The Disenchanted Widow (24 page)

Old Bob raised a hand and Herkie naively waved back. He was not to know that in Bob-speak he’d just signaled an interest in buying his services or some of his merchandise. Before he knew it, the she-mule and her master were drawing to a halt in front of the cottage and Bob was launching into his well-practiced sales pitch.

“Wid yer mammy want to boy a bucket, a basin, a froyin’-pan tae froy her sausages of a marnin’. Some turf for de foyer ta keep her warm on de long winter noyt?”

Herkie looked in wonder at Barkin’ Bob’s cargo: kindling for an Eleventh Night bonfire. He saw an old radio, saucepans, a plastic Barbie with one arm, a teddy bear with no eyes, a bent shovel, rusty garden shears, an accordion with bellows ripped, a cot mattress with its stuffing hanging out, and a set of chipped mugs stamped with portraits of the Pope and the Queen. “Well, whaddya say, boy?” asked Bob, lunatic eyes blinking out of his ruined face.

“Would ye have a head for an Action Man, mister?” Herkie—ever the opportunist—asked.

“Nah, nuthin’ loike that.”

“Herkie, what’s goin on out here?” Bessie stood in the doorway.

“How ya, missus,” said Bob, raising his cowboy hat. “Wud ya like tae boy a froyin’ pan tae froy yer sausages of a marnin’, me lady?”

“I’ve got one already,” Bessie said tartly, going over to inspect the cart.

“Some needles and t’read for tae sew a botton on a dhress…some pegs tae hang yer warshin’ on the loin…some sunglasses ta keep de sun outta yer oyes?”

“Well…” Bessie guessed that she wouldn’t get rid of him until she purchased something. “I’ll have that packet of clothes pegs,” she said, mindful of what Mabel McClarty had once told her concerning an aunt of hers who’d spurned a gypsy. In a matter of weeks she’d endured the palsy, the clap, and a myoclonic seizure, before finally collapsing on St. Patrick’s Day with cardiac arrest while watching a flute band play “The Fields of Athenry” as they piped their way round Carlisle Circus.

“Dat’ll be t’urty pence, and cheap at twoice de proice,” said Bob. “Wud ya have a drap o’ tea for a t’ursty traveler?” He unhooked a tin mug from Brenda’s left flank and passed it to her.

“I’ve none made, but I’ll get ye a drink of orange.”

Herkie watched in amazement as Bob downed the drink in one gulp.

He raised the tin mug. “God bless ya, daughtur. God bless ya, son. Giddy-up there, Brenda!” He tugged at the reins and the mule did his bidding.

Mother and son stood and watched him go.

“Ma?”

“Yes, son.”

“Ma, why does Gusty Grant call his pig Veronica and Barkin’ Bob call his horse Brenda?”

“Because, son, it’s the closest they’ll ever get tae a wommin, dirty hellions. Let that be a warnin’ tae ye.”

Several hours later, mother and son were sitting grudgingly in a pew by the confessional. Bessie found the whole idea distasteful and passed the time examining her cuticles as opposed to her conscience. She knew that for appearances’ sake she had to follow through. Father Cassidy needed to be assured that she was a bona fide member of the flock. This was a way to convince him. She still had enough of a grasp of the Ten Commandments to make a good fist of things and had already rehearsed a fairly innocuous list of sins, headed up with the obvious “sins of omission.”

There were two rows of parishioners patiently waiting their turn. An evening sun, glancing in at the windows, threw pleasing patterns of color across the altar. Jesus flickered in a red globe. The chancel brasses gleamed. A dolorous St. Timothy surveyed the scene from a flower-choked plinth. Lorcan’s revived Virgin stood proud.

The air, heavy with beeswax and varnish, was further deadened by the effort of so many consciences being scraped. A stifled cough, a sigh, the clack of rosary beads on polished wood relieved the doom-laden quiet by times. Confessing one’s darkest deeds to a man in a black cassock behind a grille in the gloom was not an easy business.

At intervals the door of the confessional would creak open. A relieved parishioner would emerge, blinking, into the light, before stealing quietly up to the altar to parrot his penance. At this small spill of activity, the tension in the gathering would ease, heads would turn, and the row of backsides, as if obeying some unspoken command, would slide as one along the polished pew to fill the space left by the most recent victim.

Josie Mulhearn, seated next to Herkie, sniffing her way through a Divine Mercy novena, shifted herself at the sound of the confessional door opening. Bessie nudged Herkie into the vacated space
and whispered in his ear. “You’re next, son. Now, ye know what till say?”

“Yes, Ma.” He suddenly needed to use the toilet but appreciated it was neither the time nor the place to ask.

“Good boy.” She patted his knee.

By and by, there came a raised mumbling from inside the booth, a sure sign that Josie Mulhearn was being forgiven her sins. A minute later the door of the booth opened. Herkie shot up immediately and dashed into the box.

Disoriented by the darkness and dying for a wee, the boy resolved to get his confession over with as quickly as possible. He took a deep breath.

“Bless me, Father, for I’ve sinned. It’s two years since me last confession. I—”

“Two
years
, eh?”

Herkie heard the priest making disapproving noises. He pressed on.

“I stole a Taxi and—”

“A taxi?” Father Cassidy was perplexed. “And where was this…er, taxi parked?”

“In me ma’s biscuit tin. And I broke the head off a fairy and pulled Veronica’s tail. That’s all, Father.”

“Her pigtails?”

“The pig’s tail, aye.”

“And why did you do that to another child, my child?”

“’Cos she was all durty and she was gruntin’ in front of me and annoyin’ me. Canna go now?”

Herkie didn’t wait for an answer. Thirsting for freedom and the nearest lavatory, he bolted from the box and hightailed it from the church.

“Jesus
Christ
, son!” Bessie bawled after him, forgetting herself.

Two rows of horrified faces turned her way. A tide of embarrassment rushed up the widow’s cheeks. All eyes were upon her. There was an appalled silence. “I’m sorry, I—”

The sound of a swishing curtain behind her had all heads pivoting further round. Bessie turned to see the bewildered face of Father Cassidy.

“What on earth is going on?”

“I’m sorry, Father. My son is…it’s just that he’s…” She struggled to find a plausible excuse. “Well, he’s afraid of the dark, you see.”

“Indeed. You’d better go and see to him then!” came the curt reply.

“Yes, Father.”

“This is the house of God, not a barn dance céilí. Who’s next there?”

As a new penitent entered the booth, Bessie, under intense scrutiny, gathered up her handbag and gloves. A show of piety was called for, to buy back some much-needed dignity.

She stepped out of the pew and into the aisle, halted, gazed raptly up at the altar, crossed herself, and with head bowed, genuflected deeply.

Only then did she feel sufficiently composed to turn, face her audience, and stride briskly out of the church.

Out of the church and into the sunlight—to find Herkie, take him by the ear, and
wring his bloody neck
!

Chapter twenty-eight

N
ow, Uncle Ned, I checked with Doris Crink,” said Rose, handing the old man the first of many mugs of tea, “and she sez that she’s definitely sure she give ye the right pension money. So maybe ye just forgot that ye’d got it. For as a body gets up in years, the mind can get a bit cloudy, can it not? God, me own mind’s a bit cloudy betimes, and I don’t have as many miles on the clock as yerself.”

“Aye, maybe ye’re right,” said Ned, slurping the tea while reaching for a rocky road chocolate square. “It was only a couple-a pound anyway. Would-a been worse had it been a couple-a hundred, Rose.”

“God, Ned, now you’re talking. A couple-a hundred would-a meant callin’ in Sergeant Ranfurley. And as you well know, Ned, nothing good ever came of a policeman having tae drive his car into a body’s yard, whether it be night or day.”

Rose and Ned had no idea, of course, that just a few yards away in the back field lay the culprit. Herkie Halstone was biding his time by coloring in Lorcan’s bullfrog before making his next assault on the pension fund.

“That’s why today I took the pre-conscience of keeping the handbag with me at all times, ’cos I understood it was when I’d left
it downstairs in the kitchen outta sight of me eyes that the money went missing. Who knows, but maybe Veronica hoked it out and kerried it away tae a field. Them pigs can be very clever when they want tae be.”

Rose reached for the handbag and took out the pension envelope. She counted out the money on the bedside locker. “See, Ned, there it all is. Yer two fivers and two pound coins.”

“That’s great. Just stick it in that drawer there.”

“Well, she’ll not get the chance tae put her snout in my bag again. Anyway, Uncle Ned, there’s something important I wanna run past ye, concerning Gusty.” She blew gently on her cup of hot tea before risking a sip. Ever since finding the underwear—Mrs. Hailstone’s for sure—her thoughts had been fizzling and frothing like the hot oil in Josie Mulhearn’s deep fat fryer. She could not tell Ned about the discovery, of course, but could try to solve the problem. Something had to be done, and done very quickly. A diversionary tactic was called for and Rose believed she’d come up with the ideal solution. First she needed her uncle’s opinion. “Now, I wouldn’t want him to be getting ideas about that Mrs. Hailstone,” she began. “Ye know, I nivver thought he was interested in wimmin atall, tae she arrived.”

Ned made some noncommittal noises, half-listening, more interested in his chocolate square than Gusty’s love life.

“I think the best thing that could be done is for me to introduce Gusty to a more suitable woman, tae take his mind off that Mrs. Hailstone. And the one I think would be the right one for him is a far-out cousin of my Paddy’s from down the country that goes by the name of Greta-Concepta Curley.”

“Bit of a mouthful, that.”

“Yes, she was a Greta-Concepta Curley tae her own name before she met Tommy Shortt.”

Old Ned mulled over the unusual marriage of surnames. “Short and Curly! Like a haircut.”

“Yes indeed. But that’s neither here nor there. When I tell ye a bit about her background, ye’ll see that her and Gusty would make a great match, haircut or not.”

Ned settled into the bolster to commence his nodding dog routine. Mindful, nonetheless, that he must give his niece half an ear, lest she catch him out.

“Now, Tommy was a half-blind breadman from Buncrana. When I say breadman, Ned, I don’t mean he baked the bread, not that any man would know how tae put a scone in the oven round these parts—or any part, if truth be told, my Paddy included. No, Tommy just driv’ the van-a bread round the country.”

“And how did he drive the van round the country if he couldn’t see?”

“Oh, he kept running into people right enough, but never kilt nobody. And when people saw him coming they’d jump into the hedge, so tae get outta his way. The eyes had never been good. Clouded up with cattyracks they were. People said that it was a miracle that Greta-Concepta got any man tae take her, ’cos, well, tae put it this way, Ned, she’d be an occasion of sin for no man. But with Tommy not seeing much and her not looking like much, sure didn’t it work out all right between the pair of them.”

“God, doesn’t the Lord move in wunderous ways?”

“Well, ye would think that, Ned, wouldn’t ye? But y’know, this story doesn’t have such a good end. It started with Sergeant Ranfurley having tae put Tommy off the road. ’Cos on this partickler day, didn’t he knock the parish priest, Father Mehaffy, off his bike.” Rose saw Ned’s look of shock. “Oh, yes, knocked him clean off it, and him on his way tae expose the Blissed Sacrament at the evening devotions. Nobody knew a thing about it till wee Greta-Concepta went out for a walk with the dog, and didn’t she find Father Mehaffy lying in the ditch with his feet up in the air.”

“That musta been a shock for her!”

“Well, the light nearly left her eyes from all accounts. ‘God, Father, what are ye doin’ down there?’ sez she. And Father Mehaffy sez, ‘Your Tommy’s only after knockin’ me down, so he is.’ And Greta-Concepta would-a had a heart attack had the heart been inclined that way. ’Cos ye know, if Tommy had-a kilt the priest it would-a been a terrible thing altogether.”

“Terrible, right enough.”

“Oh, terrible,” Rose agreed. “Sure, you could be climbing Croak Patrick and hauling yourself round Lock Derg on pilgrimages with the blood running outta your bare knees from now tae the end of yer days, and ye still wouldn’t make up for a sin like that. Anyway, wee Greta-Concepta helped the priest up and brought him back with her and give him a cup of tea, as a body would.”

“And was Tommy still on Lock Derg?” asked Ned, concentration waning, eyelids beginning to droop.

“
What
? God, no. Tommy was nowhere near Lock Derg. He was out tootlin’ about the yard. And when he came in, if he didn’t walk right pass Father Mehaffy and out the back door, for that’s how bad the eyes were.”

“Didn’t notice the Father?”

“No, didn’t notice the Father. ‘Did ye not see me out on the road there, Tommy?’ sez the Father. ‘For ye’re only after knocking me off me bike, so ye are.’ And Tommy sez, ‘God, Father, was that you? I thought it was one of Mickey Boone’s heifers that’d broke out, and I thought I’d give her a wee dunt tae get her back in the corner field.’”

“God! He thought the heifer was the Father?”

“Yes, indeed. Thought the heifer was the Father. Anyway, tae cut a long story short, Ned, Father Mehaffy tolt Sergeant Ranfurley, and the sergeant put Tommy off the road and tolt him he wouldn’t get back on it again till he got himself a pair-a glasses up in Killoran from Mr. Millar. Ye know Mr. Mill—”

“That’s a goodun,” Ned cut in, throwing a lasso about Rose to haul her back to the point. “And diddy get the glasses, diddy?”

“Oh, he got the glasses, Ned—but here’s the best of it. With the glasses he was able tae see wee Greta-Concepta proper for the first time, and it was only then he realized she wasn’t as well-looking as he thought she was. So if he didn’t run off with another woman down the country that used tae get two crusty baps and a jam sponge off him every Friday, and was neither seen nor heard of again.”