The Misremembered Man (16 page)

“How d’you let a man know that you’re available? Simple, dear: You raise your hemline and lower your neckline.” Gladys blew long flurries of smoke from her snooty nostrils. “In other words, Lily dear, you need to start being a little more
creative
with your look. That blue shift dress does nothing for your figure. Now I know you don’t have much of a cleavage, so a low neckline is probably not the best thing for you.” She drew heavily on the cigarette again. “I would suggest a gathered top or smocked blouse. It would give the illusion of a fuller bust.” She put a hand to her own lavish bosom as if to reinforce her words, and sipped more port.

“You take after your mother with that flat chest,” she went on, blithely ignoring Lydia’s scowl of disapproval. “And don’t ask me why, but most men are drawn to the upper part of a woman’s anatomy initially. I expect it’s something to do with babies and maternal bonding or whatever. But my point is: Show them what they think they might get eventually, and by the time they get around to actually getting it, they’ll be so dazzled with your mind that your bust—or rather lack of it—won’t be an issue.”

Lydia could feel her cheeks heat up under the face powder, the port and the forthrightness of her aunt’s opinions. She tried to change the subject.

“What’s for dinner this evening, by the way?” She took care to sound as offhand and as casual as possible.

Gladys pulled a face. “Why, toad-in-the-hole, followed by stuffed apples or spotted dick,” she said, quickly taking up her drink again, annoyed that Lydia had interrupted her. “Now, where was I? Yes, bosoms. I’d finished with those, had I not? The other thing is legs. Now, Lily, you have fine legs. You take after me in that regard. And there’s nothing a man likes more than a nicely turned ankle.” She raised her right leg slightly and rotated her foot several times, lost in admiration and her own self-regard.

“So you can afford a much shorter hemline,” she continued. “Not too short, mind. Just above the knee. Like mine,” and she stood up to demonstrate her point.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Lydia said weakly.

But when Gladys went to sit down again, her eye was caught by something beyond the window. She quickly crushed out her cigarette.

“My goodness, who is that strange little man loitering at my gate?” She peered more intently. “I do hope he isn’t even
thinking
about coming in here.”

Lydia could just about discern a figure at the gate, and wondered what the fuss was about. Gladys quickly fished a mirror compact from her purse and checked her face. Any man, no matter how lowly or dissolute, deserved to see her at her best.

“Oh my God, he
is
coming here.” She snapped the compact shut and strode swiftly to the door. “Excuse me dear, while I get rid of this peasant.”

In a flash she was gone.

Lydia, slightly bewildered, looked out the window again and saw a man of indeterminate age shambling up the avenue.

He was clad in a black suit whose trousers legs seemed inordinately short. He wore yellow shoes which resembled harem slippers and did not exactly harmonize with the rest of his ensemble. His hair, what there was of it, was being sustained on the ocean breeze, and he was holding a hand on top of his head as if to try and moor it. His other hand was clutching a Scully’s Around-a-Pound shopping bag, weighed down, Lydia suspected, by his toiletries. A stranger, she thought, in search of a bed and shelter. In that instant she felt sorry for the poor man, and for what, she was certain, he was about to endure.

In the lobby, Gladys was taking up position behind the marble reception desk, a set of sharp excuses, like a quiver of arrows, at the ready, to quickly dispose of this intruder in her paradise. She watched Jamie keenly as he made his journey across the lush expanse of oriental rug with its Ottoman signature of intricate reds and golds. He was clearly overwhelmed by the grandeur, and almost knocked over a glass coffee table in his eagerness to take it all in.

“Yes, can I help you?” The proprietor nocked the first arrow on the bowstring and prepared to take aim.

“Good afternoon. Mrs. Milkman, I suppose.” Jamie put down the plastic bag on the glossy surface. Gladys flinched and shut her eyes briefly.

“
Millman
,
Mill
-man. And you are?” She stared at him, noting a strand of what looked like hay protruding from Jamie’s breast pocket. A farmer person obviously, she thought, and one who believed in bringing the wretched field in with him. Her nostrils twitched at the likelihood of manure and other disagreeable odors. To her surprise, she detected none.

“James Kevin Barry Michael McCloone.” He splayed his hands on the desk and looked admiringly at the stucco sculpted ceiling. “God, this is a terrible grand place altogether!”

“Thank you, Mr. McCloone. And do you have a reservation?”

Gladys raised her triumphant eyebrows as the arrow hit its target. “Sorry. A what?” Jamie looked confused.

“A booking, Mr. McCloone.” She leaned forward and pretended to check the register, fully aware that she was affording the farmer a bounteous eyeful of cleavage. Jamie stared in amazement. Gladys looked up.

“Oh no, I didn’t book. Seein’ it was Monday, like, I thought I’d come on spec, like.”

“Well, I’m very sorry to disappoint you on this occasion, but this guesthouse is very popular all year round, and more so at this time of year.” Gladys slammed the register shut and watched Jamie wither under the force of her direct hit. “I can, however, recommend O’Neill’s on the corner. Their rates are probably more in keeping with what you had in mind.”

“Och now, that’s too bad.” Jamie pawed up the plastic bag again and got ready to depart.

Gladys tilted her head to one side in mock sympathy. “I
do
apologize.”

“It’s a pity,” said Jamie, “because a very decent man praised this place highly. Said I should come here with me back for a couple of days.”

“Quite. And who might this gentleman be, in the event I might know him?”

“He’s a Dr. Brewster of Tailorstown. Great doctor. Couldn’t get the better of him, so you couldn’t.”

Gladys immediately switched on her neon smile and lowered her bow. “Oh, but why didn’t you say so before? If Humphrey—I mean Dr. Brewster—recommended us, then that’s another matter entirely.”

“What?” Jamie pulled on his right ear and ran a hand over his hair, just to make sure he looked all right.

Gladys leaned seductively over the reservations book again.

“In that case we’ll just have to find a space for you, Mr., ah…”

“McCloone.”

“Mr. McCloone. Of course.” She traced a red talon down the list of names, paused and looked up.

“Yes, aren’t you fortunate, Mr. McCloone! I
do
have one single room left. How long will it be for?”

“Just the two nights. Would like to stay the three, maybe even the four, but with the farm and—”

“Quite so, Mr. McCloone.” Gladys was deciding how much she could overcharge him; not much, she reckoned, judging by the look of him. “If you’ll just sign here.” She offered him the gold Parker. “And that will be ten pounds and fifty-two pence.”

Jamie looked up in alarm. Gladys held him in her sights with her great smiling eyes.

“Right ye be,” he said, with a touch of resignation. He took the pen.

“In advance,” she said to Jamie’s balding scalp. She noted him quiver slightly at this news, before continuing with the slow process of writing out his name in full.

“
Y
es, he’s a good worker, this boy.”

Master Keaney’s menacing voice was edged with a baleful import.

Eighty-Six stood once again on the peacock-patterned rug, staring down at his feet. He was aware of four pairs of eyes watching him: Keaney, Mother Vincent and two strangers, a man and woman he’d never seen before.

“Look up, boy, when you’re spoken to!” Keaney barked.

The boy raised his head slowly and tried to focus on the heavy wooden crucifix hanging on the bib of Mother Vincent’s habit. She sat a few feet in front of him, looking imposing behind the sun-bleached desk.

Keaney was in his usual armchair by the fire. Eighty-Six longed to go and warm his hands and knees at the generous flames. It was another wish he held in check. The man in the chair could be as dangerous as the blazing coals he guarded.

The strangers were seated on the rump-sprung sofa with the balding armrests. He dared not look their way, and wondered why he had been summoned to that room and at that hour. To the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t done anything wrong since the turnip incident, and that seemed a long time ago.

Presently Mother Vincent spoke.

“This is Amos and Constance Fairley,” she told him. Her voice was brusque. “Mrs. Fairley is a sister of Mr. Keaney, our Master.”

Eighty-Six looked at the unsmiling couple. The man bore a striking resemblance to Keaney himself. He was pale and gaunt, had the same pointed face and dead eyes. His ugly, dirt-creased hands seemed out of proportion to the rest of him as he sat gripping his kneecaps.

Constance Fairley appeared to be a female version of the two men, with similar eyes and a grim, rigid mouth. The only difference was the hair: blond, turning gray and pulled up severely from her skeletal face into a tight bun. She sat straight-backed, with her dry, hard hands crossed in her lap.

“Farmer Doyle says that you are a good worker in the potato field, Eighty-Six. Is this correct?” When Mother Vincent spoke, the stiff white wimple framing her face marked time with the words.

“Yes, Sister. I think so.” The boy did his best to speak clearly. Perhaps he was about to be rewarded for his hard labor.

“My sister and brother-in-law wish to employ you for a few months.” It was Keaney. “They have a large farm and many potatoes that need gathering.”

This news held the menace of a raised ax blade. The boy tensed with dread as he saw his frail future fall to pieces.

“They have a son, Arnold, about your age,” said the nun. The Master grinned at Amos Fairley when she said this. Something evil passed between the two men. Eighty-Six knew that look. He wanted to yell out.

“A
friend
for you, Eighty-Six,” the nun enthused.

Then all eyes swung back to him again. He kept focusing on the nun’s crucifix and on the window to the left of her. Outside, the wind hissed and tore at the laurels in the graveyard, and inside, the flames wavered frantically in the grate. He saw their furious reflections in the windowpane and felt a terrible dread.

“You will go today.” Mother Vincent stood up; the others took their cue and did the same. “You need bring nothing with you. These good people will provide you with a bed and food. Your rosary beads are the only thing you’ll need.” The nun rustled her way from behind the desk and came to him. He was at eye level with the cord around her waist, and stared at it now, seeing the fat weave of the heavy fibers. “I sincerely hope they are in your pocket.”

“Yes, Sister.” The boy reached into the long pocket of his pants and produced the blue plastic rosary. He held them out in a trembling hand.

“Good. Very well. You may put your cap on now.”

The boy obeyed, as Amos and Constance Fairley drew closer to him. He was seized with apprehension, and wanted to bolt from the room.

“And remember, boy,” Keaney said, an admonishing finger raised, “if you misbehave you will be punished as my brother and sister see fit. You will be in
their
care so you will obey
their
rules.

“Yes, sir.”

At the rear of the orphanage stood a dray horse and an orange-painted, four-wheeled cart. Amos Fairley pushed the boy roughly toward it. Eighty-Six scrambled up into the back, onto moldy straw which reeked of manure and dead things, his hands feeling for a dry place to sit.

Fairley climbed onto the bench-seat at the front and took the reins, his wife clambering up beside him. When they were settled, the horse, as if obeying an unspoken command, turned in a trotting semicircle and cantered out through the tall, heavy gates.

Eighty-Six sat with his back to his temporary guardians, his small hands clutching the dirt-encrusted tailboard as the cart flung him about. A sinking sun sent ruby and ocher splashes across the sky, plating the many-windowed orphanage in a golden light. He kept his eyes fixed on the mighty, granite structure until it dwindled out of sight. He was being freed from prison for a while, but he did not feel relieved at the prospect. Anyone connected with Master Keaney made the storm clouds gather and the hounds growl in warning.

For now, however, he had the freedom of the journey. Like the rattling bus, the cart afforded him a little interlude of joy. He hoped the jaunt would be a long one as he waited for the grim-walled city to be replaced by the rolling fields of the countryside, when he could see again the grazing animals he loved so well. He did not know what lay at journey’s end, but for now at least, he could dream.

J
amie woke from a deep sleep into the sapphire-and-almond ambience of his Ocean Spray bedroom. For a moment or two he thought he was dreaming. There was no damp patch on the ceiling he was staring up at, and no complaints of animals demanding to be fed. From beyond the open window he could hear the languid wash of waves and the razoring cries of seagulls.

He raised himself up on his elbows, suddenly remembering where he was. Dr. Brewster was certainly correct. The Ocean Spray was indeed a fine place. Jamie hardly knew what to look at first. His eyes journeyed about the room, taking it all in: from the maple dressing table with its shell mirror, the matching built-in closet, the umbrella palm in the corner, the fringed standard lamps, the muslin drapes, the lush carpet and—the crowning centerpoint, which he now gazed up at with awe and wonder—a cut-glass chandelier.

He looked down at the white sheets and ran a hand over the shiny satin counterpane. He had never slept in such a bed before, wondered how a body could get sheets as white as that. His shirt, lying now over the armchair by the bed, was definitely not white but a smoky yellow by comparison.

The china clock on the locker read 8:15; even the clock was like nothing Jamie had seen before. He took it and examined it closely. A label on the back read:
Aynsley. Fine Bone China. Handmade in England
. He replaced it very carefully, anxious he might break it and then would probably have to pay for it. Since he was paying the price of a lambing sheep for the privilege of staying at the luxurious Ocean Spray, he could incur no more unnecessary expenditure.

He decided to get up and see about breakfast, the sunlit room telling him that it was too good a day for a man to be lying in his bed, even if he was on vacation. It was sinful, so it was.

Jamie dressed himself with care in front of the cheval mirror provided by Gladys Millman. As usual, he left his hair until last, and arranged it across his crown with a considered hand and a copious scoop of Brylcreem. While returning the jar to his shopping bag, he noticed the bottle of Blue Adonis aftershave. Maybe a wee drop of that too, thought Jamie. Given the day that was in it, he might as well.

He unscrewed the cap. It smelled a bit strong, but Jamie, not being a connoisseur of men’s toiletries, was not to know that any scent left sitting in direct sunlight with the cap not properly secured, would go off in a matter of weeks. Mick’s aftershave had been sitting idle for the best part of a year. Jamie poured a liberal puddle of rank Adonis into his palm and slapped it about his face.

The spacious, high-ceilinged dining room had received most of its quota of breakfast guests by half-past eight. All except Mr. McCloone, Gladys noted. She allowed her jacquard cuff to fall back over the delicate timepiece on her right wrist—for some reason, watches never worked on the left—and surveyed the guests.

There was Mr. Henderson, the solicitor, and his wife Judith (
such
lovely people). The Bradley-Carrs (both doctors) and their children, Minnie and Daisy (terribly respectable and such polite little girls). Mr. Cosgrove Murphy (retired judge) and his wife Hyacinth (oh, such a grand couple!). Elizabeth and Lydia (Why was Elizabeth refusing the specially prepared sage-and-onion sausages? What a costly waste. She would not be served them again.).

But besides Mr. McCloone, there was someone else missing. She went to the desk by the door and checked the book. Yes, Miss Doris Crink and her sister Mildred—from Tailorstown
as well
, she noted; same place as the farmer. She made a mental note to ask dear Humphrey to try and refer his more respectable patients in the future; the Crinks with their polyester frocks and plastic purses, and McCloone in that hideous suit, lowered the tone
ever so
. Put simply, they were bad for business. Standards had to be maintained.

She had earmarked two tables for the undesirables at the more remote perimeters of the room. Mr. McCloone’s table was in a corner by the continually swinging kitchen doors. The Misses Crink were seated within the curvature of the bay window, safely obscured from view by what Gladys referred to as her “jardinière” of towering pampas grass.

Gladys had instructed Sinéad early on to substitute the creamery butter curls and homemade marmalade on both tables with the cheaper, shop-bought alternatives and she was happy to see as she checked both tables that her instructions had been carried out to the letter.

As Gladys was engaged in her little tour of inspection, she noted a sudden hush coming over the room; tinkling teaspoons, clinking china and murmuring voices fell silent. Some of the ladies pressed a discreet napkin to their noses. She turned slowly to investigate and saw, with a tiny spasm of alarm, that Mr. McCloone had entered and was making his way across the room. A cloud of rancid scent seemed to be accompanying him. And why was he wearing those ghastly curl-toed slippers in broad daylight?

Unbeknown to Jamie, with every step he took he was releasing sour wafts of Blue Adonis into the room. Gladys held a protective forefinger to her nostrils.

“Mr. McCloone! Good morning.” She faked a smile, held her breath and steered him to the table by the kitchen door. “You had a good night, I trust?”

“The best night’s sleep I ever had, Mrs. Milkman; the best.”

“Why’s that man wearing those funny shoes, Mummy?” Minnie Bradley-Carr had squirmed her frilly bottom down out of her chair and was standing, pointing down at Jamie’s feet.

“That’s enough now, Minnie!” her doctor-parent said in a warning tone. “Come back here this instant.”

Jamie pulled out his own chair and settled himself.

“I expect it’ll be the full Ulster, Mr. McCloone?” Gladys handed him the menu, standing well in front of him to obstruct the view of her audience, while taking a series of shallow breaths, lest she keel over with the odor.

“Oh, you mean the fry-up. Well d’you know I’d love the fry-up, and I’m sure, Mrs. Milkman, your fry-ups are powerful good. But I’m on a diet, so I am, because the doctor tells me I have to lose a bit and—”

“Quite so, Mr. McCloone.” Gladys said the words a bit too loudly and could hear another of those curtain-up lulls descend on the room. “Cereal and toast?” she asked, rather more calmly.

“No, just the tea and the toast will be grand.”

Gladys clicked her fingers at Sinéad, who had just emerged from the kitchen, balancing three Ulster Fries, the face roasted off her from standing over the furnace-like stove.

“Can you see to this gentleman, Sinéad, please?”

“Yes, Miss Gladys.”

Gladys sped from the room, wishing for a headache powder and some fresh air. Sinéad served the fry-ups to the doctors and the judge, and took Jamie’s order. On the opposite side of the room, Elizabeth and Lydia Devine were watching Jamie with interest.

“God, she’s come down a bit, letting in riffraff like him.” Mrs. Devine held up a sliver of potato bread and examined it closely before committing it to her mouth. “She must be desperate.”

“Be quiet, Mother!” Lydia scolded in a cautious whisper. “The man will hear you.”

“What’s he doing with that napkin?”

“
Stop
it, Mother,
please
!”

Jamie was studying the starched, linen napkin, folded as it was in the shape of the Matterhorn peak, and wondering what on earth it was for. Maybe it’s a handkerchief, he thought. But then, why would a body be wanting to sneeze before their breakfast?

He looked about the room to see if anyone else had a big handkerchief like his. He saw, to his surprise, that at least two had been placed on each of the unoccupied tables, and that the guests at the remaining tables were
wearing
theirs. One man had his tucked into his waistband, the woman beside him had one on her lap and another man had his tucked into the collar of his shirt.

So it was a bib for an adult then. Lordy me! He followed the last man’s example, picked up his own and wedged a corner of it into his collar.

“GOD, HOW ARE YOU, JAMIE! NEVER THOUGHT I’D SEE YOU HERE.”

Jamie jumped, so loud and unexpected was the woman’s voice above him. He looked up from his napkin to see Doris Crink standing over him.

“God, is it you, Doris?” He half rose out off the chair in an effort at gallantry.

“NOW, DON’T STIR YOURSELF, JAMIE.” Doris pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, transferring her beige patent purse to her knee. Jamie wondered why she was shouting so much, but didn’t like to ask.

“I’LL SIT HERE A WEE MINUTE FOR A CHAT. MILDRED’S UP THERE WAITIN’ ON ME, SO SHE IS.”

Jamie turned and raised a hand to Mildred. She was peering out from behind a sheaf of pampas grass, like a botanist in a hothouse. She smiled and waved back.

“GOD, JAMIE, I’VE COME THROUGH A TERRIBLE LOT SINCE I SEEN YOU LAST.” Doris fingered a miraculous medal pinned on her lapel.

“I heard that, Doris. It’s a wonder you didn’t get kilt.”

“WHAT’S THAT, JAMIE?” Doris leaned closer. “YOU KNOW, ME EARS ARE AWAY WITH IT SINCE IT HAPPENED, WITH THE SHOCK OF IT.”

“A SAY, IT’S A WONDER YOU DIDN’T GET KILT!” Jamie roared, to the astonishment of the room. The Doctors Bradley-Carr decided they were finished, and herded Minnie and Daisy out while the conversation continued at delft-rattling volume.

“Mummy, why’s that man with the funny shoes shouting?” Minnie stared in terror at Jamie.

“D’YOU KNOW, JAMIE, HE PUT THE GUN UP TO ME HEAD LIKE THAT.” Doris demonstrated by putting two fingers to Jamie’s right ear.

“AND DID HE PULL THE TRIGGER, THE BUGGER?” Jamie shouted, getting carried away.

“GOD HELP US, JAMIE, IF HE’D PULLED THE TRIGGER I WOULDN’T BE TALKIN’ TO YOU NOW.”

“NAW, I SUPPOSE YOU WOULDN’T, RIGHT ENOUGH.”

Doris had another loud announcement for the breakfasting guests.

“BUT WHAT I WANTED TO TELL YOU, JAMIE, IS THAT YOUR MONEY’S SAFE. ROSE MCFADDEN SAID YOU WERE A WEE BIT WORRIED, AND THAT’S UNNERSTANDABLE. BECAUSE EVERYBODY NEEDS A WEE BIT OF A NEST EGG UNDER THEM. BUT HE DIDN’T GET HIS DIRTY HANDS ON ANY OF IT! YOU STILL HAVE YOUR THREE THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE POUNDS AN’ FIPPENCE, MINUS THE WEE BIT YOU TOOK OUT FOR THIS WEE BREAK.”

“THAT’S GOOD TO HEAR, DORIS.”

Jamie’s face reddened and he touched his right ear.

“GOD, YOU KNOW, I WAS IN PIECES, JAMIE, COULDN’T HEAR A THING WITH THE SHOCK OF IT. SO DR. BREWSTER SENT ME HERE WITH ME EARS.”

Doris was surveying Jamie with an appraising eye.

“GOD, JAMIE, YOU LOOK TERRIBLE WELL. THAT’S A VERY GRAND SUIT YOU’VE GOT ON.”

“AYE, SO.”

There was an embarrassed silence.

“AND I SUPPOSE, JAMIE, YOU’RE HERE WITH YOUR BACK?”

“AYE, SO. DR. BREWSTER DID THE RIGHT THING, DORIS, SO HE DID. THIS IS A GRAND PLACE ALTOGETHER. A NICE QUIET PLACE FOR YOUR EARS!”

At that point, several of the guests were beginning to disagree.

The doors to the kitchen swung open yet again and Jamie’s tea and toast arrived. Doris got up to go, red-faced from the exertion of having shouted so much, and dizzy too, having inhaled lungfuls of Jamie’s overpowering scent.

“RIGHT YE BE, JAMIE. I’LL LET YOU GET ON WITH YOUR TEA.” She clutched her purse to her bosom. “AND A VERY FINE LOOKING TEA IT IS TOO, JAMIE!”

“RIGHT YE BE, DORIS. I’LL SEE YOU ABOUT, SO A WILL.”

Doris tottered across the room to join her sister.

“GOD, JAMIE CLEANS UP VERY WELL,” she declared in a high-pitched whisper, settling herself in her chair. “AND Y’KNOW, HE WAS WEARIN’ LOVELY SCENT TOO! BUT HE’S LOST WITHOUT A GOOD WOMAN TO LOOK AFTER HIM, A MAN OF HIS AGE.”

“I
know
,” said Mildred, drawing in her chin and nodding knowingly. “And hasn’t he got all that money sitting in
your
savings account?”

Through the pampas grass, both ladies looked longingly at Jamie, who at that moment was engrossed in the hasty demolition of his tea and toast.

“He doesn’t look as if he’s got a penny in that getup,” said Elizabeth Devine, observing the spectacle with tremendous interest. “With that much money in a savings account, you’d think he could make more of an effort.”

Lydia, not wanting to be further embarrassed by her mother’s shameless comments, stood up and prepared to go.

“Time for our stroll, Mother.”

As they left the dining room, Lydia glanced back at the strange man and discovered, to her surprise, that he was gazing at her. She smiled, but he shyly averted his face. He seems such a lost soul, thought Lydia, as she steered her mother back to the safety of their room.