The Disenchanted Widow (34 page)

“God-blissus, Ned, what are ye at anyway?”

“That’s the hunched mortises for yeh.” He gave the table a good shake. “Take a lot tae break the legs of that boy.”

Rose breathed a sigh of relief. So it was the
table
legs that had caught his attention, not the salesman’s. Thank heavens for that. She relaxed, sank back into her chair and surveyed the room. The couple were busy now with plates of food: meat, veg, mounds of mashed potato rising up like Macgillycuddy’s Reeks. Absorbed in eating, the parents had let their toddler roam free. The boy staggered up the lounge. A few feet from Rose, he stopped suddenly—as if hit by a stun gun—and stared.

“Och, would ye look at the wee one, Ned,” cooed Rose, reaching out a hand. “C’mere, ye wee darlin’.”

The child, a vein pulsating fatly in a pink brow, swayed, emitted a gurgle, and then, suddenly, extravagantly, discharged his most recent feed into his diaper.

An unpleasant smell spread quickly. Rose flapped a hand under her nose.

“Oh, dearie me!”

She freed a handkerchief from her sleeve while the toddler, mission accomplished, wobbled back to his unmindful parents.

“God, look at the size of them,” Ned observed. “Great pair-a dropped hips. Take a brave lot tae tumble
her
.” A waitress, passing with a tray of drinks, halted, turned, and shot him a look that said: Act-yer-age-you-durty-old-brute. But the insult was lost on the old man, who’d merely been admiring the hip joints in Mr. Kelly’s vaulted ceiling.

Rose pretended she hadn’t heard any of it. “Look, there’s Gusty coming now.”

Ned sniffed the air. “Christ, what’s that bad smell?”

“Well, it’s not me,” protested Rose. “That wee baby musta dirtied himself.”

“Somebody’s gonna bring them over,” Gusty said. He sat down again.

Minutes later a plump girl with a pink face arrived with the tray, panting with the effort of having made the two-yard journey from bar counter to table. “Will yis—will yis be wantin’ anything tae eat?” she gasped out, straightening up.

“Eat what?” asked Ned.

“Maybe in a wee minute,” said Rose, fanning herself with the menu in an effort to repel a hot flash. She hadn’t counted on this expedition being so fraught. “Is Greta-Concepta about, is she?”

“Who
is
this nice wee fat girl?” asked Ned. “Is she Gretti-Conceptee, is she, for if she is—”

“No!” Rose cut in loudly, fearful old Ned was about to give the game away. “This isn’t Greta-Concepta.”

Gusty shifted uneasily, reached for his pint of Guinness, and eyed Ned accusingly. He resented being inveigled into this trip by Rose. Could have been propping up the bar at the Crowing Cock, chatting to Socrates O’Sullivan about the finer points of overhead camshafts and catalytic converters. Or better still, up in the Turret Room. There was a lot to get through up there. An unopened box labeled Witchy Wilhelmina promised plenty more thrills to come.

“Greta-Concepta’s in the kitchen,” said the abashed waitress, “gettin’ ready for this evenin’s teas, she is.”

“Could ye tell her that Rose is here? Now, she knows I’m comin’, so she doz.” And Rose was off like a greyhound out of the trap. “Me and Greta goes back a long way. She used to be married to Tommy Shortt, the breadman. He would-a been a second cousin of me husband’s late sister’s uncle’s mother twice removed, who married one of the Bap McDonalds, don’t ye know.” Rose could trace ancestries back to the Lower Jurassic if time and a pair of captive ears would allow.

“R-right,” said the waitress, trying to keep up. “I’ll tell her ye’re here.” She hugged the tray to her chest by way of repelling old Ned, who was now openly ogling her.

“Chicken sambiches will do me, and a pot-a-tay ye could do a jig on!” he shouted after her.

“Yes, Ned, we’ll get ye tea in a wee minute.” Rose got up. She needed to freshen up. “Now, I’m just gonna go to the ladies, and I’ll take me bag.” She grabbed the shopping bag, “’Cos I wouldn’t like nothing tae happen tae Greta-Concepta’s cake afore she even had a chance tae see it, so I wouldn’t.”

Bessie negotiated the Morris Traveller into a parking space outside the Kelly Arms and cut the engine.

“Och, I thought we were goin’ till the chippie.” In Herkie’s world the grand exterior meant boring food and too many posh big people.

“Ye can have your fish an’ chips in here,” his ma said bluntly. “I need a bloody drink after the day I’ve had. And I’ll not get that in a chippie. This looks like a respectable place. Nobody’ll know us in here.”

She had a lot to think about. A Tullamore Dew would calm her down. Maybe clear her head, for she didn’t have a clue what to do next.

She checked her face in the rearview mirror, daubed some powder over her T-zone, and snapped the handbag shut.

“Right, son, now you behave yourself in here. D’ye hear me?”

“Aye, Ma.”

“Where are ye, Rose?” a voice called from the far reaches of the lounge.

Rose, fizzy orange suspended in midair, turned to see Greta-Concepta Curley at the far end of the lounge. Wearing a butcher’s apron and a chef’s white beanie, she was laboring across the floor on swollen ankles. Her glasses, steamed up from her exertions at the stove, had her heading toward the couple with the toddler.

“Cooee!” cried Rose, getting up. “We’re over here, Greta-Concepta, so we are.” She went to her, grabbed her by the arm, and steered Ms. Curley back on course to their table.

“Wee Carmel tolt me ye’d come in,” said Greta, pushing her condensation-fogged spectacles up on her nose and coming to a breathless halt. Gusty attempted to stand up. “Now don’t stir yerselves on my account.”

Old Ned, loosened by the whiskey, was showing the flustered cook his full set of tawny dentures, a sight that was, mercifully, lost on her.

“I’ll just sit down here,” she said, and to Ned’s unexpected delight she very nearly sat down on his lap.

“Oh, God-blissus, not there!” cried Rose, appalled, pulling her out of harm’s way. “Uncle Ned’s on that chair. You sit here.” She guided her into a seat beside him.

“That nice young lady can sit on my knee if she likes,” said Ned.

The cook beamed in the old man’s general direction. “Oh, heavens above,” she said, taking off her glasses, “I need to give these a wipe.”

“This is me friend Greta-Concepta,” said Rose, stating the obvious. “The one I was telling ye about, Ned. This here is me Uncle Ned. And this here’s me cousin, Gusty.”

“Pleased tae meet yeh,” said the cook, extending a flour-dusted hand first to Gusty, then to Ned. Ned held on to her hand for longer than was necessary, and Rose had to pry it off.

Greta, unused to the attention being lavished upon her—even if only from a pensioner thirty-five years her senior—was breaking out in a sweat. “I’ll not stay long, Rose. I’m in the middle of the evenin’ teas and we just finished with the carvery lunch.”

“Can I get ye a drink or whatever, Greta?” asked Gusty, getting to his feet, embarrassed by the oul’ boy’s antics and itching to get away. There was a poolroom at the rear of the lounge, and he thought he might spend his time more productively knocking colored balls about, instead of sitting there listening to wimmin’s talk and having to look at his crusty uncle.

“No, thank you, Gusty. Can’t take anything when I’m on duty, ’cos—”

“Ye’re a cook, not a policeman,” Ned cut in.

“A wee mineral maybe,” said Rose.

Ned clapped a hand on Greta’s knee and squeezed it. “Och, ye’ll take a wee sherry, won’t ye, for the day that’s in it?”

A butterfly flapped its wings in Kathmandu and Rose’s heart nearly missed a beat. “Now, Ned!” she cried, realizing with a jolt that her matchmaking venture was in danger of veering wildly off course. “Greta-Concepta is on duty in the kitchen. She just came out tae say hello.”

She’d forgotten how drink affected her uncle. Thought old age might have withered his enthusiasm for the ladies. At her sister Martha’s wedding, he’d danced with every woman in the room before collapsing, inebriated, in an armchair and snoring his head off for the rest of the evening. But that was twenty-five years before, and he’d been more vital then, with a full head of hair and his own teeth.

“I’ll get ye an orange then,” Gusty said, backing away.

“And another one-a them black boys for me,” said Ned, draining the last of the Guinness. Finally free from the confines of his bed, he was determined to enjoy himself.

Gusty knew better than to refuse the old man’s request. If he didn’t get his way he was liable to start gushing swearwords like a burst pipe. Gusty couldn’t risk that in a fancy hotel among strangers.

Bessie and Herkie settled themselves at a table farther up the lounge. She was glad to see that business was slow. Just a scattering of customers, all so engrossed in their own worlds that their entrance had barely registered.

She handed a menu to Herkie. “Now pick something from this that’s under a pound, and be quick.”

Herkie studied the glossy pictures on the menu card in a daze of delight. The last time he’d seen a menu like this was back in Belfast at the Lido. His ma would take him there on the very rare occasions when she was in a good mood, had money to spend and something special to celebrate, like a birthday.

Overcome by the many pictures of delicious desserts on offer, he decided to ditch the fish and chips, and plump for a knickerbocker glory, a trifle, and a Coke.

Bessie lit up and nodded at the waitress who was leaning against the bar, eyeing the torpid hands of the clock on the back wall.

“I’ll have a whiskey and soda,” she said. “Herkie, what’s it to be?”

“D’ye want ice with that?” asked the waitress.

“No thanks. Just neat…Herkie, hurry up!”

“Ah…ahh…a Nicky Bocker’s glory, a trifle, and a Coke.”

“Hold yer horses, son. I didn’t say you could order everything on the menu. Who d’ye think I am, Rocky-feller?”

“Och, Ma, ye said tae keep it under a pound and it comes tae…it comes tae seventy-two pee.”

“A likely story. And since when did ye become a mathymatician? Give that over here.” She snatched the menu from him.

Herkie curled his lower lip, staring up sadly at the waitress. She smiled down at him.

“Accordin’ to my calculations, ye’re out by—”

“I’ll not charge ye for the Coke,” the waitress said, taking pity on the sweet little boy with the cherubic cheeks and blond curls.

Bessie softened. “Well, that’s very nice of you. Say ‘thank you’ to this kind lady, Herkie.”

“Thank you, miss,” Herkie said, smiling. Then, seeing he might be on to a good thing: “Can I have plenty of choclit sauce on me Nicky—”

“Don’t push it, son.”

“It’s all right,” said the waitress. “It comes with choclit sauce, but I’ll put a wee bit extra on for ye.” She winked at Herkie, scooped up the menu, and headed off.

“You’re an oul’ charmer, Herkie Halstone.” She reached across and pinched his cheek.

He beamed. “Ma, can I go tae the toilet?”

She scanned the room. The businessman at the bar gave her the glad eye. Bessie simpered. Touched her hair. For a moment allowed herself to forget the real fix she was in. “Go on then. And be quick.”

Herkie climbed down off his chair.

“And don’t talk tae any strange men, d’ye hear me?”

“Aye, Ma—I mean yes, Ma.”

A few minutes later, Herkie returned from the toilet.

“I saw Mr. Grant down there.”

“Nonsense. You’d never see him in a fancy place like this.”

“But I
did
.”

“Be quiet now, son.”

He was smiling broadly as he clambered back onto the chair.

Bessie eyed him with suspicion. “What is it
now
, son?”

“There was this pome on the door of the toilet, Ma.”

“If it was on a toilet door then it wasn’t a pome.”

“But it was funny. Canna say it?”

“Only if it’s clean.”

Herkie took a deep breath. “Here I sit, broken-hearted. Tried till shit, but only farted.”

The businessman looked over and smirked.

“Shush! Wash out yer—”

She didn’t get to finish. Her words were drowned out by an ear-splitting siren. Its wailing seemed to fill the entire building and the street beyond.“Christ! I hope ye didn’t touch anything in that toilet.”

“Didn’t, Ma! I—”

“Bomb scare! Everyone out
now
!” a man roared. It was Mr. Kelly, the proprietor, charging into the middle of the lounge. “Everyone out! Out now!”

The businessman sprinted out, followed by the couple with the now-screaming toddler. The waitress, halfway to Bessie’s table bearing the whiskey and knickerbocker glory, did a U-turn.

“Oh, no you don’t!” cried Bessie. She dashed after the waitress and, in the blink of an eye, scooped up the drink and downed it.

“God save us, is it you, Mrs. Hailstone?” a female voice called out.

Bessie turned to see Mrs. McFadden, Gusty Grant, and an elderly man staring at her.

“Is
that
Mrs. Hailstone?” the old man said. “Fine lookin’ wommin.”

“
Jesus!
” She caught Herkie by the sleeve and made a dash for the exit.

“Ma, what about me Nicky Bocker?”

“Hi, ye haven’t paid for that drink!” cried the waitress.

Outside, army personnel were hastily erecting barriers and ushering people down the street to the town square. Bessie and Herkie joined the jostling throng. She held tight to the boy’s straining hand.

“Ma, what about me Nicky Bocker?”

“Now, son!” She bent down to hammer home the point. “Would you shut up about yer bloody knickeebucker. There could be a bomb in that hotel. And we could be blew into wee bits any minute.”

Not far behind them followed a well-lubricated Ned on the supporting arms of Rose and Gusty. At some point in the commotion they had shed Greta-Concepta, but Rose didn’t much care. She was beginning to dearly regret the venture.

A befuddled Ned, now blinking into the light, was not a little rankled that he’d been torn away from his drink. A staunch supporter of the Republican cause all his life, he had a raging hatred
toward all things British. Had been known to chuck his slippers at the TV whenever the Secretary of State, Sir Humphrey Atkins, appeared.