The Miracle Man (28 page)

“Of course not. But you Presbyterians don’t believe in miracles – or worship the Virgin Mary. She’s – ours.”

In an attempt at mediation, Limpy McGhee said,

“Well now, Father, maybe the Virgin Mary’s not that bothered. I mean, I’m not even sure if I’m a Catholic, and she still did a miracle on me, so she did.”

The priest’s face suddenly went pale and his cheeks sagged against the bones beneath. For a few moments he stared at Limpy.

“You’re not – what?”

“Not a Catholic, Father. Well, not that I know of for sure.” Frank Kilbride smiled and Pig Cully squinted out from beneath his cap.

“But – how can you not know if you’re a Catholic or not? Were you baptised?” the priest asked, trying to keep an even tenor in his voice.

“I couldn’t rightly say, Father. My mother died when I was a nipper and when I was ten my father ran off with a gypo woman that sold pegs round the doors. I’ll need to ask Lizzie. She knows all them things.”

“But – I mean, how can you not be a Catholic? You’re supposed to have had a miracle happen to you, for goodness sake.”

“Well, all I can say is, she never asked me what I was. It was just bang! and she’d done the job. Anyway, Father, I believe in miracles now. I’d say that probably makes it all right, wouldn’t you?”

Father Burke looked a little dazed. Good God! Why had nobody told him the man might not be a Catholic? And what was the Bishop going to say when he found out about this? He would be the laughing-stock of the diocese, he would be drummed out of the priesthood. The young priest drew himself up, turned to Frank Kilbride and with as much composure as he could muster said,

“Mr Kilbride, I can assure you that I am going to take this matter further. Good day to you.” Then he turned and went quickly out of the store.

From underneath his cap came Pig Cully’s squeaking laugh.

“Hey, McGhee! Does that mean you’ll get your limp back?”

Limpy’s hand closed round the neck of the whiskey bottle.

“Devil the bit, Cully. When the Virgin Mary does a miracle, it stays done,” he said, but just to be on the safe side he made the sign of the cross, albeit backwards and with his left hand.

When Limpy left the Inisbreen Stores, the bottle of Black Bush sticking out of his jacket pocket and carrying the stout and the cream buns in a white paper bag, he headed down the street for the bridge and beyond it the Glens Hotel. Unfortunately he would have to tell Lizzie about the five thousand from the newspaper – “Five – thousand – pound”, he said very slowly, while shaking his head in disbelief – because she was bound to find out sooner or later. Still, it was only fair, after all she’d done for him over the years. For sure, she’d be looking for her cut, but he’d try and beat her right down, tell her he had a lot of bills to pay, was as near as dammit getting thrown in jail over the head of it, all the usual old stuff that worked a treat every time. And they’d have a good drink of Black Bush to celebrate. Things were looking just champion now – except for Cissy. One day she was all on for a meeting and when he says yes please, she doesn’t show. It wasn’t even as if the letter got lost in the post. He paused on the bridge and looked down at the few sailing boats that bobbed at anchor near the banks of the river. Still, maybe it wasn’t surprising, having second thoughts after forty years. A big step for any woman to take. He’d maybe leave it a few days and then send her another letter. See if she’d come round to his way of thinking. She always had been a shy wee thing.

Limpy went up the path at the side of the hotel and along the lane to the back door leading directly into the kitchen. Without knocking, he opened the door and went in. Mrs
Megarrity, who had been sitting by the stove having a nap, jumped to her feet and was about to make some pretence at working until she saw who it was.

“Jasus tonight! It’s you! Would ye knock that friggin’ door before ye come in. I thought it was McAllister, an him an me at daggers dawn.”

“Ah, I’m sorry about that, Lizzie, but I was rushing in with some good news.” Limpy placed the bag of stout and buns on the table and then slowly withdrew the bottle of whiskey and held it up for his sister’s approval before setting it too on the table. Mrs Megaritty almost purred at him,

“Good news, is it? Well, never mind yer good news. I’ve got some for you. D’you remember that five hunnerd pound you so charitably gave to the Church?”

“Oh – yes – that five hunnerd. Now Lizzie, I don’t like to be talking about that. It’s not right for a man to blow his own trumpet.”

“Well, allow me, boy, because there’s going to be dynamite up yours in a minute, you lowdown, connivin’, lyin’ little get! Church my arse! Ye gave that money – five hunnerd pound, for the love of Jasus! – to that wee runt Garrison! An’ me giving ye a fiver to treat yerself to a drink on the strength of it. Do ye deny it? Do ye?”

Limpy, who had been making a slow retreat towards the door under this heavy fire, adopted the submissive posture and wheedling tone that had been his salvation so many times before.

“Well – ye see – Lizzie, I didn’t want to embarrass the woman by letting everybody know her business. She didn’t ask me for the money. I heard she was in a bad way financially and I sent it to her – because she was – an old friend.”

“She was in a bad way financially?” His sister bellowed. “An’ what the hell way d’ye think I’ve been in for this last twenty years, running around here with the backside out my
knickers? God knows, I never asked for much, but to have to come down that road every morning looking like I’ve been robbing scarecrows – ”

But Limpy was not listening to his sister’s sartorial history. A few facts had at last come together and from these he had made a deduction. “Ye nosey old bitch! Ye opened my letter, didn’t ye? Is there nothing sacred around here?” He flung an arm up in a dramatic gesture. “Has a man not got the right to privacy, prosperity, to the pursuit of happiness and – ”

The Winter Cook fairly flew at the diminutive orator and caught him firmly by one ear which she yanked upwards.

“The pursuit of five hundred pound is all you’re going to be doing, John McGhee. C’m’ere!” She led him by the ear to a chair at the table, then shoved him into it. “You,” she said, giving his ear one last tug before releasing it, “are going to write a letter.”

“Ah!” The Miracle Man held a cupped hand over his throbbing ear. “Ye’re a hard and vicious woman, Lizzie Megarrity, so y’are.”

“Not half enough for your kind,” she said from the far side of the room where she was taking paper and a pen from a drawer. “Now, ye’re going to write a little note to Cissy Garrison – the one that’s got our money, remember? – and tell her to meet you in one of the rooms at – “ she glanced at the clock, “ – four this afternoon, and to bring the five hunnerd with her. Number twenty-six is empty. That’ll do just fine. C’mon, get writing. And ye’d better lay it on thick, about how desperate ye are for the cash and if she doesn’t hand it over, ye’ll end up in the jail. I’m sure ye know the kind of thing.”

“But Lizzie, I don’t need to get the money back because I’ve – ”

“Ye’ll just do as ye’re told, or ye’ll have two legs needing miracles doing on them! Here.” She shoved the pen into his hand then tapped the top of the notepaper. “‘My Most Dearest Cissy’. Jasus save us.”

Oh well, if she was too busy chasing five hundred pounds to be interested in five thousand, that was her look-out. When she eventually did find out about it and wanted a share, she could whistle for it.

When Limpy had written the letter and gone – without his bottle of Black Bush – because “ye need to keep a clear head for this work, John McGhee” – the Winter Cook sat down at the table, poured another whiskey and set about writing one more letter. This one said, “Dear Mr Pointerly, Now’s the time. I’ve waited for you long enough. Meet me in Room 26 at a quarter to four. There’s a big bed and plenty of space. Get yourself ready. When I walk in that room, I want to see you as nature intended. Yours for ever, John McGhee. PS. No holds bard.”

“Well now,” she said with a smile, “we’ll see who gets five hunnerd pound and what the wee gold-digger thinks of her true love after this.” She poured herself a generous measure of whiskey and raised the glass. “Ye crossed the wrong woman this time, Cissy Garrison,” she said aloud, then sat back contentedly in her chair and savoured the free whiskey.

In Room 26 of the Glens Hotel, Mr Pointerly could not get his clothes off fast enough. His hands were trembling so much from excitement that his fingers found difficulty in undoing his belt buckle and for some time the buttons on his shirt defied his most determined efforts. He kept starting on one garment and then abandoning that to walk up and down the room, stare at the bed with a shiver of anticipation before commencing to attack another article of clothing.

“Oh, my Lord,” he said breathlessly. “My Lord! I knew it would happen eventually. But so suddenly.”

Near the dressing-table, he stood in a kind of daze, with one shoe off and the corresponding sock rolled down, his belt dangling loose and one arm in his jacket. He was smiling and frowning alternately. As if at a signal, he suddenly began tearing at his shirt front to open the buttons, at the same time kicking out one foot in an attempt to remove the shoe which he had loosened. He proceeded round the room in this manner until, tiring in one leg, he began to kick out with the other, before realising that he had already removed the shoe from that foot. With a few more contortions, all his clothes had been removed, revealing his long, skinny body. He shivered,
gathered up his clothes and went quickly towards the door that led directly to the bathroom.

As Limpy entered the back door of the hotel and went towards the service stairway at the rear of the building, his sister the Winter Cook lingered in the upstairs corridor near to Cissy Garrison’s room. Twice she had tiptoed to the door and bent forward to listen at it. She looked at her watch, a cheap digital one which gave the appearance of having been run over by a steam roller, and for which her son had swapped a catapult at school. Only the hour digits could be seen with clarity, as the minute figures had a habit of degenerating into hieroglyphics. This resulted in frequent banging of the watch on the kitchen table, following which it might momentarily show any time in twenty-four hours or none at all. The Winter Cook screwed up her eyes. It looked like 3.58. And then the door opened and Cissy Garrison came out. She was wearing a checked skirt and a pink tulle blouse made for someone of more ample proportions than herself and whose ruffed collar was so high that it obscured the lower part of her face. A pair of goggles might have completed the outfit and led the casual observer to think that the visored Garrison sister was about to embark on major welding operations.

“Well, hello there Miss Garrison and how are ye this evening?”

The Winter Cook blocked the way for Miss Cissy to proceed to Room 26.

“Very well thank you, Mrs Megarrity.”

“I was wondering, Miss Garrison, if I could have yer opinion on something. Ye see, I’m planning to cook a special farewell meal for me leaving for the summer break, and with you and yer sister – and Mr Pointerly, of course – being such long-time residents, I thought I would ask yez what ye’d prefer. Now, I’ve got a list here somewhere – ”

“Well, that’s very kind of you, Mrs Megarrity, but I do have
to meet someone and – I think I may already be a little late.”

She tried to move to one side and past the Winter Cook who deftly side-stepped into the space.

“Oh, it’ll hardly take a minute, Miss Garrison. If I could just find this list.”

The door from the corridor into Room 26 opened slowly and quietly as Limpy looked around it to find that Cissy had not yet arrived. He came in, closed the door behind him and gave a smile, before going over to the bed and testing it with his hand for softness. The bed got a nod of approval. Then Limpy broadened his shoulders, thrust his arms in an embrace around an imaginary Cissy and threw her sideways, so that she lay back in his arms looking up at him.

“I have always wanted ye,” he said in a whispered but dramatic tone. “Ye should’ve been mine years ago. And yet – “ the back of one hand was pressed against his brow, “the fates would not allow it.” He turned away, eyes downcast, a tragic prince deep in his winter of discontent. “Kinset – Kisnit,” and then in a sub-whisper, “Whatever the feck they call it.”

He flung out one arm and in doing so appeared to be supporting his paramour with the lightest of touches from the other. “But – it is never too late.” Getting into the swing of things, he flung her upright again. “Come away with me now! Be mine for ever! No longer will I have to say – “ he flung out both arms, abandoning his imaginary partner to the laws of gravity and at last giving full voice to his emotions, “Where are you, my love, where are you?”

“I’m here! I’m here!” Mr Pointerly shouted as he burst through the doorway of the bathroom and went prancing across to the bed.

“Jasus Christ of Almighty!”

Limpy staggered back, bumped against the bed and sat down heavily upon it. As he looked at the gangling septuagenarian bearing down on him, arms outstretched and
appendages bouncing as he ran, Limpy’s face was rigid with astonishment. Mr Pointerly stopped, looked at Limpy on the bed and said,

“So keen, McPhee, so keen!” and flung himself on top of the Miracle Man who had barely the time to utter a shout of protest.

And then, having been suitably delayed by the Winter Cook, Cissy walked into the room. With the door half open behind her, she stared and stared at the naked back of Mr Pointerly as he grappled with the figure beneath him.

“Oh my goodness!” Her little hands fluttered nervously and she almost dropped the envelope that she carried. She gave a long, shuddering, “Oh!” and then said, “Mr Pointerly! What on earth are you doing?”

The old man gave a jump and rolled sideways, revealing a red-faced Limpy beneath.

“John! What – is this? Mr Pointerly, please!” Miss Cissy said and turned her head away as Mr Pointerly revealed a full-frontal view of himself.

“Cissy!” Limpy tried to struggle to a sitting position, but was defeated by Mr Pointerly’s legs. “He’s gone crazy! What the hell are ye doing, ye old fool?”