The Misremembered Man (17 page)

L
ater that same afternoon, Lydia found herself at a loose end. Her mother had just lain down for her usual pre-dinner nap, and sleep was now overtaking her. Lydia would have liked to remain in the bedroom reading, but her mother’s snores precluded that.

The alternative was to retire to the drawing room, but that held the risk of encountering Gladys, accepting an unwanted glass of port, and hearing more rhetoric about the various routes to a man’s heart.

No, she would simply have to go out, find a nice quiet spot overlooking the beach, sit by herself and perhaps dip into her current novel. Now, first things first: a note for her mother. She wrote that she’d be back in an hour and set the note on the bedside locker. She folded up a plaid rug, placed it in her basket and tucked her Georgette Heyer underneath it.

She checked herself in the mirror and was, for a change, pleased with what she saw. The break from school and the ocean air were doing her good. Her eyes shone and her complexion had a healthy glow. She had taken her aunt’s advice and chosen a knee-length cord skirt and chiffon blouse with a lacy jabot, instead of her standard—and dowdy—shift dress. It was a particular shade of green that definitely suited her. Gladys was right. She resolved to buy more of that color in the future.

“Start living a bit, dear. Yes, perhaps I will,” Lydia said to her reflection. Her mother stirred in the bed and she left the room as quickly and as quietly as she could.

The day was pleasantly warm, if slightly overcast, when Lydia stepped out. A fortifying breeze blew in from the Atlantic, as she negotiated the narrow promenade cutting its way round a balcony of rock leading to the beach.

She could see the sand shimmering in the distance, stretched out like a long golden shawl, a draw for the weary traveler and dedicated sunbather alike. She thought, perhaps, that she should walk all the way to it and mingle with the many beach lovers she could see disporting themselves there. But at that moment she simply wished to be alone. As she rounded the next bend she was gratified to see a sun seat. She went to it, arranged her tartan rug and sat down. Carefully she removed the leather bookmark—a Christmas present from a past star pupil, one Susan Peake—from between pages 128 and 129, and settled down to read.

Jamie stood outside the ornate gates of the Ocean Spray in his too-tight suit and spurned footwear, wondering what to do with himself. At half past four it was too early to visit a pub. He ambled down the street, thinking that he might try the movie theater, but when he arrived at the Odeon he saw that the matinee was well underway. A large poster to the right of the doors told him that
Young Frankenstein
had begun at half past two.

He turned left and proceeded down the main thoroughfare. He felt a bit melancholy, for as he passed the stores and cafés, many were all too familiar. He was recalling his last visit with his dear uncle and how happy he’d been. There was Cassidy’s Confectioners, its window decked out with colorful boxes and jars of candy. He remembered Mick buying a pack of Marlboros for himself and a quarter of licorice allsorts for him. He decided, for old times’ sake, that he would pay homage to his dear uncle’s memory by doing the same.

The store was dark and narrow, more a hallway than actual premises. At first Jamie thought there was no one serving. He tapped the bell on the counter, heard a scuffling sound followed by a croaked, “Aye, I’m comin’.” He was puzzled; he looked up and down and all about, but could see nobody. The shelves behind the counter were packed with cartons of candy and boxes of chocolate; those boxes nearest the window had suffered so much sunlight that sometimes only a ghostly image of a smiling beauty or a bunch of bleached-out flowers remained on the lids. Jamie thought he might treat himself to a box of chocolates, but changed his mind when he noticed the discoloration. Sure maybe the chocolates would be melted, and then a body would have wasted his money.

He thunked the bell again, and all at once saw a pair of gnarled, hairy hands clasping the counter’s edge. Slowly a little man’s head came into view. His bushy eyebrows crested wire-rimmed spectacles and his white hair stuck out in great tufts above his ears. He was so bent over that his bristly chin just about grazed the counter.

“A pound beg a them lickerish allsorts and twenty Marlbora, please.”

“
What
?” the little man put a hand up to his ear, his face a rictus of puzzlement.

“A POUND BEG A THEM LICKERISH ALLSORTS A SAY,” Jamie shouted, “AND TWENTY A THEM MARLBORAS.”

It seemed to him as though he’d been shouting for most of the day.

The storekeeper rubbed his chin and nodded. He shuffled over to a crooked ladder and climbed up to the appropriate shelf. Jamie watched him wrestle a large jar of candy into his arms—expecting him to fall under the weight of it—and reverse unsteadily to the floor again.

The weighing and bagging of the licorice allsorts took a lamentable length of time and seemed to tire the little man unduly. He wheezed and coughed, a stubby pencil trembling over a jotter as he totted up the bill. At one stage, Jamie thought that the wee man might faint, and die from the exertion of getting his order, and he, Jamie, might be held responsible for his death. With this thought, he grabbed the candy and the smokes, thanked Mr. Cassidy and left the store quickly.

Three doors down he saw The Snowy Cone, and decided he must pay it a visit in honor of his Aunt Violet. He pushed through the glass-paneled door, and the jangle of a bell heralded his entrance. He could not quite believe that he was standing in the middle of what once had been his dear aunt’s front room. He saw a droning ice-cream machine instead of the fireplace, and where the couch had been was a display case of several containers of variously colored ice creams under glass. Around the walls and set on tables were souvenirs and gifts of every description.

Jamie’s eyes roved over the fare, taking in the leprechaun clocks, thatched-cottage key rings, shillelagh pens and pencils, items of jewelry “
for him and her
,” shamrock cufflinks, Claddagh rings, Connemara brooches, Celtic crosses with “
Free Silver Chain
,” items for the religiously minded, the crucified Savior on a hill of “
Genuine Irish Moss
,” plaster casts of St. Patrick: in a field with a flock of sheep, wrestling a snake on the ground with his bare hands, kneeling alone on Slemish mountain with his head bowed in prayer. There were items for the home for use and display: seashell baskets, stained-glass angels, Aran scarf gift sets, Irish tartan oven gloves, Irish linen handkerchiefs, a group of farmyard animals (“
damaged in transit
” and “
reduced to clear
”)—a pink hog with a chipped snout at half price, an Alsatian dog with no ears, a cow with three legs and no tail, a row of barbary ducklings being led down a path by a legless mother (“
Leg’s behind the counter. Please ask
.”)

Little Katie Madden was busy putting her doll Mindy into a ballet costume when she heard the store-bell ring. Her parents had instructed her to keep an eye on things while they were having lunch. She stood Mindy on the windowsill and went to do her duty.

There was a man, dressed in black. He had picked up a damaged duck and was examining it closely.

Jamie heard a child’s voice behind him. “Are ye gettin’, are ye?”

He turned to see a rather plump child of about ten. She had a round pink face of freckles and her little eyes regarded Jamie from behind pink-rimmed spectacles. Her fluffy blond hair was pulled into high pigtails and secured with two pink furry bunny bobbles. She folded her recently sunkissed arms across her chest; the color of her skin almost matched her pink sleeveless dress.

Jamie set the duck carefully back in its place, embarrassed.

“Ah, well now, aye, wait to we see.” He studied a list of prices above her head, then looked down at the row of colored ice creams in the display case. “Which would be the best?”

“The pink’s the best,” Katie said without hesitation, blinking up hopefully at Jamie.

“Yes, the pink one, please.”

She smiled and unfolded her arms. “A poke or a slider?”

Jamie scratched his head in confusion.

“The slider’s the best, so it is.” Katie was eager to use the big knife which her father had expressly told her not to touch. If anyone wanted a slider she was to call him.

After she’d performed the forbidden task of guillotining the block of ice cream for Jamie’s wafer sandwich without being caught or cut, she felt emboldened. She remembered her mother saying that the longer you kept a customer in the shop, the more he might buy.

“D’you want to buy that wee duck?” She pushed her pink glasses up on her little pink nose and smiled at Jamie again. “I’ve got the wee legs of it in the drawer here.”

“No, thank you, I wouldn’t have much call for a duck.” He saw the child’s disappointment. “But y’know, I’d maybe take them oven gloves.” He thought of Rose. To the little girl’s delight, Jamie also bought a shillelagh lighter for Paddy and a leprechaun clock for himself.

At the close of the transaction Jamie was as happy as little Katie. He left the shop with his bag of gifts and drifted off back down the promenade, toward the beach, licking his pink slider.

During her reading, Lydia had been distracted from time to time by the comings and goings at a small wooden booth farther down the embankment. It was mostly women who seemed to be frequenting it, while their friends or partners waited on a bench outside. She wondered about it, and decided to investigate. She folded the rug, stowed it in the basket together with her novel and headed down the hill.

As she approached the booth, all became clear. She read a garishly painted sign which promised:
Expert Reading’s from Madame Calinda. Gennuine Romany Clarevoyant. Thirty Year’s Experience. As Seen on the
TV
.

Lydia was truly curious now. She thought such things had gone out with fire-eaters and two-headed midgets. As she was standing gazing at the sign (the teacher in her, still mentally tut-tutting at the appalling misspelling), she heard a rattle. A woman’s head poked through a beaded curtain that hung above the half door.

“You’ll be wantin’ your fortune told, daughtur.”

The woman spoke with a thick southern accent. She looked about sixty, and her appearance was indeed a throwback to an earlier time. She was heavily made up with an absurd soufflé of hennaed hair; a cigarette dangled from a mouth that looked as though a three-year-old had been let loose on it with a red lipstick crayon.

“My fortune?” Lydia hesitated, taken aback by the woman’s gaudy appearance. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I see great t’ings for yeh, luv.” She drew heavily on the cigarette, her bracelets clanking as she took it from her mouth and tapped its ash on the grass. Her metallic nails flashed in the sun. “I’m not expensive and you mightn’t get the chance again.”

Lydia thought of her father’s edict, that
all soothsayers are the devil’s handmaidens
, and of Gladys’s words:
Start living a little, dear
. With both admonishments in mind and, hoping she wouldn’t be seen, she ducked into the booth.

The air in the tiny space was laden with the odor of bacon fat, which a smoking incense stick was vainly trying to dispel. Around the walls hung lengths of chenille curtain and brightly colored scarves. She sat down opposite “Madame Calinda” and spread her hands on the velvet tablecloth.

“Now gimme your t’ree pound, luv, then gimme your hand.”

Lydia handed over the notes, and the fortuneteller secreted them in the pocket of a voluminous kaftan.

“Now I’m gonna cross your palm wit’ silver.”

Madame reached into her large bosom and hauled out an old half-crown. She traced a cross with the coin on Lydia’s left hand.

“Far be it from me to be pryin’ into yer life, daughtur, but do yeh have a buy in your life right now?” She looked keenly at Lydia.

“Sorry, a what?”

“A buy, a fella, luv.” Madame had so much kohl round her eyes, she looked as though she’d just climbed out of a chimney-pot.

“Oh, I see: a ‘boy.’” Lydia shook her head. “No, I don’t have one.”

“Well you’re
gonna
have a buy in your life very soon. D’you understan’ me, daughtur?”

Lydia nodded.

“Now, I wouldn’t be tellin’ yeh a word of a loy, but would yeh take a wee drink itself, daughtur?”

“No, not really.” Lydia’s face reddened.

“Well, you’re
gonna
be takin’ a wee drink very soon. D’you understan’ me, daughtur? And I see yeh at a gatherin’, maybe it’s a waddin’, and you’re there wit’ a man and he’s takin’ a wee drink of the creatur too.”

“Can you tell me a bit about the man?” Lydia asked, suddenly interested. “Have I met him already?”

“Now, I wouldn’t be tellin’ yeh a word of a loy, daughtur, but did yeh say there dat yeh had a buy already? Did yeh?”

“No. I haven’t got a boy.”

“Well, yeh
’aven’t
met him already then, but that isn’t ta say dat he’s not about, if yeh understand me entoirely, daughtur. ’Tis he dat’ll be speakin’ wit’ yeh soon.”

Lydia nodded, confused, but decided it was best not to ask any questions at that stage.

“You’re a woman dat likes ta dress well. Would I be right about dat, daughtur?” She saw Madame eye her lacy blouse.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Yeh like nice t’ings, and yeh don’t mind spendin’ a bit. Would I be right about dat, daughtur?”

“Hmm…”

“I see a much older man that passed over. Would it be your father, daughtur?”

Lydia looked at Madame in alarm.

“Truth be told, and I wouldn’t be tellin’ yeh a word of a loy, but he was shockin’ strict with yeh, daughtur. Would I be right about dat? ’Twas he dat was a man of the cloth, was he not? And he passed over on the turd day of the month.”