The Disenchanted Widow (11 page)

On the armrest of the chair a copy of
Reader’s Digest
lay open at an article about crop circles. Evidence of an alien invasion in East Surrey, or the Devil doing a spot of midnight mowing, who was to say? The mechanic was looking forward to getting stuck into his next article, a study of the eating habits of the twenty-two-tentacled star-nosed mole, but was loath to start it, in case he missed something on the hill.

He rotated the focus wheel on the binoculars and panned around the rear of the cottage. Her car was parked under the big ash, where she’d left it the day before.
But where was she?

It hadn’t taken him long to learn her routine. She’d go to bed around midnight and was usually up by eight thirty. She’d draw back the curtains in the bedroom at that hour. On three occasions, she’d come out the back in her nightdress to smoke a cigarette. She had two nightdresses: a pink frilly one and a red shiny one with a
low-cut neckline. He liked the red one in particular and imagined her in Aunt Dora’s bed thus attired, a fantasy that made his heart hammer and his knees shake.

Still no sign. Disappointed, he set the binoculars down on the floor beside him, knowing that any minute he’d be hearing a twin
thump
from the room below.

The thumper, his Uncle Ned, a onetime farmer who’d survived two world wars and served in one—flat feet and rickets having kept him out of the second—spent most of his time in bed with his bad legs and dodgy chest, nursing his war wounds and listening to the wireless. Gusty, the illicit fruit of a graceless encounter between Ned’s late brother, Eustace, and a washerwoman, did double duty as caregiver and handyman. Along with his brief stints bartending at the Crowing Cock and sporadic work as an auto mechanic, he fell into that most superficial of categories, generally known as “Jack of all trades and master of none.”

The young Gusty’s arrival at Kilfeckin had been as unceremonious as one could imagine. He’d simply materialized one hot August morning with a change of socks and a note that read:
I rared him from scretch now its yew’s turn
. His washerwoman mother had found better prospects—a used-car salesman with a mobile home set on two acres and a Triumph Toledo pickup that was “going places”—a couple of weeks after the errant Eustace had dropped dead of a hepatitic seizure outside a pub in Clonmany, County Donegal. In this new and unexpected state of affairs, the sixteen-year-old Gusty had become surplus to requirements and was thus unceremoniously sent back to his roots.

So Ned, a childless widower with more living space than was respectable, reluctantly accommodated the lad. Never quite accepting the fact that his “ward” was the issue of the wayward Eustace (even though Gusty carried the undeniable proof of the Grant progeny in his big feet and trophy-cup ears), Ned sought to
advertise the falsity of such a claim by housing the boy in a lean-to attached to an old garage out the road.

Over the years, Kilfeckin Manor saw Gusty’s constant coming and going as he both slaved for and befriended his crotchety uncle. The pair grew to like and loathe each other in equal measure, blowing hot and cold with the sureness and contrariness of the seasons. As time passed and Ned retreated more to the bedroom on the first floor, he became less aware that Gusty was even in the house. Raidió Teilifís Éireann’s afternoon shows with their hourly news bulletins, coupled with encroaching deafness, would mute footfalls and creaking doorknobs and muffle the odd shouted salutation from the front hall door. These days even the roars and rattles of Gusty’s truck were progressively going unheard.

Thump, thump.

“Hoi! Are ye up there?”

There it was: the all-too-familiar summons, made by the broom shaft the oul’ boy kept by the bedside, sending tremors through the armchair. Veronica snorted and opened one piggy eye.

“Och, what d’ye want now?” Gusty muttered, half to himself and half to the uncaring universe.

With resignation he stood up, licked a grubby thumb to mark the page about the curious star-nosed moles, took another gape out the window, and kicked a trunk before lumbering down the stairs, piglet trotting behind him.

Old Ned was propped up as usual in his Elizabethan four-poster, sucking on a pipe and sending out great gouts of smoke that hung in the room like thunderheads over the Serengeti.

“Where’s me tay?” he demanded.

“Rose is comin’ today. Did ye forget, did ye?
She’ll
make yer tea.”

“She is, is she? Aye, Rose’ll make me tay and not crab about it like
you
. Better take a piss afore she comes then. Help me up, will
ye?” He hoisted himself up in the bed. “And get that bloody pig outta here. It ate one-a-me socks yesterday.”

“She doesn’t eat socks. Ye lost the sock yerself.”

Gusty clumped over and helped haul his uncle out of bed. He knew that Ned was well able to get up unaided but assisted him anyway, if only to keep the peace.

“Now, open that windee for me.”

“Och, ye don’t need tae do it out the windee no more. That’s why the commode’s over there in the corner. That Mrs. Hailstone’s up in Dora’s now.” In the past, he hadn’t minded the old man using the yard as a toilet, but the arrival of Mrs. Hailstone had changed all that—hence the provision of Lord Kilfeckin’s ancient commode.

“Aye, she’ll not see nothin’ she hasn’t seen afore. The day I sit down on a chair tae piss is the day they kerry me out in a box.”

“Ye didn’t see me wallet, did ye?” Gusty was changing the subject, trying to forestall the repellent act while checking for activity on the hill.

“Naw, how would I see yer bloody wallet? Maybe ye give it tae that fancy wommin, seein’ as ye give her my Dora’s house.”

“It’s
my
house. Dora said she wanted me tae have it after she died.”

“Aye, she did, did she? Well, she was dotin’ and didn’t know what she was sayin’. She told Barney Bap and Screw-loose John she was leavin’ it tae them, too. She left that house tae half the bloody country afore she went.”

“Well, she told me afore she went dotin’, and Mrs. Hailstone paid me rent,” said Gusty, his voice quick with annoyance. “And you’re only pissin’ out that windee tae embarrass me in front-a her!”

“I’ll piss wherever I want.”

“Och, you’re nothing but a contrary oul’ shite! Come on, Veronica.”

Man and beast left the room while old Ned lurched in the direction of the window to water the bindweeds in the backyard.

Young Herkie, concealed in the field behind the Grant residence, was not much interested in what was happening beyond the hedge that shielded him from view. He lay surrounded by discarded sweet wrappers, engrossed in his
Cheeky Weekly
comic, bum-crack on show for all the birds to see.

Suddenly a noise alerted him. He looked up in time to see an upstairs window being thrust open. As he watched, an old man came into view, undid his flies, and let loose on a group of ducks leisurely grooming themselves below. He then stuck his head out the window and shouted something before banging the window shut again as the ducks ran squawking from the downpour.

Herkie, stifling a giggle, wondered what to do. His ma had instructed him to check out the big house to see if there was a woman about it. The man he’d seen at the window was definitely an oul’ boy. Oul’ boys were good news, because they were usually deaf and half blind, which would make his task a lot easier. Maybe he could make a beeline for the back door now. The Opal Fruits were all eaten anyway. There wasn’t a blackbird in sight, so he had no use for his slingshot. Besides, he was bored and wanted some action.

But just as he was contemplating this, the back door opened and a man emerged carrying a bucket. He was surprised to see the mechanic-and-new-landlord, Mr. Grant. Grunting at his heels was Veronica, the piglet Herkie had tormented a few days before.

Crouching farther down behind the hedge, he watched intently as Mr. Grant lit up a cigarette, sat himself down on a crate, and began inspecting his reflection in a near window, elongating his neck, rubbing his stubble, and pulling faces. Herkie wondered what he was playing at. Maybe he was crazy—his ma had told him
that most country people were a bit odd. All that living in the middle of fields and staring at animals gave them bumps in their brains and things like that.

By and by, Grant lost interest in his reflection. He stood up, grabbed a rake, raised it up to a first-floor window, and knocked on it a few times.

After about a minute, the window flew open and the oul’ boy stuck his head out.

“Hi, I’m goin’ tae the Cock,” said Mr. Grant, “tae see Etta about the night. D’ye want anything, do ye?”

“Aye, right, Etta Strong’s hard up tae want a boy like you. Get me a pouch-a that Peter’s Flake and a quart of them Glassy-ear Mints.”

With that, the window was pulled shut before Mr. Grant had time to reply.

In the silence that followed, all Herkie could hear was “Away with yeh, ye oul’ shite!”

So Mr. Grant lived in the big house with an oul’ boy. What would his ma say about that? Deciding that he’d had enough information for the time being, he gathered up his sweet wrappers, stuck the comic in his pocket, and slipped away up the field to report his findings.

Chapter thirteen

T
he phone rang as Father Connor Cassidy was firming up his Sunday sermon. He did not welcome the intrusion.

“Good morning, Saint Timothy’s, Father Cassidy speaking.”

“Hello, Father. It’s Doris Crink here, at the post office.”

Oh dear, thought the priest, why would the post office be calling? Could the price of stamps have jumped by a whole penny? A late delivery of the
Sacred Heart Messenger
perhaps?

Since coming to St. Timothy’s he’d been besieged by a flock of bird-witted ladies, all wanting his ear on the most frivolous of pretexts.

“I hope I’m not interrupting you, Father.”

“Not at all, Doris. How are you keeping?”

“Not too bad, Father. I just wanted to let ye know, Father, that I was talkin’ to Josie Mulhearn. You know Josie from the café?”

“I do, of course.” He had an idea what was coming.

“Now, Josie says there was a lady into her the day before yesterday and she was askin’ after your position, Father.”

“Excellent news, Doris! Is she a local lady?”

There was a slight hesitation from the postmistress. “Well…no. She’s a stranger, so she is.”

“Ah, yes. Well, that’s splendid news.”

In the brief silence that followed, Father Cassidy detected the wind of censure wafting down the line.

“Aye. But are you sure she’d be…well,
proper
for you, Father?”

“Well, Doris, since I’ve yet to meet the lady in question, I’m in no position to make such a judgment. Now, was there anything else?”

“Oh, no, Father. Just that…I thought…I thought I’d let you know, just to warn you in advance, like.”

“Very kind of you, Doris. Thank you for taking the trouble. Bye now.”

He put down the phone and smiled to himself. It was the second time that morning he’d been warned off. He’d barely finished breakfast when Rose McFadden, a woman whose very arteries seemed clogged with the minutiae of small-town life, had rung his doorbell.

“God, Father, I’m glad I got ye in time.”

For a moment he thought there’d been an accident and he was being called upon to administer the last rites. But no, it was far more serious than that.

“Josie at the cafe tolt me,” she’d blurted out breathlessly, “tolt me tae tell ye that there was a strange wommin in the café lookin’ at your advertmint. And she ast where the parochial house was, so she did.”

A wave of relief had swept over him at that point. A
stranger
wanting to work for him? How interesting! But of course she’d have to be the
right
type of stranger. Not too bright or intrusive. A capable sort. Yes, a capable sort who saw to her duties and left him alone. It was important that the newly formed Temperance Club not be disturbed.

“That’s good, Mrs. McFadden. If she’s suitable you won’t have to desert your good husband or your uncle or worry about me. That way, we’ll all be happy. Now I really must be going.”

Rose, however, was not about to let him away so easily.

“But, Father, that’s just it: Josie said she wouldn’t be proper for a priest’s house. That’s why I thought I’d warn you. She just didn’t look right.”

“Oh. What do you mean exactly?”

“Well, now, Josie said she didn’t look like a Cathlick.”

He really hadn’t wanted to encourage Mrs. McFadden, yet simply had to hear how Josie Mulhearn could discern someone’s religion by appearance alone. “And how did Josie conclude that, I wonder?”

Rose had moved closer to him, pleased to have the Father’s ear for another wee while.

“Well, ye know, Josie said she was cheeky to her and had what looked like a young son with her.” Mrs. McFadden’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But there was no sign of a waddin’ ring on her, as far as Josie could see. The son, Father, was drawin’ durty pitchers in Josie’s sugar, what he’d spilt on the table. And as well as that, Josie said that the mother had a miniskirt, and yella hair all puffed up like Merlin Monroe’s, and more paint on her face than would be in Dan’s Decorators, or on them type of wimmin that do be taking up with sailors and the like.”

“Well, thanks for warning me, Mrs. McFadden. But judge not, lest ye be judged, as the Good Book advises us. Now I really must be going.”

Father Cassidy checked his watch. It had just gone eleven. The “Merlin Monroe” look-alike, which the Misses Crink, Mulhearn, and McFadden had so disapproved of, would be arriving for her interview in approximately three hours’ time. Mrs. Halstone had telephoned the previous evening, and he’d found her most polite and genial. He was looking forward to meeting her; had thought it better not to divulge his plans to the gossip-hungry parish ladies,
not wishing to bring on one of his migraines. No, best to keep it quiet. They’d find out soon enough.

Besides, he was tired of having his private affairs talked about behind his back. Since learning of the vacant housekeeper post, the rambling Rose had taken to haunting him like Marley’s ghost. There was only one way to thwart her. Mrs. Halstone would, he hoped, save the day—and his sanity.