The Disenchanted Widow (15 page)

It was at such moments that memories of his first and only love, Lucy, would ambush him. He’d met her at art college, but after a year of courtship had lost her to another.

That was thirteen years ago, and he’d gone off women after that. Too mercurial, too capricious. Better off without them. The two-dimensional kind were a safer bet. At least you could have a connection with them without committing yourself and suffering the pain of rejection.

Like every artist, Lorcan needed his fantasies. There were no starless night skies in his world. His paintbrush described reality
on his own terms. Held the crudeness of the world at bay. Why spoil the illusion?

Why indeed?

The idea at once elated and disheartened him. He shook his head. Tailorstown was getting to him already—and he’d barely arrived back. He shuddered to think how he’d feel a week from now. Two weeks. A month. There was only one way to dispel the blues.

Work!

The sooner he got rid of the portrait, the sooner he’d be rid of the psychotic Dentist, too. His dear mother’s well-being depended on it.

He went to the dreaded canvas and began unwrapping it.

Chapter seventeen

B
essie Halstone had settled well into her new job. Up until now she’d never given much thought to the priesthood. On the rare occasions when those befrocked, generally dour gentlemen had entered her life, it was to officiate at weddings, christenings, and funerals—“matches, hatches, and dispatches,” in everyday parlance. No, the world of the rural priest was alien to her. And now she was discovering the awe in which such a gentleman was held by the country folk. She was also finding out that being a priest’s housekeeper lent a woman a certain status.

She liked being in the grand parochial house, thinking herself more lady of the manor than skivvy for a priest.

Swift to establish her territory in the kitchen, she’d removed all traces of Miss Beard’s unenterprising spirit by consigning the floral tablecloths and sturdy delft to the back of a cupboard, along with a couple of her dowdy aprons, a hand-knitted tea cozy, and a wad of
Sacred Heart Messenger
s.

Out with the old, in with the new, as Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock was apt to say. It was a good motto, and Bessie intended using it to maximum effect.

So shelves of china and inverted glasses, cloistered in cabinets for yonks, were taken out and pressed into service. Drawers of
linen—tablecloths and napkins that had never seen the light of day—were unearthed and aired on the clothesline. Scented blooms from the garden suddenly found their way indoors and flourished in pots or spilled elegantly from vases on tables and sills.

She’d seen Father Cassidy’s eyes roam appreciatively about the place with the little changes she was making. Who knew, if she played her cards right he might end up employing her for a longer period, thereby guaranteeing her more money for her getaway. She did not know how this might sit with the locals but guessed they’d be none too pleased.

There was much to explore in the big house. Besides the kitchen there were two reception rooms, a library, and a study on the ground floor, and five bedrooms upstairs. Why, she wondered, do priests need such a spread? Just one man rattling about. All those acres of space going to waste.

The thought struck her most forcibly as she stood, duster in hand, in the front living room, which never seemed to be in use. Her mother-in-law—a harridan who’d taken an instant dislike to her—used to have a room just like it, also rarely used. Well, not as grand, but grand in Packie’s mother’s book. The “pawloor” she called it, and reserved it only for visitors and Christmas gatherings. When Bessie started dating Packie, she was allowed into the pawloor. That was, of course, before Molly Lawless decided she was “a bad influence” on her son.

But that was the past, the done and dusted past. Bessie shelved the thought, shut a door on the memory, flopped down on a velour sofa, kicked off her shoes, and threw her legs up on the armrest, just for the hell of it. She could not imagine her predecessor, old Miss Beard, disporting herself thus. There and then she decided that this room would be hers to relax in. Father Cassidy would hardly notice. He seemed permanently distracted by “affairs of the parish,” whatever
they
were.

She wondered idly now what activities he engaged in, outside of the rectory. “Please don’t wait around for me, Mrs. Halstone,” he’d said the previous day. “I keep very irregular hours. It’s the fate of all us parish priests, I fear.” There was also the Temperance Club. Thursday afternoons and evenings were off-limits. The priest had made it clear that on Thursdays her services were required only in the morning.

She began to idly sketch circles with her toe on the rich velour fabric.
Perhaps he’s got a secret woman somewhere. I wonder: Would he ever leave the priesthood for a woman?
She posed the question to her circling toe. He was too handsome to have a vocation. Yes, that was it. Men like him didn’t join the priesthood out of choice. Maybe he was let down by a woman and was taking shelter from the lot of them under the cloth. Or—the more likely scenario—he was pushed into it by a domineering mother. Whatever the circumstances, she was determined to find out more about the mysterious Father.

Thud!

Her toe froze on the fabric.

She looked up. The noise had come from overhead. But she was alone in the house. Had Cassidy returned without her noticing?

She got up and tiptoed to the window. No sign of his car.

Thud…Scrape…Thud.
Jesus, she thought, who
is
that? She slipped her shoes back on, edgy now.

Should she investigate?

She braved it into the hallway. “Hello. Anybody up there?”

Ding-dong-ding-dong!

The doorbell.

Bessie didn’t hesitate but went at once and opened the door. A plump woman stood on the doorstep.

“Hello. Rose McFadden’s me name,” the woman said, proffering a hand. “And you must be the new housekeeper.”

“Yes. Mrs. Halstone.” Bessie shook her hand. “I’m afraid Father Cassidy isn’t—”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Hailstone. I just brought him along one of me wee fruit loaves, for I know he likes a bitta cake now and again.” She dived into a shopping bag and presented the loaf, gift-wrapped in a tea towel.

Bessie accepted it with a grudging smile.
How insulting! This one thinks I can’t bake. The cheek!
She cast an imperious eye over Mrs. McFadden’s bloom-print frock with its crooked hem, her tree-stump legs stuck in a pair of brass-buckled flats, and said, “Thank you. I’ll see that he gets it.” Each word chipped from a glacier with an ice pick.

“How are ye likin’ it round here, Mrs. Hailstone?” Rose asked. “Must be strange for ye, ’cos I heard ye were from the city.”

Her eyes were roving over Bessie like a mop over a dirty floor.

“It’s
Hal
stone, by the way. I’m liking it very well. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Well, ye know, I’m a good friend of Betty Beard’s, and she worries about the Father, she does. She’s too far away tae see if things is all right, so I tolt her I’d look in on him now and again, so tae keep her mind rested, if ye unnerstand me, Mrs. Hailstone. God, it’s terrible hot.” Rose looked up at the sky.

Angling for a cup of tea?
Given her immediate circumstances—what with those mysterious and unsettling noises—Bessie could have used the company, but the cake was an insult too far.

“I’d love to offer you a cup of tea,” she said, “but my shift is over now and I have to get on. I’ll make sure Father Cassidy gets your loaf, Mrs. McFadden. Bye now.” And with that she shut the door on Rose.

She stood in the hallway, clutching the loaf to her chest, gaping up the stairs. Should she go up there?

Through the glass door-panel she was aware of her affronted visitor hoisting herself onto the saddle of her bicycle and creaking off.

No, she wouldn’t risk it.

She dashed down to the kitchen, stowed the fruit loaf in her bag—she and Herkie were more in need of it than the overly pampered Father—and left the house.

Down at Kilfeckin Manor, Herkie lay on his belly in the field, awaiting his chance. A whole week had gone by and he still hadn’t made it past the back door. His ma was getting impatient and had warned that if he didn’t return that evening with the spoils from an errand or two, she’d be locking away not only his sweet ration but his
Cheeky Weekly
s, too.

He’d brought along his coloring book and was busily giving the Loch Ness monster an extra set of fiery red eyes when he heard the back door opening. Through the hedge he observed Gusty Grant emerge, sucking on the last of a cigarette, his big glasses glinting in the sunlight. There was no sign of the pig.

True to form, Gusty stood for a while gazing up at Rosehip Cottage. Herkie hoped he wouldn’t sit down and start playing with his face in the window again; he was hot and tired and simply wanted to get on with his mission. The sooner Gusty Grant made himself scarce, the better.

Just then the upstairs window was thrust open and the oul’ boy stuck his head out.

“Hi! Are ye not away yet?”

“Nah, I’m still here.”

“Stap lookin’ up at that wommin. She’s not lookin’ at
you
. She’d be hard-up lookin’ at a boy like you.”

“Aye,
you’d
know, wouldn’t ye…lyin’ on yer arse all day, doin’ bugger all.”

“What’s that yer sayin’?”

“Nuthin’!”

“Get me a bottle-a that Buckfast wine in the Cock…and a beg-a-them Epsom salts for me bowels.”

With that, the window was banged shut. Herkie heard his landlord muttering, “Aye, ye oul’ shite!”—or words to that effect. He then crossed to his truck and in seconds was gone.

The coast was finally clear.

Herkie made a beeline for the back door, quietly pushed it open, and tiptoed inside.

He immediately found himself in a large, untidy kitchen. There was a hearth fire burning; opposite it, an open archway led down a wide, flagged hallway to the front door.

He crept down the hallway and listened at the foot of the stairs. He needed to make sure that the oul’ boy was still up there. He heard what sounded like a radio burbling overhead and reckoned the oul’ boy was listening to the news—because that was what oul’ boys usually did. There was no way he was going to go up there and introduce himself as his ma had instructed. He’d concoct some other story for her.

The sound of the radio was a bonus: even if Herkie did make some noise, he would not be heard.

There were three doors leading off the hallway, but he decided to return to the kitchen and reserve them for later. Kitchens were more interesting anyway: they meant food. And food in Herkie’s world meant cake and sweets.

The fare laid out on the kitchen table, however—a half-eaten loaf, a pound of butter still in its wrapper, a bottle of milk, and the congealed remains of a fry—had him turning up his nose in dismay. He looked nervously at the big knife on the breadboard and wondered if it was the one Mr. Grant had used to carve up his aunt.

He was about to pull out one of the drawers in the dresser when the unthinkable happened. The front door opened and he heard a woman’s voice.

“Cooeee, Uncle Ned! It’s only me.”

Where to run to? He couldn’t make a dash for the back door, for the woman would have a clear view of him through the open archway. He cast about frantically for a place to hide. The cupboards and the dresser were too small.

“I’ll just get us a wee drop o’ tea!” he heard the woman call out. Her footsteps were getting closer.

He dived under the table.

From the concealment of the gingham tablecloth, his heart pounding, Herkie watched as a pair of stout legs wearing white slip-on shoes with big brass buckles clumped into the kitchen.

“Dearie, dearie me!” the woman sighed.

Her feet moved to the stove. He heard her strike a match, put the kettle on, turn, and approach the table. She started clearing away the breakfast things and piling dishes in the sink. The sound of a tap being turned on meant she was going to do the washing up. Herkie began to panic. What if she began sweeping the floor? She’d find him, and how would he explain himself?

He was trying to think up an excuse when a strange thumping sound came from overhead.

The woman stopped what she was doing, and Herkie saw water drip onto the floor.

“Yes, I’m comin’ now, Uncle Ned!” she shouted. In a lower voice: “God, I better go up and see him, for he maybe thinks I’m a burglar.”

To Herkie’s relief, he heard the woman dry her hands and saw the white shoes clump out of the kitchen and echo back down the hallway.

He waited until she’d climbed the stairs before crawling out.

Feeling slightly braver now, he glanced about him.

Herkie was something of an expert at “spot the difference” puzzles. There was always one at the back of the
Dandy
, and they were his favorite game. Now, as he surveyed the kitchen, his little eyes locked on something that hadn’t been there before.

A handbag.

A white handbag, sitting in an armchair. It must belong to the woman with the white shoes.

Handbags were good news because handbags usually had purses in them, and purses usually contained money. Although in his ma’s case there sometimes wasn’t even enough to buy himself a packet of Love Hearts.

He thought of his ma now, and her threat of no comics or sweets for a week if he returned empty-handed. No way could he risk that. He opened the bag and found a green purse. Inside was some loose change: a few coppers, ten-pence pieces, and a fifty-pence piece. He took the fifty pence.

But there was more. While putting the purse back carefully, he spotted a brown envelope. On the envelope was scrawled
Ned’s Pension
. Herkie knew that the word
pension
meant money, because his grandma used to give him ten pence every Monday from her pension money.

He opened the envelope and found two ten-pound notes, one fiver, two pound coins, and ten pence. He pocketed the coins.