The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

“You poor thing! I won’t keep you. It’s just the tin, y’see.”

  “Sorry, what tin?”

  “The one I gave you with the sponge cake when you moved in. I wouldn’t ask for it back, but . . . ”

  “Oh . . . the tin.” Alarmed, she recalled consigning it to the waste bin. It was most likely scrunched up as landfill by now.

  “I’ll leave it round later,” she heard herself say, wondering how on earth she’d make good the promise.

  “Right you be,” trilled Maud before flying off down the path again, pink coat twitching in the breeze.

  She shut the door gratefully. Her head was aching more than ever. She dared not return to the drawer and the letter. Fresh air was what she needed, and fast.

  She stepped out the back.

  The afternoon was pleasant with that lovely pearly glow heralding spring. Already the gorse was putting forth. Tiny bursts of yellow thrusting through the greenery that fenced off her garden from Maud’s. Not that you could call the forlorn patch of balding grass on her side an actual garden. It was more a space to accommodate the clothesline and shed. Only the stone cherub in the right-hand corner added interest. She often wondered who’d placed it there. Bram Hilditch or the former owners?

  Knowing now that Maud was definitely not at home, she crossed over to the hedge to have a peek.

  It was a joy to the eye, as she’d expected: a neat lawn braided on all sides by tiny clusters of pink and white flowers with a rockery at the far end. Grouped in front of the rockery was a set of garden gnomes. How lovely if she could have the same on her side! But the landlord clearly wasn’t that interested in horticulture.

  Her gaze travelled to the rear of Maud’s house. At either side of the door were knee-high plaster spaniels standing guard. But to her consternation she saw now that the back-door was slightly ajar.

  Well, Maud had mentioned her forgetfulness.

  I really need to shut it, Rita-Mae thought, even though I might be trespassing. It’s the neighbourly thing to do.

  She made a mental note to do it before going back inside and continued down to the shed. At her approach, a tiny bird shot up suddenly, settled on the apex of the roof, inspected her briefly, decided she wasn’t so interesting and flew off.

  She smiled at the beauty of such an unexpected little moment, leaned back against the shed and shut her eyes.

  After a few breaths of clean air her migraine began easing. The quiet and the pleasing tweets of bird-song were a balm to her senses.

  But very soon her thoughts were turning back to the letter and the photographs.

  He could be watching me right now.

  The very idea made a fist of itself and struck her hard, setting off a metronomic thudding in her head.

  It took enormous strength for her to resist screaming out.

  She opened her eyes and in desperation looked about.

  The thudding sound, she realized, was not in her head. It was coming from somewhere behind her.

  Thud . . . thud . . . thud!

  It was growing louder and more persistent by the second.

  Frustrated, she decided to investigate. She unlatched the back-gate and crossed the lane.

  On the opposite side was a line of dilapidated terraced houses. All had back-gardens mostly uncared for, much like her own. One, however, was paved over with concrete and it was in this one that she saw movement. A young boy was hunkered down tying his shoelace. When he stood up, she saw the source of the irritating noise. He had a football and began kicking it against the wall of the house. Back and forth, back and forth. Thud . . . thud.

  She picked her steps across the grassy verge to his fence.

  “Excuse me!”

  He caught the ball and spun round.

  Nine or ten years old. Angelic face. Curly hair. Scruffy-looking, in soiled shorts and T-shirt.

  “Can I have a word?”

  He glanced about him, wondering what to do, then approached her warily, clasping the ball in both hands as if he’d hit her with it if he had to.

  “What’s your name?” she asked kindly.

  “R-Ryan . . . Ryan Glacken.”

  “Ryan, I wonder would you mind not kicking your ball? I’ve got a sore head you see, and the noise is making it worse.”

  Ryan stared up at her, bottom lip curled out in dismay. He looked so sad and innocent. Rita-Mae felt bad because now he was going to cry. But then:

  “I don’t give a shite about yer oul’ head!” he spat.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m gonna tell me ma on you!”

  Before she could speak he ran off screaming into the house.

  Such insolence! But at least she’d got him to stop his annoying ball game. She was about to retrace her steps when she heard a woman’s voice.

  “Hi, you there!”

  She turned back to see a dumpy woman in a blue smock shuffling over to the yard, cigarette in hand.

  “Hello, Mrs Glacken, I’m—”

  “Is this her, Ryan?”

  “Aye, Ma.”

  “Who d’ya think you are? Tellin’ my son whadda do in his own back-yard!”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I have a dreadful headache, you see, and . . . and the noise of your son kicking the ball was making it worse.”

  The woman inspected her through tiny eyes buried in a doughy face. She sucked on the cigarette, spewing smoke through her nostrils like a cartoon dragon. Rita-Mae noted that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Stay in yer house and shut the windee then. Where d’you live anyway? Never seen you round here afore.”

  Rita-Mae, trying hard to remain calm, pointed feebly in the direction of Willow Close, sensing she’d be getting little understanding from Mrs Glacken.

  “Number eight over there,” she said.

  “Ma, Ma!” Ryan shouted gleefully. “That’s the madwoman’s house!” He clutched his belly, doubling in two, hooting with laughter.

  “So it is, Ryan. Well, no surprises there.”

  The boy continued his hysterics. At which point the mother grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to her. “Cut it out, Ryan, or I’ll rip yer face off.”

  Rita-Mae began backing away, appalled by the rough language.

  “That Hillitch man should turn it into a bloody asylum the way things is lookin’. Never know what sort of nutter’s livin’ beside us, do we, son?”

  “Nah, Ma.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  She threw down the cigarette and stamped on it angrily. “Beg all you like,” she snapped, resting her hands on her hips and thrusting her chin out. “Just so you know, Mrs—”

  “Miss, actually.” The Good Samaritan’s headache was getting as bad as the situation. All her training, emphasizing remaining neutral and non-judgemental in the face of conflict, was suddenly deserting her.

  “Miss, aye, I thought you might be . . . if yeh had a wain in yer life you wouldn’t be a miserable oul’ maid complainin’ about nathin’, so you wouldn’t. The last one was a miserable oul’ maid too, just like you.”

  “Well, I can see where your rude son gets it from. There is no point in trying to be civil to the likes of you.”

  “Och, buzz off and leave us alone!” She tugged at the boy. “Come on, Ryan. Yer tea’s ready. We’re not safe around this nutter.”

  Rita-Mae staggered back across the lane, head throbbing. She really needed to take a pill and lie down. Behind her she heard the neighbour-from-hell hurl one last missile: “You haven’t seen the last of us, you screwball!” It was followed by a door being banged shut.

  Mortified and confused, she was glad to reach the safety of her garden once more. But as she was locking her own gate she remembered she must shut Mrs Gilhooley’s back-door.

  Quickly she doubled back and went to do her neighbourly duty.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Some hours later the sound of a car door banging disturbed Rita-Mae from slumber. After her contretemps with Mrs Glacken she’d taken a
pill for the worsening migraine, which had tipped her over into a deep sleep.

  Groggy but heedful, she stumbled now to the window and peered out.

  Bram Hilditch was going in next door. At the sight of him her whole body tensed in warning. There was something about him that indicated it was not a social call.

  All was not well at Mrs Gilhooley’s.

  Alert to the idea he might be calling on her too, she pulled on her clothes and dashed downstairs.

  But when she reached the bottom step a shocking sight confronted her.

  The lounge was a mess.

  Plant pots toppled, the cushions of the settee overturned. Cutlery tossed everywhere.

  Oh dear God!

  The stalker.

  Terrified, she moved slowly into the lounge. Saw that the back-door was ajar.

  But I locked the door. I must have done.

  Oh God, what if he’s standing out there waiting for me? Just waiting to laugh in my face.

  She edged her way into the kitchen and peeked through the window.

  Nothing.

  But he could be standing just outside the door.

  No time to get the flick-knife. It was upstairs under her pillow. She eyed the knife block – saw that the paring-knife was missing.

  Had he taken it? Was he standing there just outside, waiting to pounce, drag her inside and slit her throat? The paring-knife was very sharp. She knew that from washing up the previous evening. Could still feel the nick in her forefinger, the blood from it turning the water crimson in the kitchen sink.

  She drew out the chef’s knife, heart thudding like a jackhammer, and flung the door wide.

  No one.

  She put one foot over the doorstep, heard the gravel crunch quietly.

  Nothing stirred. The shed, the clothesline, the cherub, the gorse frozen like stage props, waiting. Was it all a calculated illusion just to trick her? Had he done this? Set it all up. Arranged things to coax her out into the open, so he could aim his lens and shoot her – click-click-click. Like he’d done with Vivian-Bernadette.

  She tightened her grip on the knife.

  Then:

  “Hi, there!”

  Oh, Christ!

  She spun round, knife aloft.

  Dan Madden was standing in Mrs Gilhooley’s garden, staring at her over the fence.

  Their eyes locked.

  He took a step back.

  It took her several seconds to register why he looked so shocked.

  She lowered the knife and opened her mouth to explain, but the words would not come; the sheer relief of seeing him instead of . . . instead of the dreaded, deadly stranger had rendered her speechless. She dashed inside, slamming the door shut, all thoughts returning to the ransacked lounge.

  Her handbag?

  Her money?

  But her bag was in the usual place by the armchair. When she looked inside, her purse was there, the money untouched.

  What savings she had were under her mattress, so they were safe too.

  She went back to the kitchen and examined the door.

  There was no evidence it had been forced.

  How come she’d forgotten to lock it?

  You haven’t seen the last of us, you screwball!

  The voice of Mrs Glacken, loud in her head.

  Of course: that harridan’s behind all this. She sent the son over to wreak havoc and get her revenge.

  She surveyed the lounge again.

  Yes, it looked like the work of a child. No valuables stolen. No really heavy items disturbed: the plant pots, cushions, cutlery all pointed to the work of a naughty little boy playing a silly prank.

  Quickly she began tidying up, relieved.

  It was important to right things before Bram Hilditch came a-calling. Something told her it was better not to tell him anything. She could not admit to being so lax in forgetting to lock her back-door. Nor could she risk getting pulled into something bigger involving her next-door neighbour.

  She gathered up the cutlery and put it in the sink.

  How come she hadn’t heard him, though? Ryan Glacken. But she’d taken that pill and knew from experience how deeply they could make her sleep.

  When the last of the cutlery was soaking, the doorbell sounded.

  She took a deep breath, adjusted herself in the mirror and went to answer it.

  “Mr Hilditch! I thought I saw your car.”

  “So sorry to bother you, Miss Ruttle.”

  He appeared agitated, not his usual ebullient self.

  “May I come in, just for a moment?”

  “Of course. Is . . . is anything wrong?”

  He took his usual chair at the table and removed his hat. “Oh, it’s a terrible business . . . a terrible business altogether, Miss Ruttle.”

  “I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

  “No . . . no tea, thank you.” He scanned the room, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “Are you all right, Miss Ruttle?”

  “Me . . . ? Yes, I . . . I’m fine, thank you . . . just a little tired, that’s all.”

  She took the chair opposite, sitting down slowly, eyes steady on him, so many desperate thoughts seething in her head.

  “What’s the matter, Mr Hilditch? You . . . you look put out.”

  “It’s Mrs Gilhooley, I’m afraid. She’s been taken to hospital. Someone broke in and robbed her.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “But that’s not the worst of it.”

  He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if what he was about to say was just too painful to put into words.

  “My goodness me . . . was she assaulted?”

  He shook his head. “No, not as bad as that. They killed Polly.”

  “Y-You mean h-her budgie?”

  “Yes, cut . . . ” He cast his eyes briefly at the ceiling then studied the floor. “. . . cut its little head off and threw it back in the cage. She arrived home to find blood and feathers all over the place and her jewellery stolen.”

  He gazed at her in earnest. “Who would do a thing like that?”

  She tried to take in what he was saying, but could not bring herself to imagine such a horror. Was the man who was stalking her stalking Maud as well? She too lived alone, but she was elderly and stalkers generally liked their prey young.

  “That . . . that’s so awful! So very, very awful! The poor woman.”

  “She fainted with the shock of it. Only for Dan Madden . . . ”

  At the mention of Madden’s name a terrible image presented itself, sharply focused.

  She with knife raised, turning to face him.

  The alarm in Madden’s eyes at the sight of her.

  Had he told Bram Hilditch what he’d witnessed?

  “. . . yes, only for Dan coming to do her garden,” Bram Hilditch was saying, fixing her with that earnest look again, “heaven knows what might have happened. He found her collapsed on the floor. She has a weak heart you see.”

  “My goodness me, that is so shocking! Who on earth would do a thing like that?” She was quaking inside. “Is she . . . is she going to be all right?”

  “We sincerely hope so.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was just chatting to her before she went to the shops.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes, just for a little while. She very kindly asked me if I needed anything.”

  “She’s the salt of the earth, Maud. That is why this is so dreadful. You didn’t notice anyone acting suspiciously, did you?”

  She hesitated. Thought of Ryan Glacken, but couldn’t afford to tell him that. Not now. Less said the better for now.

  “No . . . well, the thing is, I was lying down for a couple of hours.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes, with a headache. I only woke up at the sound of your car.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was sympathizing for the headache, her lack of awareness at a crucial moment or the fact that he’d woken her.

/>   “Well, hopefully the police will be able to catch the ruffian,” he said, getting up.

  The word “police” had her heart shifting up a gear.

  He turned to her. “They’ll want to have a word with you, being her nearest neighbour. You’ll be all right with that, won’t you?”

  She saw her whole life unravelling right there with his question.

  Her secret would be out. He’d learn she was not who she said she was. That she was not the lonely spinster deserving of his attention and respect. That in fact she was a liar and a fraud.

  “Yes, I’ll only . . . only be too glad to assist them,” she heard herself say, marvelling at the ease with which the words slipped from her.

  At the door he patted her arm. A gesture she found comforting in the circumstances. “You mind yourself, Miss Ruttle. Make sure you lock all windows and doors. I’m only a phone call away. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes . . . thank you.” She made to shut the door, but he turned back.

  “By the way, Miss Ruttle, have you ever visited Portaluce?”

  “Erm . . . no, but I’ve heard it’s lovely.”

  “It’s just that . . . ” He adjusted his glasses. “I need to go there soon to book my mother’s next little break. She stays at a lovely guesthouse there every summer, you see. Would be nice to have your company on the journey.”

  “Maybe . . . yes . . . that would be nice.”

  “When this ghastly business with Maud’s cleared up. Would be a day out for us both.”

  She forced a smile and nodded.

  He touched his hat. Made to go. “Oh, just one more thing before I forget, Miss Ruttle.”

  He reached into an inside pocket. Drew out an envelope.

  “Your receipt for the deposit. I totally overlooked it. Sorry about that. It was a little remiss of me.”

  “That’s all right. There’s no need to apologize.”

  “Well, good day to you, Miss Ruttle. See you again soon.”

  She shut the door on him with a heavy heart. Gazed down at the envelope, thoughts spinning out of control. Went through to the kitchen and pulled out a drawer. It contained all the receipts she’d accumulated so far since coming to Killoran.

  Why, she asked herself, am I keeping these?

  But in seconds she was back there in the past, remembering the abuses another had inflicted.