The Disenchanted Widow (20 page)

A ripple of interest ran through the congregation. Heads bent toward each other in conference, and much speculative whispering ensued.

“
Bingo!
” Father Cassidy shouted.

The hubbub ceased, and all eyes were back on the priest.

“Yes, I’ve decided to increase the monthly jackpot from five hundred to one thousand pounds. As from next Saturday.”

A cheer went up. There were beaming faces all round.

“Now, that’s the good news. The bad news is that the entrance fee will increase from three pounds to five. But an extra two pounds won’t hurt, given that there’s so much to gain. And that extra will mean that the restoration of the belfry will be secure, and we’ll all be safer for it. Can I assume that everyone is happy with this solution?”

There were audible gasps of excitement from the congregation. Bessie’s mind, like all those around her, went into overdrive. A whole thousand pounds—and all her problems would be solved! The only thing she’d ever won in her life, though, was a stick of rock candy for coming second in the egg-and-spoon race when she was eight, but…

Father Cassidy adopted his serious, sacerdotal look once more and raised a hand.

“I knew I could depend on you, the faithful. As the good Gospel entreats, let me not see evidence of a heart that will give a stone instead of bread, a snake instead of a fish. A few paltry coins instead of a five-pound note. In other words, let me not see evidence of a selfish heart in your monthly stipend, either.”

He paused for effect and was pleased to see so many heads bowed in shame before him. He consulted his notes.

“Well, I believe that is all for now. I will not detain you any further. Just remember to give generously in this week’s collection and in subsequent ones.” He shut his notebook and raised his
hands. “All stand for the Prayer of the Faithful. Let us also pray for the hunger strikers in the Maze. Give them courage, Lord, in the face of their impending deaths.”

There came the rustling of missal pages and the creaking of knee joints as the flock rose to do his bidding.

Half an hour later, Mass was over, and Father Cassidy was, as always, disappointed to see such an eager stampede toward the exits.

Bessie, ever ready to remain in the priest’s good books—and much to Herkie’s annoyance—continued kneeling for a polite few minutes, head bowed in an attitude of what she hoped was meaningful reverence.

Meanwhile, she was aware of Mrs. McFadden commencing the enactment of an elaborate final curtain call of devotion for
her
benefit. Rose got up, genuflected twice, struck her breast thrice, and crossed herself exuberantly before whispering in her husband’s ear. At the prompt, Paddy obediently rose and shuffled out after her.

“Can we go now, Ma?” asked Herkie.

“Yes, son,” said Bessie, getting up and seeing Father Cassidy had already exited the stage, thus negating any further pretense at worshipful respect. Herkie ran on ahead of her down the aisle.

Outside, a keen breeze was sending a bevy of behatted ladies hurrying for the shelter of their cars. Bessie held a protective hand to the rose in her hair, smoothed down the fluttering hem of her frock, and looked about her. Herkie was nowhere to be seen. She was about to call out his name when, to her disquiet, she spotted him over by the gates talking to the tall, long-haired stranger she’d spotted earlier. She saw, too, that the stranger was indeed wearing a beautifully tailored velvet suit, complete with starched
white shirt and silk tie. What in God’s name was Herkie doing, talking to
him
?

“Come along now, son!” she shouted, heading toward the Morris Traveller.

“That’s me ma,” she heard Herkie say, but he didn’t move. Bessie, greatly irked, marched over to him.

“Ma, this is Mr. Lorcan,” he said excitedly, grabbing at his mother’s sleeve.

Bessie, caught between anger and politeness, and conscious of the stranger’s scrutiny, managed a tight little smile.

“Well, I’m sure
Mister
Lorcan has more important things to be doing than—”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Halstone.” Lorcan smiled, extending a hand. “I’m Lorcan…Lorcan Strong.”

Bessie faltered. She returned the handshake with a hesitance born of mistrust rather than shyness. “Elizabeth…Elizabeth Halstone.”

He was appraising her. She shifted uneasily from one foot to another under the inspection.

“Mr. Lorcan draws pitchers, Ma.”

“Does he now? I’m so sorry, you’ll have to excuse us,” she said, tugging Herkie away.

“Of course. I’m sure we’ll meet again. Herkie is helping me with some artwork. He’s very good, you know.”

Herkie beamed up at his mother, the words of praise flooding him with a rare pride and happiness.

“If you say so, Mr. Strong,” she said, faking a smile. Being a mother, albeit a flawed one, she was wary of strangers—and especially those who took an interest in children. “Bye now.”

She took Herkie firmly by the hand and walked away.

Lorcan stood and watched their old car disappear through the gates. At close quarters he’d observed beauty on the wane: the dyed
hair and dulled complexion. Read penury in the worn fabric of the scarlet dress, the dusty rose in her hair, the scuffed toes of the high-heeled shoes.

He sensed a life of desperation beneath the pretense and felt compassion for her—but in particular for the little boy unwittingly caught up in it all.

He found himself pondering the pair as he got back into his own car.

“I thought you’d forgotten all about me,” Etta Strong said from the backseat, fingering her matinee pearls and peering at him through the spotted netting of a complicated hat. She preferred to sit in the rear, in case their neighbor, old Mr. Bagley, needed a lift. “I could see you were very taken with that Mrs. Halstone. And I have to warn you, Lorcan: she wouldn’t be suitable, having a son and a past, and perhaps a reputation. Rose filled me in.”

“We mustn’t listen to gossip, Mother,” he said, putting the car into reverse. “I wasn’t ‘very taken’ with her, as you say. The boy, Herkie, is sweet. A bit lost, which isn’t so surprising…I’d like to keep an eye on him. That’s all.”

“Yes, well, but what is
she
like?”

“Polite…enough.” Lorcan guided the car out through the gates and onto the main road.

“I wonder why she’s come to Tailorstown.”

“Yes, you may well wonder.”

Farther along, they caught sight of Mr. Bagley, laboring valiantly on his bad leg.

“Oh, sound the horn, will you, dear? I know he turns off his hearing aid during Mass.”

“Well, who could blame him? That new priest of yours had me bored senseless.”

Etta tut-tutted as Lorcan pulled up alongside the old man. He sounded the horn, but Mr. Bagley simply carried on heroically, oblivious to the car and the world around him.

The dutiful son got out and helped the enfeebled gentleman aboard. Why the poor fellow didn’t just stay in bed of a Sunday morning was a mystery to him. But Lorcan had been away too long. Like a stage actor who’d left the set to stretch himself, there was no longer a part for him to play. By rights he should have been in a cameo role, but increasingly, with each return visit to Tailorstown, he felt relegated to the workaday duties of a stagehand.

Chapter twenty-three

F
ather Cassidy sighed with an air of splendid satisfaction and sat down in his armchair. He’d just finished another excellent lunch and was looking forward to a cigarette while he perused the newspapers.

Two o’clock on the Lord’s Day, it being the busiest morning of the week—two Masses, two homilies, the ever-present possibility of a baptism—always brought with it a great sense of relief. Today, fortunately, there was no fresh addition to the flock and hence no claimant on his precious time. The day was his until devotions at six.

He lit a cigarette as his thoughts meandered back over his morning’s work. The sermon had gone well, and it gave him great satisfaction that his new bingo plans had met such approbation. He congratulated himself again on having hit on such an excellent idea, the perfect way to bolster parish funds and take care of his private affairs without attracting unwelcome attention. He was also heartened to see Mrs. Halstone at Mass. She had not been to confession, however, nor had she received Communion. This was a trifle worrying. Receiving the sacraments was a given for any housekeeper of his. He made a mental note to have a quiet word.

That said, until her arrival his palate had never experienced such flavorsome cuisine; nor, indeed, had the kitchen Aga ever cooked up such a variety of dishes. Today she hadn’t disappointed: coq au vin followed by Baked Alaska, a dessert that seemed to defy the laws of thermodynamics. Oven-baked ice cream. How ingenious. Who would have thought such a feat possible?

He must request a repeat for the following Sunday. Bishop Delahant would be calling for his fiscal appraisal of the parish books. Father Cassidy was not looking forward to that. Money was always a difficult subject for him. But who knew, after a fine meal and news of his plans for the bingo, things might not look so bleak.

He reflected that life was infinitely more relaxed with Mrs. Halstone about. Not only was she a wonderful cook, but also, with her living so near the village, there was no need for her to lodge at the parochial house. Such a situation suited him admirably. Miss Beard had been a real encumbrance in that respect. Her bedroom on the upper story, directly above his own, had proven rather unsettling to begin with. Often he’d been disturbed by her lumbering about in the early hours, his chandelier tinkling its dissent from the minute she rose. He’d been summoning the courage to ask her to move. After all, there were a number of other bedrooms to choose from. But hadn’t Providence intervened at that crucial moment, laying her poor mother low and thereby solving the problem? God did indeed move in mysterious ways.

So her departure, while disruptive initially—thanks to Mrs. McFadden’s daily pestering—had, in the end, brought a whole new set of possibilities into play: the stranger, Mrs. Halstone; a much-improved diet; and perhaps most important of all, blissfully muted mornings.

In the parochial kitchen, Bessie was tidying up. Since hearing the odd thumps upstairs a few days earlier, she had been putting off
cleaning up there. Perhaps Father Cassidy could enlighten her. She’d mention it to him before leaving.

Now, though, as she set about her chores—drying dishes, binning leftovers, wiping surfaces clean—the stranger, Lorcan Strong, was stealing into her thoughts.

An artist! Herkie had mentioned meeting someone a few days earlier. He’d shown her a couple of drawings, but she’d barely paid them any heed. Now all was becoming clear.

Her immediate feeling on seeing him there with her son had been one of suspicion. Why would a man like that take an interest in a young boy? What was he after? She mistrusted men with good reason, tending, as she did, to see them all through the pernicious prism of her father and the dissolute Packie.

She opened a cupboard, pushed aside a soup tureen big enough to bathe a baby in, and began placing the dried china on a shelf.

The artist was well-off. That she could tell straightaway from the fine suit and spotless white shirt. And intelligent—those eyes scanning her like that. He wasn’t doing that out of interest, though. It was more like taking the measure of her. Well, him being an artist, maybe he looked at everybody that way, viewing everybody as a possible sitter. She remembered Loose Lily from her secondary-school days. Lily had gone from being a part-time stripper to an artist’s model without breaking a fingernail. Well, it was easier and much better paid, apparently, taking your clothes off for the sake of art instead of for a roomful of greasy builder’s mates down the Brendan Behan Pub of a Saturday night. Maybe Lorcan Strong was sizing her up with just that in mind, deciding how to catch the best bits of her with his paintbrush.

She shut the cupboard door and unsheathed her hands from the clammy Marigold gloves. The nail polish on her right hand was chipped. He’d have seen that. Oh dear!

There was some Beaujolais left over from the coq au vin. That would cheer her up a bit. She fetched it from the refrigerator,
poured some into a mug, and took a sip. She’d come up with an ingenious way of keeping herself irrigated with the odd tipple by opting mostly for those recipes that required a splash of alcohol in the mix. Father Cassidy had no idea he was footing her drinks bill. And that, she hoped, would be the way things would remain. Even if he did find out, she had the perfect explanation.

It was half past two. Time she was gone anyway.

She’d made enough lunch for four, so Father Cassidy’s dinner was already taken care of. An added advantage of her new job was that Herkie and she could feed themselves well, at the priest’s expense, which meant she didn’t have to make many inroads into the paltry salary he paid her.

Scanning the immaculate kitchen, she felt smug with a job well done. She drained the last of the wine, ran the mug under the tap, and removed her apron. Then she took a sprig of parsley from a pot on the windowsill and chewed on it to banish any telltale whiffs.

At the mirror by the door she reapplied her lipstick, powdered her nose, patted her hair, drew on her cardigan, and picked up her bag of filched food. It was time to bid her employer good day.

But as she neared his study door she heard talking. He was obviously on the phone. His voice had a playful edge that she hadn’t heard before.
Playful
and
Father Cassidy
did not normally belong in the same sentence. She wondered who he could be talking to and strained to hear a tidbit, but all she got back was an animated murmuring punctuated by the odd, suggestive snigger. In Bessie’s world, only a woman could have that effect on a man, celibate or not.

Never one to stand on ceremony, she barged straight in.

“Well, I’m away now, Father. Was there anything more?”

He gave a start and quickly palmed the receiver.

“Mrs. Halstone!”

“Sorry, Father. Didn’t know you were on the phone.”