The Disenchanted Widow (31 page)

A gentle knock on the door slammed a brake on that thought. She stiffened. They’re here,
now
. Oh, dear God! She should have got up early and simply left. Why hadn’t she done that?
Why?

She moved cautiously into the hallway and put a hand on the banister. She’d slip back upstairs and lock herself in the bedroom.

“Mrs. Halstone? Are you in? It’s Lorcan, Lorcan Strong.”

She sighed with relief, but it was with anger that she pulled open the door. Was it not Lorcan Strong who’d identified the woman’s Belfast accent to the police, effectively putting
her
in the frame?

“What the hell are you doing here? How dare you come here!”

“Excuse me?” A shocked Lorcan held up Herkie’s Snoopy watch. “I found this…and just thought I’d—”

“Oh, you just thought, did you? Well, I’ve just spent the best part of the night in a prison cell because of you and your bloody thoughts.”

Lorcan stared. He saw that she’d been weeping. Her face was without makeup, the blonde hair awry. It was as though she’d aged by several years overnight.

“May I come in? I need to know what I’m being accused of. I’m sure there’s been a mistake, unless it’s your form to go around accusing innocent people without hearing their side of things.”

Bessie faltered. He had a point. And it was clear that he wouldn’t be going anywhere until he got answers. Hard on the heels of this thought came the notion that it might be best not to make an enemy of this man. Since her arrival in Tailorstown, he was the only person who’d genuinely tried to befriend her and the boy. All at once she felt uncomfortable and regretted her rudeness. Her hand relaxed on the door handle. She stood back to let him in.

“I’ve just made tea. Would you like some?”

“Yes…please. Thank you.”

She fetched a cup and saucer.

Lorcan sat down in one of the armchairs. He removed his hat and laid the Snoopy watch carefully on the coffee table. He noticed her hands trembling with the teapot, the spout joggling on the cup rim. He thought of Ranfurley, knew something of what she must have endured at the police station. To spare her further unease,
and to break the pained silence, he looked away from her, his eyes taking in the cluttered room, and asked, “You like it here?”

She made no reply.

“I have an idea what Sergeant Ranfurley told you,” he ventured, taking the cup and saucer from her. “Did he claim that I’d said the woman who robbed me had an accent like yours?”

“Too right he did.”

“Well, let me assure you that I said nothing of the sort. He inferred that himself.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She could not meet his eye. Wanted desperately to light another cigarette but knew her unsteady hands would betray her nervousness. Her disheveled appearance was making her feel vulnerable. No makeup. Nothing to hide behind.
Why on earth did I let him in?

“I believe you,” she said, “but the truth isn’t important to the RUC in times like these, is it?” Her eyes were on her mother’s misshapen serving tray. “They see a woman on her own with a child, and…” She trailed off, not knowing what she was saying. Part of her wanted him to leave, but another part was saying
Trust this man; he’s on your side.

Lorcan took a sip of tea. It was too strong. Builder’s tea. The kind his father used to favor. He put the cup down gently on the saucer. “And?”

“And…and…a woman on her own…well, she’s an easy target, isn’t she?”

She fumbled a cigarette from the pack. It dropped onto the coffee table. Lorcan retrieved it and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers. Embarrassment flared in him as he struck a match.

“Here, let me,” he said.

“Thanks.”

There was another awkward pause. “Sorry, I forgot to offer you one.”

“No, it’s all right. I don’t smoke. Tried a few times but…hmm…” He noted her hands, the fingers flat, square-tipped. The skin abraded. Dishpan hands. “Where did you go when you left the bingo hall?”

“Why are you asking me
that
?” The words plucked from the air, harsh and defensive.

“Sorry, I—I only ask because if someone saw you, they could provide an alibi or something.”

“I walked back here. I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Look, I’m only trying to help.” He was studying her face in profile. The nose was definitely Modigliani. The clean jawline just a hint of Kauffman. Mixed media on paper probably more flattering than paint. There was little color to work with, though. “It can’t be easy, losing your husband and having to—”

“No, it wasn’t—isn’t.” She didn’t like where the conversation was heading. “You shouldn’t believe all Herkie tells you. He’s just a boy.”

“But your husband is—”

“Dead, yes. That bit’s true.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t a happy marriage, if you must know. I doubt if many of them are. People pretend.
Women
pretend.”

Lorcan was lost for words. He watched her stub out the cigarette with a studied diligence. She might have been stubbing out the memory of the husband. The cuff of her blue sweater was frayed. The beige skirt had seen better days. A section of hem had come loose and been crudely sewn with black thread. The poise he’d observed in the church grounds was gone. She sat there staring blankly at the tea things. There was a great deal of repressed emotion packed into that look. He thought of what Herkie had told him about his father. “
He was always hittin’ me, and me ma, too.
”

A great wave of pity swept over him.

“You’re young…you can marry again.” He let loose the words, then quickly wished he could take them back.

“Why in God’s name would I want to?”

It was best to change the subject. “Do you…do you miss Belfast?”

“No.”

“Can’t say I miss it, either.”

A car passed by on its way into town. They heard the note of its engine change as it rounded the bend. Lorcan thought of other lives being led; Bessie thought of escape.

“Can I trust you?” she blurted out, taking him by surprise.

“Trust me? Well…well, of course you can.”

“How can I if I don’t know you?”

“Well, the only way you’ll find out
is
by trusting me. That’s the paradox.”

She did not know what the big word meant.

“I can’t,” she began. “I can’t…” She looked away from him, unable to meet his eye. “It’s just that…I’ve lost my passport and my driving license.”

“That’s easily remedied. Just put in applications for new ones. You can pick up the forms at the post office.”

Bessie didn’t know how to phrase what she wished to say next. Instead she broke down and began to sob.

Lorcan, discomforted, drew a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and reached it across to her. “Here,” he said gently.

She took it and dabbed her tears.

“Look, Mrs. Halstone, I promise you that whatever you have to say will remain with me. Things are never as bad as they seem if you talk them over.”

She looked up at him. He smiled at her reassuringly.

“I want to help you and Herkie. Now what’s the matter?”

“I’m…I’m not who I say I am…I mean my name isn’t really Elizabeth Halstone. My name’s Bessie Lawless and I’m…I’m on the run from the IRA. They think…they think I’ve got money my husband stole.”

Lorcan was gobsmacked.
Lawless
. The name had opened a door in his memory.

Suddenly he was back in Nansen Street, a witless man’s screams in his ears, the Dentist head-butting a door with rage. “
Now Lawless’s whore of a wife has took off with my money. But, d’ye see, when I get me hands on her, I’ll…
”

“Go on,” he said carefully.

“He—Packie—he did a bank job for them and hid the money in our old house…in Belfast. Then…then he was killed in a car accident before…before he could tell them where he’d stashed it…They were comin’, ye see, to the house to get it and I had to run for my life with Herkie.”

Lorcan nodded, hoping she wouldn’t sense his own alarm. “And the money? Do you…do you know what became of it?”

“No. I looked everywhere in the house ’cos I wanted them to have it. When I couldn’t find it, I had to leave, ’cos I knew they wouldn’t believe me and I…and I couldn’t take…” She reached for the teacup. The tea was stone cold, but she gulped some anyway.

“You couldn’t take…?”

“Another visit from
him
.” In her imagination she felt again the rough hands about her throat. Gusts of whiskey-breath on her averted face. “
I’m givin’ ye two days tae mourn yer useless husband, ’cos I’m considerate like that. Then I’ll be back for
my
money
.”

“Him?”

“The enforcer, Fionntann Blennerhassett. Or the Dentist, as he’s called.”

“Ma…I’m back,” came a voice from outside.

“Herkie!” Bessie sat up quickly and dried her eyes.

“Well, if it isn’t the artist himself,” said Lorcan, already on his feet.

“Mr. Lorcan!”

“Look what I found.” Lorcan held up the watch.

Herkie’s face lit up. He made a grab for it. “Gee, me watch.”

“No, no. What do you say to Mr. Strong, son?”

“Sorry. Thank you, Mr. Strong.”

Lorcan took the boy’s wrist and fastened the watch in place. “There you go!”

“I’m nearly finished the drawin’, Mr. Lorcan.”

“Excellent, Herkie. The fairies are waiting with the prize money.”

Bessie managed a smile. “I don’t know what any of this men’s talk is about.”

“Well, I’d best be off.” He ruffled Herkie’s curls. “You take care of your mum, you hear?”

“Aye—I mean yes, Mr. Lorcan. Ma, can I watch the TV?”

“Go on then.”

On the doorstep Lorcan turned to her. “I want to help you, you and Herkie. Don’t worry about Ranfurley. They have more important things to deal with these days. Your passport would be the least of his worries.”

“I
have
to find it. The only place I haven’t looked is the parochial house.”

“There you are.”

“But…but what if Father Cassidy finds it? He’ll know I’m not who I say I am and…oh, God!” Bessie clasped her face in her hands, the tears welling up again. “They’ll lock me up and take Herkie away.”

Laughter from a sitcom filtered through the door, as if mocking her. Lorcan quietly pulled the door to.

“Look, that’s not going to happen. Go to the parochial house and check. Father Cassidy wouldn’t do that. He’s a priest, after all.”

Bessie grasped his arm. “Will you take care of Herkie if anything happens to me? Please…please, Mr. Strong. I—I need to know. There’s nobody else I can…”

Lorcan felt her grip tighten. He looked into her desperate, frightened eyes, astonished at the earnestness of her pleading.

“Of course I will,” he reassured her, “but that’s
not
going to happen.” He reached into an inside pocket and took out a card. “My number at the pub. Just ring me.”

Bessie withdrew her hand from his arm, suddenly self-conscious. She studied the card. “Thank you, Mr. Strong.”

“Lorcan.”

“Lorcan.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry…sorry for…but I don’t know anyone round here. I—”

“It’s all right. Thank you for the tea, Elizabeth—I mean Bessie.”

She stood, not looking at him, her hand covering her mouth.

“Call me later on,” he said. “I’ll be at the pub all evening. Let me know if you find the passport. We’ll figure something out, all right?”

He was glad to see her smile as he turned to go.

Chapter thirty-six

H
aving left Rosehip Cottage, Lorcan strode along the road leading back to Tailorstown, deep in thought. Nature’s beauty might have been unfurling around him, rogue clouds playing catch-up with the sun, but the artist in him, normally alert to these subtle shifts, was off duty on this occasion.

Elizabeth Halstone—or, rather, Bessie Lawless—and their recent conversation were laying siege to his thoughts. A problem shared might indeed be a problem halved in the normal run of things, but not in this instance it wasn’t. Blennerhassett was no problem halved. He was a curse, a pestilence that blighted the lives of those who had the misfortune to stray into his path. How could Lorcan confide to Bessie that he, too, was a victim, that his fears were just as visceral as hers? Why burden her? She was suffering enough. Had enough to carry on her own.

In his mind’s eye he saw her sitting in the drab cottage, frail and alone, kneading the handkerchief. He thought of little Herkie, naive and blameless, with his catapult and coloring pencils; a boy already damaged, but young enough not to be beyond salvation, and deserving of a better future than the one welling viciously out of the mother’s past. What would become of him if the mother were to meet with a mishap? He had to do something to help them.
To help the mother. For, deep down, he sensed there was another Bessie, a caring, lovable one that had never received the nurturing. He reflected now that perhaps, with the right attention and sufficient time on a sun-facing slope, maybe—just maybe—she could blossom.

On the edge of town he stood into the hedge. The itinerant Barkin’ Bob was approaching, his junk cart bouncing precariously over the stones.

Bob, a regular on the road since Lorcan’s school days, had served in the Irish Army. A rejected man. Spurned, looked down upon by his fellow countrymen because he’d switched uniforms to fight for the British against Hitler in World War II.

Lorcan reflected on the courage such an act must have demanded—to fight the evil of fascism for the greater good. Bob had taken part in the D-Day landings. Had helped liberate the German death camp at Bergen-Belsen.

Man and beast trundled past, Bob acknowledging Lorcan’s gesture by giving his own tattered greeting.

The horrors he’d witnessed and the brutal treatment he’d faced on his return home—dismissed from the army and stripped of everything—had left him a broken man. Out of desperation he’d sought and found Jesus. Now he traveled the roads, spreading the word and selling his wares.

Lorcan was still thinking of Bob as he entered the town and made his way along the High Street. Must be amazing to live so freely with no ties whatsoever. The lines of a poem by W. B. Yeats came to him: