The Miracle Man (30 page)

At the time, Nancy had taken the water to put into the water-font in the hallway of her mother’s house, but the bottle had lain forgotten on her dressing-table. Now, with the various reports
from locals of its efficacy in treating everything from lumbago in humans to mange in cats, her mind turned to Dermot’s “problem”, which had certainly been temporarily solved by his wild animal act. She had at least noticed that much as she had leapt to her feet with the hot coffee scalding her buttocks. But at their first attempt since then – in the fateful living-room they had flung their clothes off in joyous celebration of their new-found freedom – expectation had followed excitement in starting high and quickly flagging. The question she asked herself was, would the water work for Dermot and therefore by extension, so to speak, for her also? Going with a rich man was all very well – except for that nosey old bitch who called herself a cook – but if this was going to happen every time they tried to make love, then it was just not worth it. There were only two consolations. One, she fancied, was her increasing proximity to Dermot’s money. The other was that, with the influx of reporters into the hotel, there was one very nice-looking young man who had arrived the day before and who had wasted no time in chatting her up. Not that she would allow such a thing to affect her relationship with Dermot, of course, because that was founded on mutual love and respect.

As they lay together on the couch in Dermot’s living-room, Nancy broached the subject of the holy water as a cure for his problem and he at once grew red in the face.

“Don’t be so bloody stupid,” he said and then mumbled something about superstition and sacrilege. Nancy snuggled closer to him.

“Darling,” she said, and whispered in his ear her vision of what it would be like when his problem had been overcome. At this, Dermot began to get a little flustered.

“For God’s sake, Nancy, have a bit of sense. A thing like that would never work. Holy water would have the exact opposite effect to an aphrodisiac. I mean, I don’t ever remember fancying being groped by a nun.”

But being a teacher, and therefore used to explaining things simply and persuasively to those who were reluctant to open their minds, she said,

“Dermot, darling, in a situation like this, the wish is father to the action. If you really want it to succeed, it will. All you need is a little faith – and holy water.”

And so, before he went down to the bar to serve for the evening, she had him undress and lie on the couch. While he lay there with his eyes closed and his hands clenched by his side, as though about to undergo a painful experience, she began to work on him, teasing flesh here and arranging there, like an undertaker preparing a corpse. She had even thought to warm the bottle of water by the fire before applying some of the contents, and this in such an expert manner that one might have thought it was not the first time she had done something of the kind. A few pleasurable groans escaped Dermot’s lips before Nancy, having applied the liquid to every part of his anatomy that might have even the slightest bearing on the problem, straightened up, swept back a fallen wisp of red hair and said with some satisfaction,

“There.” The task had been accomplished. Now all that could be done was to await results.

About an hour after Dermot had gone down to serve in the hotel lounge bar, Nancy rang down to him.

“Well,” she said, “have there been any results yet?”

“For God’s sake, Nancy,” he hissed into the telephone, “I can’t speak now!”

“Well there’s no need to bite my head off! You could just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, couldn’t you?”

“No. I told you it wouldn’t bloody work!”

“Don’t you feel – anything? I would’ve expected something to happen by now. It is holy water, after all.”

“Well it hasn’t. Goodbye.”

It was just after ten o’clock. Nancy was sitting watching
television and wondering if she should just give up and go home, when she heard the outside door of the flat closing. She glanced at the clock and frowned. There was the sound of footsteps in the hallway before the door was opened and Dermot came in.

“Dermot! You haven’t – finished for the night, have you?”

“No, Nancy, I haven’t finished for the night. I asked somebody to take over for a few minutes.”

“Why did you ask – Oh, Dermot! Something’s happened, hasn’t it? I knew it! I knew it would work! If you’ve got faith, anything can happen.” Nancy jumped to her feet. “Oh my God! How long’ve you got?” She began to pull open the buttons on the front of her dress. “We’ll need to hurry!” She gave a shiver of excitement. “Well, come on then,” she said, kicking her shoes off, “don’t waste time. Thanks for not waiting until you’d finished in the bar, Dermot. I would probably have been gone.”

Without taking his eyes from Nancy, Dermot had hooked both thumbs inside his trousers and underpants and pulled them both down around his knees. Nancy glanced down with a smile which quickly turned into a grimace. Her hand went to her mouth.

“Oh – my – God! Dermot!” She leant forward and peered at Dermot’s groin. “You’d need a magnifying glass to – “ “Exactly!” Dermot almost shouted. “You and your stupid bloody idea! What the hell am I going to do? If it keeps going like this I’ll be reclassified as a castrato. Look at me.” Nancy put her hand to her mouth in order to stifle a smile.

“There’s – not that much to look at, actually.” She emitted a little whining sound that should have been the beginning of a laugh but she pressed her fist hard against her teeth.

“Oh, very funny. Very bloody funny. Have a laugh about it, why don’t you.” He yanked his underpants and trousers up to his waist again and started for the door. “I’ve got to get down there again, before they rob me blind.” He turned and shook a
finger at Nancy, who was only controlling her laughter by not looking at him. “If this is permanent – if I’ve got to go round like this for the rest of my life . . . You’d better think of something, Nancy – and pretty damn quick!”

Dermot left the room, slamming both the living-room and outside doors behind him, while Nancy appeared to have been suddenly overtaken by the gravity of the situation. And shortly afterwards she did indeed think of something. She thought of the good-looking young reporter with the dark hair who was in Room 27 on the floor below. Nancy wondered if she should go along that corridor on her way out and perhaps stop to make a neighbourly enquiry as to his health and general well-being.

They knew that there must be something wrong with Limpy McGhee when he didn’t turn up at O’Neill’s bar for his nightly drinking session. Although he had lately taken to drinking of an evening in the bar of the Glens Hotel, he invariably finished off with a visit to O’Neill’s. They said he couldn’t rest easy in his bed until he had had an argument with somebody – anybody would do – then insulted them and stamped out in a temper. And so everyone who came into O’Neill’s that night was asked if he had seen Limpy in the Glens Hotel bar or on the road from his little house near the chapel, but nobody had done so. When it drew near to closing time and he had still not been seen nor any sightings of him reported, it was decided that he had either passed away from a surfeit of drink or had taken off for England with his new-found wealth. It was just the sort of damn fool thing he would do, they thought.

Had they seen what Limpy was doing at that time, they would scarcely have believed the evidence of their own eyes, for not only was he sitting at home during pub opening hours but he was cold sober, a combination which the man himself would have sworn was beyond his powers of endurance. He had been sitting this way for a good part of the evening, the
dog rising from his resting place now and then to mooch around the bare floor, sniffing for the ghosts of the bones and other titbits that were once strewn among the rubbish. Even when he cocked his leg and left his calling-card on the corner of the far wall, Limpy took no notice. His mind was on other things.

After all these years – over forty, it was – he had almost got Cissy back again. Almost. All of a sudden his life had been changed at the thought of it. And he’d got a bit of money, too. Maybe even enough to put a deposit on a wee house. After all, he couldn’t bring a decent woman back to a place like this. But then Lizzie had to put her oar in and bugger up the whole thing. There was no harm in that old fool Pointerly, it was Lizzie’s doing entirely. So now Cissy thought he was as queer as a nine-bob note and wouldn’t even look the road he was on. And just when she was ready, willing and able to take up with him again. Now he would have to find some way of enticing her back, of convincing her that he wasn’t a horse’s hoof after all.

It was almost midnight before the idea came to him. As the immensity of it became apparent, he wondered how he could have sat racking his brains for so long and not seriously considered it before. It combined diversion and practicality, it would give him a status worthy of his role as a miraculous symbol and a commercial asset, and if he played his cards right it would certainly bring Cissy running back to his side. With a broad smile, Limpy jumped to his feet and rubbed his hands together. There was a lot to be said for thinking and no denying the power of the brain when it was let go at full tilt. Weren’t the McGhees famous for it, sitting around considering weighty matters, “cogertating”, as his old uncle used to say, whilst those that were weaker in the head did the labouring work? He reached to pat the dog’s head. The animal, which had been
lying half asleep near the bed, was so surprised at this unaccustomed show of affection that it immediately got up and went to a corner of the room, from where it sat and watched its master with eyes full of suspicion. The last pat on the head it had received – after it had relieved itself against the leg of the bed – had been swiftly followed by a boot up the backside.

Limpy had never owned a car or had a driving lesson in his life, having obtained his driving licence in the days before the advent of the driving test. His only means of automotive transport had been an ancient tractor which had long ago expired and been abandoned at the back of his house. For a time he had tried an old bicycle, but due to his bad leg he had had to swivel across the saddle at every pedal stroke, and ended up throwing the bicycle in a ditch along the road, saying that it was “for nothing but sawing the arse off me”. Whenever he wanted to go anywhere more than two or three miles away he either took the bus or cadged a lift, and on those rare occasions when he had bought a few sheep or a pig, he reluctantly paid someone to transport them home. Now he was behind the wheel of his first car, a huge old Ford, propped up on the seat by two cushions which the garage man in Castleglen had kindly given him when it had become obvious that otherwise Limpy would have been unable to see out of the windscreen.

Behind the showroom, in the yard where they kept the vehicles that were waiting to be scrapped – or sold to customers like Limpy McGhee – the salesman had held out his arm and said,

“There she is, sir! The very limousine for a gentleman such as yourself. And only just come on the market, since his Lordship took delivery of his new one.” He had lovingly patted one wing of the old car, but carefully, as a shower of rust falling from the wheel-arch might have deterred even the
most ardent of buyers. “She’s a beauty right enough, sir, and solid as a rock.”

“His Lordship? What lordship?”

“Ah, please sir, if you would, forget I said that. Erase it entirely from your memory. Slip of the tongue, sir, a fox’s pass, as you might say. I couldn’t possibly reveal the name. And if I could,” he had winked at Limpy, “I would have to charge you twice the price for her.”

Limpy had cast his eye along the once-graceful lines of the old car, from the black paint slapped over the rusting sills to the wheels without hub caps.

“Undersealed, sir,” the salesman had nodded at the black paint. “Essential in this climate. Salt air, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of the depredations of rust on metal, so I am,” Limpy said. He shifted his gaze to the wheels. “What about them things that should be on the wheels there? Hub caps, is it?”

The salesman had smiled and given Limpy’s elbow a squeeze of sheer admiration.

“Ah, you’ve been holding out on me, sir, haven’t you? I’d venture you know more than a thing or two about motor vehicles. So you’ll recognise a car that’s been used for what we in the trade call ‘off-road work’.”

Limpy smiled and nodded. Of course he did.

“His Lordship there, he’s very big on off-road work, I can tell you. Shooting parties, point-to-point meetings and the like. Only the very best vehicles are up to it, as I’m sure you know. And if I was able to tell you the names of some of the gentry that’ve sat in this conveyance – well.” He gave a toss of his head, still in awe at the import of the information he held in confidence. “Now, you’re obviously a man with an eye for a bargain, so there’s no point in me coming in at a big price. Rock bottom, sir, best offer, and only because you’re a gentleman that appreciates a quality vehicle.” And then a lowering of the voice
and a confidential tone. “I’d hate to have to let it go to some of the shit-kickers we get in here.” He had paused for a moment, clearly considering if it was worth laying his job on the line to give such a good deal to this fine gentleman. “Listen,” he said, “forget seven fifty, disregard six hundred. And you might say I’m robbing myself, but – ” his palms came together in a loud clap – “five hundred!”

“I’ll take it,” Limpy had said, already imagining himself driving through Inisbreen in the car, like a nabob on an elephant. And then he had slapped the car dealer’s upturned palm in the time-honoured manner of those striking a bargain and paid his five hundred pounds.

Later, he had roared out of the yard, clutch slipping and black smoke belching from the exhaust – “his Lordship’s a terrible man for oil, sir,” – just managing to navigate through the streets of Castleglen without mounting the pavement or running down any pedestrians. Now he was driving the twelve miles on the mountain road between the town and Inisbreen, where the only things he could kill would be himself or a few sheep, the big engine roaring through a hole in the exhaust and the thud of the worn shock absorbers loud at every bump in the road. What would their faces not be like in Inisbreen when he rode in on this yoke? And how long would it be before he could get Cissy Garrison to talk to him again and have the pair of them riding around in luxury, a second lordship now at the wheel and his ladyship by his side.