might have been circling got turned away early from the gate.

If childhood had been difficult, then girlhood proved even more unpalatable. Cupid’s arrow might have struck her heart, but the wound it left went deep. Packie Lawless—handsome once, attentive once, but all too soon mutating into a tattooed monster—had used the housekeeping money to fuel his binges and his fists to end disputes. He’d lit the wick of love, then snuffed the candle out, bringing mayhem into the home and the scourge of bloody IRA wrath into their lives.

At the mere thought of the terrorists, she raised a hand to her forehead and squeezed hard. They’d given her a headache that could last a lifetime—literally.

She pressed down on the accelerator, as if increased speed might zap the memory of it all.

And the reward for all that suffering? Well, was it this? Widowed, homeless, and penniless, barreling down a road to nowhere. Oh, the injustice! The sheer bloody injustice!

She braked suddenly for an unforeseen bend and unseated Herkie, who thumped down into the dashboard with some force.

“Och, Ma!”

He struggled back onto the record player, a ruby bruise forming on his forehead.

“Sorry, son.”

At that, the loaded Morris Traveller began to slow. Bessie engaged the accelerator hard, but the vehicle wouldn’t respond. Her temper rose with the red needle of the temperature gauge.