The Disenchanted Widow (7 page)

He went downstairs.

“Would tha’ be you, Lorcan?”

He found the landlady hard at work over the stove in the back kitchen.

“Good morning, Mavis.”

“Hey up, Lorcan!” she said cheerfully. No sooner was he seated than she was bearing a fully loaded breakfast plate to the permanently set table: gingham cloth, cups turned bottoms-up, and a cruet set in the form of ceramic squirrels atop a log.

The landlady, a pensioner with maroon hair and no eyebrows, hailed from Yorkshire but had settled in Belfast thirty years earlier, having married a drywall plasterer from Ballymurphy.

“Tha tea’s in ’t pot. And there’s more in ’t oven, if you want ’t.”

“Thanks, Mavis. No, this is quite sufficient.”

“Didn’t hear yer come in yesterday, I didn’t,” she said. “Ye got me note then, from yer mam?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks for that, Mavis.”

“Hope ever’thing’s all right?” She brought her own fry to the table and sat down. “Yer mam must get lonely on her own, she must. Hope she’s not poorly.”

Mavis liked to pick and poke at her lodgers for news. The parlor bay window did not supply enough gossip for her needs. It was at such times that Lorcan realized his life would be infinitely less complicated were he to live alone. But then he’d never lived alone; there’d always been a woman conveniently disposed to do for him. First his mother, followed by Mrs. Campbell, who ran a boarding house for students from the art college. And latterly, Mrs. Hipple.

“My mum poorly?” he said. “Oh, no, not poorly—just the usual. She worries too much.”

“Expect she’d like ye settled. A mam always likes a son to be settled afore she goes, like. You’s a nice catch for a woman, Lorcan.”

Don’t
you
start, he thought. One middle-aged woman fussing over me is bad enough.

There came a creaking of floorboards from above. The landlady raised her missing eyebrows to the ceiling. “That’ll be Miss Finch, it will,” she said, as she always did.

Lorcan lost his appetite at once. But he knew he couldn’t excuse himself until he’d made suitable inroads into the fry. Mrs. Hipple would otherwise be insulted.

“The tea’s a wee bit strong, Mavis,” he said. “Could I have some hot water, please?”

“Course you can, luv.”

In the thirty seconds or so that it took Mavis to maneuver herself out of the chair and cross to the stove, Lorcan had deftly
swept a slice of bacon, a sausage, and half a tomato into the napkin on his lap and stuffed the lot into his pocket.

“God, is that the time?” he said, getting up. “Really got to be going.”

Mavis turned, kettle in hand, mouth open. “But—”

“Not to worry. I’ll save myself for your lovely supper this evening.”

He was down the hallway and out the front door before Miss Finch had time to place the square toe of her vinyl pumps on the first tread of the stairs.

He gave thanks to his gods for yet another escape.

Chapter eight

F
or all the misfortune and stress they’d encountered in the day, Bessie Halstone and her son slept soundly that night under the fusty covers and creaking timbers of Aunt Dora’s cottage.

They awoke the next morning to the sound of a cock crowing and the drone of a tractor a few fields distant. Never before had they experienced tranquillity to match it.

“Can I go out and play, Ma?” asked Herkie, climbing out from under a tartan rug on his couch bed and pulling on his clothes.

Bessie yawned and threw back the covers.

“Canna, Ma?”

“Can ye
what
, son?”

“Go out and play!”

“All right,” she said. She pointed to the ottoman at the foot of the bed where her clothing lay. “Hand me them things, there’s a good boy. We have to get breakfast somewhere. You can’t go farther than the garden, d’you hear? If you open that gate and go out on the road, there’ll be no Action Man.”

“Aye, Ma.”

“And don’t go near that well. D’ye hear?”

“Naw, Ma.”

Herkie ran downstairs and Bessie got out of bed. She pulled on her blouse and skirt, then went immediately to the dressing table and sat down.

Whereas other women might start their morning with a cup of tea, Bessie started hers with her makeup routine. Appearances mattered most. Yes, the inner life might be a mess, but the outer packaging must be kept pretty. That’s what people judged you on first. She believed this without question. So every morning without fail she set about the ritual of painting and powdering, yielding, like so many ladies with flimsy self-esteem, to the tyranny of the looking glass.

Her beauty might have coarsened in recent times, the stress and the smokes having done their baleful work. But she managed, through the application of cosmetics and the wearing of figure-hugging garments, to retain a certain kind of gaudy attraction, an attraction that frequently drew caustic looks from women and the glad eye of men—most usually those men of questionable reputation.

It was a bit unsettling to look into Aunt Dora’s misty mirror, but Bessie reckoned her own reflection more pleasing. Oh, yes: more pleasing by far. Down in the living room there was a framed photo of a woman whom she took to be the aunt: a grim-lipped old lady with a frozen perm, sagging jowls, and wire spectacles. “Probably never laughed in her life,” she said to the mirror, and immediately set to work on her face. Zsa Zsa Gabor was her role model. Every morning she’d plumb the depths of her battered makeup bag in an attempt to achieve Ms. Gabor’s sultry look.

She could hear Herkie outside, swinging on the garden gate and imitating a birdcall. Would he ever be able to sit still? Maybe being in the country would settle him. Less distraction, for a start.

A sudden loud thwacking noise from outside made her put down her powder puff. She crossed to the window and looked out.
To her consternation, she saw Herkie methodically deadheading a line of pink and purple tulips with a stick.

“What the blazes d’ye think yer playin’ at?” she roared.

Herkie did not look up. He dropped the stick and ran out of sight. She sighed and returned to her makeup. Some chance of him settling anytime soon, she thought. No surprise, given what the boy had been through following his father’s death.

She blinked her mascaraed lashes, her makeup complete. Teased her bouffant hairdo into shape with a brush.

All the same, perhaps Packie’s dying had done them both a favor. Now she could do what
she
wanted. Be what
she
wanted.

Why, she could even stay here.

The thought struck her as she rose from the dressing table. Yes, in this lovely little cottage, miles away from her old life. The Dentist would never find her in these backwoods. In fact she’d probably be safer hiding out here for a bit. But money was the problem. She had funds to last a month at most. And if she was being brutally realistic, her sister Joan would probably part with only enough to keep her in smokes for a week.

She continued to ponder her dire financial situation as she entered the kitchen. The modest space, with its varnished beauty board, was sparsely appointed: A rusty gas stove. A refrigerator. A Formica table with spindly legs. And on the table, an Oriental tea caddy and a pewter teapot. She lifted the tea caddy. An alarmed spider scurried across the table and vanished. It was bad luck to kill them, she knew. Given her present circumstances, it was better to let the creature be.

She pulled open cupboards and drawers, not really knowing what she was looking for. If the aunt had died two months ago it was unlikely there would be any food.

She crossed to the window. A row of healthy-looking potted plants lined the sill. Mr. Grant must water them. What dedication!

A job is what I need, she thought. Yes, a catering position like the one I left behind. I still have my glowing references. Why not?

The window looked down into a small valley of sorts. At the bottom she was surprised to see an imposing three-story house, painted white and set in its own grounds. It was obvious she was seeing it from the rear. Lines of stone stables skirted the extensive yard, and there was what looked like a well-tended vegetable garden.

Her nearest neighbor was clearly well-off.

Interesting.

“God, Ma, look what I found!”

She turned back from the window to see an agitated Herkie carrying in what looked like a filthy shinbone.

“Get that disgusting maggot outta the house this minute, son!”

“But, Ma, whose is it?”

“How the hell should I know, son? A horse’s or a cow’s maybe. Get it out.”

He came and held it under her nose. To Bessie’s horror, a fat red earthworm detached itself and plopped at her feet. “Throw that filthy thing away this minute! D’ye hear?”

“But, Ma, maybe it’s the aunt, and maybe he cut her up and—”

“Son, I’ll be cuttin’
you
up if ye don’t get rid of that
now
!”

She chased him out the door and watched as he threw the bone over a nearby hedge.

“Now,” she said, taking him by the ear and leading him back into the house. She pulled a tissue from her pocket. “You’re gonna pick up that disgusting thing, throw it outside, and wash your hands. When you’ve done that, we’re goin’ into the town to get something to eat.”

Twenty minutes later they were sitting at a claggy table in the only eatery in town: the Cozy Corner Café. The place was deserted save
for an elderly woman nodding over a cup of tea and whispering animatedly to a bottle of HP Sauce.

“Ma, why’s that oul’ doll talkin’ till the brown sauce?”

“’Cos she’s dotin’, son.”

“What’s dotin’, Ma?” Herkie had started up a rhythmic kicking of the table leg, hungry for sustenance and some distraction.

“Talkin’ till sauce bottles when ye’re ninety, that’s what dotin’ is. Now, stop askin’ silly questions, and
stop kickin’ the table
!”

Herkie curled his lower lip in a sulk. “Canna have some ice cream?” The boy’s taste buds were permanently in sugar-fix mode.

“Now, son, you’ll be eating a fry, like normal people do this hour of the morning. That’s if we ever get served in here.” She looked about her. “Not as if they’re run off their feet.”

Finally the proprietor, Josie Mulhearn, a midlife crisis in a soiled overall, emerged through a beaded curtain behind the counter, wiping a dinner plate. Bessie, with half an eye still on the menu, was aware of the plate being slowly set down while she and the boy were scrutinized with almost palpable mistrust.

It was only when the widow looked at her pointedly, raising an eyebrow, that Josie finally decided to extricate herself from behind the counter and slap her way across the linoleum.

“What is it yis’ll be wantin’?” she asked, a well-chewed blue ballpoint poised over a grubby note pad.

No “Good morning; how are yous today?” Bessie noted, feeling that her presence was already causing offense.

“Two fries, a cup of tea, and a glass of milk for the boy, please.”

“Now, the fries might take a bit, for I’ve run outta gas, so I have. Had tae cook for a funeral yesterday evenin’, and—”

“The fries are off then?” Bessie cut in.
What in heaven’s name is wrong with these people? You asked a simple question and got a bloody life history.

“Aye, the fries is off,” said Josie, peeved. She was sizing Bessie up, wondering who this flashy stranger might be. “Are yis just passin’ through, are yis?”

“In that case we’ll just have the scones.”

“Right ye be.” Miffed, Josie headed back through the beaded curtain to fix their order.

There was a notice board near the door. Now, if only to pass the time, Bessie got up to take a closer look at it. Meanwhile, Herkie, bored beyond measure and annoyed that he wasn’t getting his ice cream, pulled the sugar bowl toward him and began pouring salt into it.

The board played host to a collection of
FOR SALE
and
WANTED
notices.

Missing, spanneil dog brun with white ears and black paws

Reward oferred

Kittens FREE to good home.

Handie Man for higher to do wee odd jobs about the place. Can do plumming, tiling, painting and the like. Ring 226485

Get your fortune told by Madame Calinda as seen on the TV!!!

This Thursday one night only in Slope O’Sheas Bar!

No time waisters

The usual stuff, Bessie thought to herself, which was more than could be said for the spelling in these parts. But there was one advertisement, neatly typed, that stood out from the rest.

Wanted: Priest’s Housekeeper

Temporary position for three months.

Must have pleasant manner and good catering skills
.

Apply in writing to: Father Connor Cassidy,

St. Timothy’s Parochial House, Tailorstown.

The widow found herself scribbling the details in her diary. At that moment, the seed of a plan that might bear fruit had dropped onto the fertile soil of her imagination, almost as though the sower in the parable had cast it, albeit unwittingly.

She returned to the table just as the tea and scones were arriving. She saw that Herkie had spilled most of the sugar and was busy graffitiing the tabletop with what looked suspiciously like life-size male genitalia, but which he earnestly claimed was the head of Dumbo the Elephant.

Josie, holding her tray poised above the table, glared at Herkie’s artwork.

“That table was clean afore yis sat down at it,” she said accusingly. “And look at the state of it now.”

Bessie Halstone shook her head gravely, determined to humor Josie. “I
do
apologize,” she said. “It’s the artist in him, I’m afraid.”

She took the tray from Josie.

“We’ll just move to another table. Oh, by the way, would you know where I’d find St. Timothy’s parochial house?”

“Ye might try lookin’ for it beside St. Timothy’s parish church, like a Christian wud.”

Be gracious, be gracious
, Bessie told herself.