The Disenchanted Widow (25 page)

“Boys-a-dear!”

“Oh, it took Greta-Concepta a while for tae get over it, Ned. And there was a time when the people thought she might-a had to go to the nervous hospital for tae get sorted out. But y’know, Father Mehaffy was terrible good to her. He blamed himself, ye see. For if he hadn’t told Sergeant Ranfurley about Tommy knocking him off the bike, then Tommy wouldn’t of got the glasses and wouldn’t of seen how bad wee Greta-Concepta looked, and wouldn’t of run off with that other woman that bought the crusty baps and jam sponge off him every Friday.”

Ned nodded sagely, digesting this. “God, ye never know how things is gonna work out. And how is she now, Rose?”

“Oh, she’s grand now. She had bother makin’ hens meet in the beginning, but she had a wee bitta money put past in the credit union, and she moved tae Killoran and got herself a cooking job at the Kelly Arms.” Rose took a long drink of thirst-quenching tea. “Now, wee Greta-Concepta mightn’t be much to look at, but she’s got hands for anything…a great wee worker. That’s why I think she’d be ideal for our Gusty. Let’s be honest, Ned, Gusty’s not much tae look at, either.”

A look of panic came into the old man’s eyes. He thought of this strange women coming into his house, upsetting his routine. He had to speak his mind.

“I wouldn’t want no stranger comin’ in here, pullin’ and haulin’ at me in the bed, Rose.”

“Now Greta’s not like that, Ned,” she assured him. “And a waddin’ wouldn’t be on the cards right away. What I’m proposing, Ned, is that I set up a meeting between the pair of them. Now, we wouldn’t tell Gusty, of course. But what if you and me and him go for a wee day tae Killoran and we can call in at the Kelly Arms. That way, you’d get tae meet wee Greta-Concepta, too. What d’ye think?”

“S’ppose it wouldn’t do any harm, Rose.” Ned rubbed his chin, considering. “But I don’t know about these oul’ legs of mine.”

“Now, I was just gonna say, Ned. Them legs need-a bitta exercise. Do ye no harm atall tae get outta the bed for a while. Will we say this Friday? That’ll give ye enough time tae try out your legs, and give me time tae get a shirt washed and ironed for you and Gusty.” Rose got up and lifted the tray. “Now, I’ll just get us some more tea. We’ll not say a word tae Gusty. I’ll just say we’re goin’ intae Killoran to have a word with a friend of mine and it’ll be a wee run out for the three of us.”

“Good enough.”

When Rose left the room, Ned stared out the window. He could see Rosehip Cottage from his bed. God, how things are changing, he thought to himself. Rose getting Gusty a woman because of another woman living in his sister’s house, one he’d never even met.

What would Dora make of it all?

Suddenly he felt powerless, lying there in the big bed. Maybe Rose was right. It
was
time to get up.

It was time to take control of things, or before he knew it, Kilfeckin Manor might be taken from under his very nose, as he lay sleeping and oblivious to it all.

Chapter twenty-nine

H
aving spent an exhausting afternoon cleaning the parochial house, Bessie believed she’d earned a good slosh of whiskey in her afternoon cuppa, another slice of Rose McFadden’s pilfered fruitcake, a cigarette, and Tammy Wynette’s “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” on the asthmatic record player. She’d noticed it skipping and wheezing quite a bit since the move and wondered if Herkie’s weight had done it harm.

“D, I, V-V-V-V…” Tammy stuttered.

Bessie sighed and went over to return the stylus to its groove. She settled herself on the settee, kicked off her shoes, and lit up. Aunt Dora’s sunburst clock struck the hour of five. Herkie was still down at Kilfeckin Manor. She hoped he wouldn’t delay too much longer. This being the evening of the big jackpot bingo, she intended to be first in the queue. But for now she’d relax.

Herkie was in no hurry to return home from his failed expedition to the Grant house. He was dreading his ma’s reaction to his empty pockets. However, being a resourceful little chap, he’d already concocted an elaborate story for his ma by way of explanation.

Herkie was good at concocting plausible stories. It was a skill honed out of necessity: to keep the peace between his warring
parents. Stories that often involved making excuses for his ma’s absence to the father when he’d arrive home—roaring drunk in the back of a police car with his coat hanging off and shoes missing—demanding to know where that “whore of a mawer of yours” was. And Herkie’s young brain would go into overdrive, rifling frantically through his memory file of plausible excuses as he stood, terrified, at the top of the stairs. By which time Bessie would already be out the back door and running down toward the garden shed in her nightdress.

“She’s at Grandma’s / Mabel McClarty’s / Mrs. Ruff’s down the street, Da…’cos…’cos she ran outta milk and…and…the shop was shut and Ma had tae bring her over some ’cos…she wanted till make cocoa.”

“Makin’ cocoa at this time-a the fuckin’ night, son?”

“Aye, Da. I swear, Da!”

“I’ll cocoa
her
when I get me fuckin’ hands on her.”

It was usually well into the early hours when the father would conduct these less than lucid exchanges with the son. Several minutes later, mercifully, he’d fall comatose on the settee. The monster asleep, the danger past, Herkie would scamper down to the garden shed to give his ma the all clear.

Now, as he dawdled up the back field, completed drawing under his arm, his little face puckered in consternation, Herkie was going over the story again, just to be sure he had it right.

When I was comin’ in till the yard the ambulance came till the house and took the oul’ boy out on a stretcher, ’cos he must-a been sick. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open and maybe he was dead. The woman with the big white shoes was crying and Veronica the pig was going mad. Gusty Grant came outta the house and locked the back door and put the pig in the pen. Then the woman with the big white shoes said:
“
You run on back tae your mother, Herkie, for there’s no messages tae be run the day, for poor Ned’ll maybe not last the night, the poor creature
.”
Then Gusty and her got in the truck and went away
.

He felt confident with the story, and with the oul’ boy away in the hospital there would be no need for his ma to send him down to the big house again.

Not so eager to return home, Herkie decided to head for the fairy ring. Mr. Lorcan usually drew his pictures there in the afternoon, and he could show him the finished drawings.

Lorcan, seated on his tree stump, eyes closed under the warming breath of the sun, was relishing the peace and quiet in his favorite spot. He looked forward to these contemplative respites from the exertions—and, indeed, the people—of the day.

Sitting there in the woodland clearing among the sacred stones gave him entry to a sacred space, just as painting did. The stillness soothed the soul. What was it Picasso had said? “Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life.”

The scrunch of bracken underfoot broke in on his musings. An intruder approached. He tilted his hat—to see Herkie standing a few feet away.

“Ah, Mr. Herkie Halstone. I thought it might be you.”

“Were you sleepin’, Mr. Lorcan?”

Herkie had been observing him for a few minutes from behind a tree. The strange artist had been sitting there as still as one of the stones.

“Sleeping, Herkie? No, I shut my eyes in order to see. It’s what we artists do.”

“Huh?”

He removed his hat and swept an arm wide. “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods…There is society, where none intrudes.”

“What?”

“Lord Byron. Don’t mind me, Herkie. Come, sit.” He patted the tree stump beside him and smiled. “I do believe I see a finished sketch under that arm.”

Herkie sat down sheepishly and handed over the drawing. “The fur on the rat—I mean dormouse—was hard till do ’cos me sharp’ner was blunt.”

Lorcan was studying the drawing. “Excellent work, Herkie! Excellent!” There was a large circular mark in the blue sky with yellow spokes emanating from it. “I like that Van Gogh sun. Why did you add it?”

“Nah, me ma set her tea down on it when I wasn’t lookin’, and so I made it into a sun.”

“Very clever, that. Shows initiative. Not many artists could do that, you know.”

He was glad to see the compliment lighting up Herkie’s face. But not for long. Something was amiss.

“Would you like another sketch? Got plenty that need your master’s touch.”

The boy didn’t answer. He bent down and rubbed the back of his leg. He’d taken six of the best on the backs of both legs for affronting his ma at confession.

“Did the nettles get you? Nasty things.” On closer inspection, however, Lorcan saw that the welt marks were not stings. They’d been made by a rod. “How is your mother, by the way?”

“She’s always mad at me. Said I wasn’t to come here no more.”

“Ah. Right.”

There was a pause.

“Maybe you shouldn’t then.”

“She said you might be a Provo, or a prevert, or something.”

“I think she meant
per
vert.” He wasn’t so surprised at Mrs. Halstone’s poor opinion of him. He was guessing that her background predisposed her to be wary of all strangers, male strangers in particular. A thought occurred to him.

“Shouldn’t you be in school, Herkie?”

“Me ma said it’s all right. She sez I never larned much when I was in it anyway.”

Lorcan was aghast.

“She sez I have to earn me keep and I can’t do that in school. ’Cos Da didn’t leave us a pot tae piss in. That’s what she sez.”

What a terrible burden to place on the poor child!

“She has a way with words, your mother, I’ll give her that. But I don’t thinks she means what she says. School is the best place for you to be right now, Herkie. You’ll miss out on so much if you don’t go.”

He saw the boy chew over the words. He thought he might be getting through. Then: “Mr. Lorcan, what’s a Peepin’ Tom?”

Provos? Perverts? Peepin’ Toms? What on earth was she filling the child’s head with?

“Where did you pick up that name, Herkie?”

“Me ma sez there’s one down in the big white house…and she sez he’s a durty brute and she’ll have tae buy nets for the windee.”

Dear me, thought Lorcan. Well, it’s hardly old Ned. That left Gusty. No great surprises there. Gusty would rarely come across the like of the glamorous Mrs. Halstone in the normal run of things.

“Well, a Peeping Tom is someone who looks through other people’s windows when they shouldn’t. But you mustn’t be worrying about silly things like that, Herkie.” He patted the boy’s knee. “Great artists like you have more important things to think about. Isn’t that right?”

Herkie smiled up at him, delighting in the praise.

“Tell you what. Here’s another project for you. A more difficult one, mind, but I think you’ve proved yourself, Herkie.”

Lorcan turned the pages of his sketchbook and found a drawing that would easily tax the painting capabilities of the great Henri
Rousseau. The beautiful pencil study of wildflowers had taken the best part of three hours: a mosaic of intricate clumps showing tufted vetch, cow parsley, marsh marigolds, and meadowsweet. He tore off the page.

“There you go. That should keep you busy for a while.”

Herkie’s face shone; he was marveling at the detail. Then he looked up at Lorcan, wonder losing ground to uncertainty. “What…what if I mess it up? Can’t sharp me pencils no more.”

“Nonsense. You’re an expert now, Herkie.” He reached into a pocket and produced a sharpener. “There. A gift for you.”

“Th-thank you.”

Knowing how much pressure the child was under to “earn his keep,” he said, “Tell you what, Herkie, if you color that picture in really, really well, I’ll give you a prize.”

“What prize, Mr. Lorcan? Is it sweets?”

“Oh, no, far more important than sweets. Now, let’s see. I’ll have to put on my thinking cap and ask the fairies first. They’re far wiser than I am.”

Lorcan made a great show of pulling the hat over his eyes again, folding his arms and tilting his head skyward.

Herkie waited, watching closely.

After a couple of tense moments, he sighed deeply and removed the hat. He threw Herkie a suspicion-filled, sidelong glance. It did not bode well. Herkie’s expectant face drooped and his shoulders slumped.

“What prize did the fairies say?”

“Well, it was very interesting. They said if you color the sketch well, you’ll get third prize. That’s fifty pence. If you color it in
very
well, you’ll get second prize. That’ll be a whole one pound.”

Herkie’s heart leaped at the thought of earning money for doing something he really enjoyed. He punched the air, unable to contain his excitement. “What’s the first prize?”

“If it’s brilliant,” Lorcan continued, “and I mean really, really brilliant, you’ll be in line for first prize of…drumroll…first prize of a whopping two pounds and fifty lovely pence!”

“Wheeee!” Herkie cried, jumping up and down. “I’m-gonna-get-first-prize. I’m-gonna-get-first-prize!”

“Well, you better go home and get started on it right away. The sooner you finish it, the sooner you’ll have your prize money.”

Needing no further encouragement, the boy shot off.

“Thanks, Mr. Lorcan!” he called over his shoulder. Then, halting, he turned back. “Oh, and Mr. Lorcan…”

“Yes?”

“Can ye say thanks till the fairies, too?”

Lorcan raised his hat. “They’ve heard you already, Herkie. They’ve heard you already.”

Chapter thirty

S
o many showed up for Father Cassidy’s big bingo event that in the end there weren’t enough tickets and chairs, and people had to be turned away.

Lorcan sat behind a table in the lobby alongside sixteen-year-old Fergal O’Toole, a spindly, nervous boy whom Father Cassidy had drafted in at the last minute to assist him.

Judging from the moil of accents, the entire population of Ireland might have descended on Tailorstown. They’d come from all arts and parts, from up and down the country. Women mostly. Great gabbling, wagering hordes of them, flushed with the excitement of it all. Freed briefly from the drudgery of sink and stove, they were determined to make the most of it. They laughed. They joked. Their perfume sweetened the air and their fake jewelry glittered. They wore their Sunday best, clutched pencils and clipboards—the armory of the seasoned bingo player—ready to do battle.