A few minutes later she returned with a newspaper, sat down again and began to leaf through it. From behind her book Miss Margaret sneaked a look at her sister, and was surprised at what she saw. Cissy had never been known to read a newspaper in her life. Up and down the columns, page after page she scanned, until she came to a section near the back of the newspaper. She smiled and started to move her index finger slowly down a column tightly packed with small print. Miss Margaret gave up watching her and retreated behind her book. By the window Mr Pointerly was slowly shaking his head at some remembered incident. Suddenly Miss Cissy gave a little squeak of delight and examined more closely what she had found. Smiling, she turned to Mr Pointerly.
“Would you have a pen I could borrow, Mr Pointerly?”
Margaret looked out sharply from behind her book. If Cissy was going to do a crossword puzzle, it would be the first time, as far as Margaret knew.
“Of course, of course.” His long bony hand dived inside his jacket like a heron after a fish. “I always carry a pen,” he said, withdrawing a Parker, burgundy-coloured and with gold trim, which he held out to her, “although nowadays, there doesn’t seem to be anyone left to write to.”
“Thank you, Mr Pointerly,” Cissy said and after checking the print once again she carefully made a mark against one of the columns. Margaret was intrigued beyond measure but would not lower herself to ask her sister what she was about. With the pen now as a pointer, Cissy set off down the columns again, after some moments stopping with a “Ha!” of satisfaction and making another mark against this second column. Then, holding her finger at the first mark on the page, she struggled from her seat and went to where her sister sat, the book even closer to her face.
“Margaret,” Cissy said. After a moment Margaret slowly lowered her book.
“There you are, Margaret, I knew it. The man is a crook.” She thrust the newspaper towards Miss Margaret who reluctantly put down her book and looked at what was being pointed out to her. It was the page which gave the prices from the previous day’s London Stock Exchange trading and next to “Commonwealth and Orient” was the figure of 998. “Almost ten pounds a share, Margaret! And look here.” The tip of her small finger stabbed at the second mark. “Consolidated Uranium, 843, eight pounds forty-three pence each. Those are just a little bit more than the fifty pence each he offered us, aren’t they?” Miss Cissy smiled broadly, and the newspaper rustled as her hands trembled. “And with about five thousand shares in each, that makes over – ” she looked at some figures she had written in the margin of the newspaper, “ninety thousand pounds! Ninety thousand, Margaret! I think perhaps that should be enough to live on in the meantime, don’t you? At least until we get a good lawyer and sue that little crook.”
Now she wouldn’t even need to think about using any of John’s five hundred pounds and could give him the good news when she returned it to him. Her eyes wide in disbelief, Margaret stared at the figures until her sister lowered the newspaper and folded it. And when Cissy left the sitting-room to take the newspaper back to Dermot, Margaret blinked, raised her book very close to her face and let the big tears roll down her cheeks.
Dermot took the newspaper with him when he went upstairs for his evening meal. She was like a little timid mouse, Miss Cissy, and always in the shadow of her sister. He didn’t know what was going on between them, but since that man had come to have dinner with them, something had changed. He hoped it was to do with their finances, because the time was fast approaching when he would have to ask them to leave, and although he would happily have put Miss Margaret out – and smiled while doing so – he would find it much more difficult with Miss Cissy. Of course, if this miracle business really took off, he could well manage without them – and old Pointerly. That would be three more rooms to let at premium rates. He might need all he could get. Today he had taken another two bookings, one for two nights from a man with a Dublin accent, and another from an Englishman who had rung up and asked if he had any vacancies for Wednesday and Thursday nights – with ensuite bathroom and shower, no less. Dermot had told him that it was the Glens Hotel in Inisbreen, not the Shelbourne in Dublin, then the man had laughed when he was told the price, asking if that was for one night or two and saying that he would take it. They could be very peculiar sometimes, these English.
In their private sitting-room, Agnes sat on the couch reading a golfing magazine, her hair tied back with a red bow, her nails filed and painted to perfection, the make-up on her pretty face a complement to her brown-checked skirt and oyster-coloured silk blouse.
“Isn’t she just like something out an advert,” Mary Hanlon had said.
“Aye, for frozen fish,” had come the Winter Cook’s reply.
Dermot tried to get to the small kitchen unnoticed but only made it halfway across the room.
“And what’s keeping Mrs Megarrity with the dinner this time?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be here in a minute, Agnes. I think she had trouble getting a pot big enough to put the cat in.”
As of late, Agnes ignored his attempts at humour.
“And where’s Patrick? I don’t know. I try to instil some discipline into that boy, but I get precious little help from you.”
“I told him to come up. He’ll be putting the bike away.”
“Ah yes, the new bicycle. What prompted this sudden fit of generosity?”
“Agnes, he’s been wanting a bike for ages.”
“Yes, but why now, Dermot?”
Dermot shrugged and moved towards the kitchen.
“Why not?”
It had been worth it to have the little bugger keep his mouth shut. It was bad enough having that conniving old bitch Megarrity screwing him for another seven fifty a week over it. God alone knew what would happen if Agnes ever found out about Nancy. In the kitchen, which had been a storeroom before it was converted and still had an old black telephone screwed to the wall, Dermot rang downstairs. When he asked how long it would be before dinner was sent up, Mrs Megarrity said,
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr McAllister, but do I look like an octopus?” and when Dermot was stuck for an answer she put the telephone down. He went back into the sitting-room and said,
“Mrs Megarrity says dinner’ll be up in a couple of minutes.”
“Very likely,” Agnes said.
Dermot poured himself a whiskey and settled in an armchair with the newspaper, idly wondering what was in it that Miss Cissy had been so anxious to see. Agnes said to him,
“I’ve been asked by Father Burke to join a committee.”
Dermot grunted from behind the newspaper.
“He’s setting it up to help him decide what should be done with the Mass Rock site.”
Dermot lowered his paper.
“Well, you can tell Father Burke he’s relieved of that responsibility. I own the land now, and I’ll decide what’s happening to it.”
“Including charging people for visiting a religious site? Dermot, you can’t possibly do it. It’s the first thing they’re going to ask me about. It’s immoral – making money out of religion like that.”
“You mean, like the Church does? I can see why he wants you on his crusade committee. It’s just a way of getting at me by the back door.”
“Oh, is that all you think of me as, a back door?”
“You know what I mean. This is a business I’m trying to run, Agnes. I can’t put sheep on that land now that people are trampling all over it. Don’t you see? It’s a golden opportunity to make some money – and you ought to be interested in that. You’re good enough at spending it.”
“Oh, I see. I might’ve known it would come down to that eventually. So it’s all my fault, is it?”
“Did I say that?”
“Oh, I know the way you think, Dermot McAllister.”
Dermot sank behind his newspaper.
“Dear God. Save me from mind readers.”
“All I know is, I’ll be there at the first committee meeting tomorrow nig
ht. At least someone around here is interested in the Church.”
Dermot gave her his full attention.
“Tomorrow night? Where is this meeting?”
“In the chapel house, of course.”
“You’re going to the chapel house tomorrow night?”
“Unless you can find some way of transporting it here.”
“But I told you I was going out tomorrow night. I’ve already arranged for someone to do the bar.”
“Well, you’ll just have to stay in. You won’t get Bernadette Tierney to babysit at this short notice. I can’t miss this meeting. It’s an honour to be asked.”
Dermot loudly shook the creases out of his newspaper before sinking behind it again, a thunderous look on his face. There was little point in arguing. When Agnes got something into her head, there was no deviating her from it. What the hell was Nancy going to say? He had promised her big things for the following night. Well, one, to be precise. He stifled a smile. She was such an innocent, but even she would begin to wander if time after time he couldn’t perform. It had never happened before either with Agnes or anyone else. It was bloody worrying. Surely to God he wasn’t going senile, at his age. It must be the situation, the – atmosphere. It was all wrong. Shagging in the front seat of a car wasn’t exactly the ideal setup, and he had already experienced the results of trying it in the house during the day. What he needed was a better venue. Surroundings more conducive to romance. And Nancy’s house was no good. Her old mother looked as if you couldn’t scratch your arse without her whipping out the rosary beads for a novena. Then a glow of satisfaction lit up Dermot’s face. If he couldn’t go to Nancy, then Nancy could come to him, when the Winter Cook had gone home, Agnes was out at her meeting, and Patrick was fast asleep in bed.
chapter twelve
The room in Limpy McGhee’s house near the Mass Rock was silent apart from the muffled snores of it’s occupant, who was hidden in his bed under a swathe of blankets, from the bottom of which his cracked black boots poked. Through the newly-cleaned windows, the corners of whose panes still held the dirt of years, the sunlight fell on the empty floor and on the hindquarters of the dog. It lay at full stretch, long face resting on its paws, vapid eyes half lidded as it regarded the scene of devastation before it. There was hardly an item of interest left in the room following Limpy’s great clearance in anticipation of hordes of the paying public. No more boxes, bottles and heaps of clothing among which to root, no discarded crusts to gobble or makeshift battlements behind which to dodge a missile. And the walls were the only perpendicular structures left against which the dog could relieve himself. In fact, nothing of interest at all. Even the persistent smell of dog urine had gone, replaced by the stench of Jeyes’ Fluid, which Mrs Healy had instructed her husband John, on pain of death, to sprinkle liberally around Limpy’s abode. This was something she had wanted to do for many a year, but in fact was only second choice after her preferred option, a hand grenade, but even she agreed, on her better days, that this solution might be a little harsh. Now the dog hardly stirred himself all day, although when the heat rose and the smell of the disinfectant got too much for him, he would slink outside and find a place out of harm’s way where he could lie in the sun. The dog gave a low, sorrowful whine and Limpy moved to find a more comfortable position on his bed.
The somnolent atmosphere was suddenly shattered by the door bursting open and crashing against the wall. The dog leapt to his feet, teeth bared and hackles rising. Limpy gave a jump and uttered an oath. In the doorway the sunlight was partially blocked by the bulky figure of the Winter Cook, wrapped in an old brown overcoat and with a woollen hat of the same colour pulled down over her ears and sticking up at a peak on the top. Seeing her pass through the village, Pig Cully had said,
“What the hell does she not look like?”
John Breen had replied,
“That’s the latest fashion, Cully. Designer dog turd.”
As she strode across the room towards the bed, Mrs Megarrity shouted,
“McGhee, ye wee maggot! Get up out of that!”
“What the hell – ?” he groaned, surfacing from the sea of blankets.
Another stride took the Winter Cook within reach of the Miracle Man, and she grasped him by the shoulder of his grubby shirt and shook him.
“Five hundred pound, ye conniving little git! ‘Ye couldn’t ever lend me a couple of bob?’ ye said, and ‘I’m down on my luck, Lizzie. I’ll pay ye back the minute I get two pounds close enough together to count.’” She reeled off a litany of his stock phrases for extracting money from her. “Tried to keep it a secret from me, didn’t ye?”
Limpy kneaded the sleep from his eyes and then rubbed his hands through his tousled hair.
“Jasus Christ, Lizzie, ye near had the heart jumping out of me. Is that any way to come into a man’s domicile? And me trying to get the beauty sleep to look good for the pilgrims?”
“I’ll give you feckin’ pilgrims! I’ll take yer head off at the waist! Where’s the money?” She began to look around the room. “Ye can’t have drunk it all by now.”
“Five hundred pound, Lizzie? Where in the hell would I get money like that, would ye tell me?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, John McGhee. From one of them reporters, that’s where. And ye were going to keep the whole damned lot for yerself. Ye must’ve cadged five times that amount out of me over the years. By God!” She raised her hand as if to strike him and he cowered back in the bed.
“It was only a promise, Lizzie. He’ll hardly hand it over. Ye know what them boys is like.”
“Under the mattress,” she said, grabbing the striped ticking and yanking it upwards. Limpy gave a cry and tumbled off the other side of the bed and onto the floor. With a wary eye on the Winter Cook, the dog came over and sniffed his master. Holding up the mattress with one hand, the Winter Cook poked around the underside of it with the other before dropping it again.
“Where’s the money, McGhee? What’ve ye done with it?”
“I swear, Lizzie, I’ve never seen five hundred pound in my life.”
Sweeping up the pillow from the bed, Mrs Megarrity whacked Limpy round the side of the head with it.
“Ye lying little toad! Ye’ve already been given it – by a fella called Fergus Keane. I want my share of it now! Half!”
Limpy struggled to his feet and then began to back away as his sister came round the bed towards him.
“Now Lizzie, ye know I would give ye the shirt off my back if you needed it, but – ”
“The shirt off yer back, is it? And what would I be wanting that for, only dusters? Never mind the feckin’ shirt, give’s the money!”
She swung at him again with the pillow but missed as he stepped back smartly. The dog had moved off to a safe distance. Although he had rarely seen the Winter Cook, he knew her sort and that definitely wasn’t his sort.
“Ah, Lizzie, I wish I could. God knows, I do. But ye see – I gave it to somebody that needed it more nor me. A worthy cause, Lizzie. As God is my witness.”
Rushing forward, she grasped Limpy’s shirt front and rammed him against the wall. Her big meaty fist was raised level with Limpy’s nose and pulled back ready to deliver the conclusive point in the argument. The top of her woollen hat wobbled like a jelly.
“I’m the best worthy cause there is around here. Hand over the money, ye little twister, or I’ll give ye a bad leg even a miracle won’t fix.”
“You’re choking me, for Jasus’ sake. Lizzie I swear, I gave the money away. All of it.”
For a few seconds the Winter Cook stared at him, her look alternating between bafflement and ferocity.
“Ye – gave it away? The whole five hundred pound?”
“I swear to God, Lizzie, on our mother’s grave.”
“Ye – are ye feckin’ mad or what? Who d’ye give it to? Come on, cough up!” She shook him like a terrier shaking a rat and his dentures clattered together.
“I can’t tell
ye that, Lizzie. Now let go of me, will ye?”
A fistful of fat fingers brushed the tip of Limpy’s nose.
“John McGhee, you tell me where that money went or I’ll knock ye good-looking. As God is my witness.”
“Don’t be hitting me now, Lizzie,” he whined, “I’m an old man.”
The Winter Cook’s fist pressed against his nose and moved it sideways.
“I’m going to count up to five, John, and then it’s Goodnight Irene!”
“All right, all right, I’ll tell ye, just don’t hit me.”
The Winter Cook eased the pressure on his chest and he wriggled free from her, massaging his neck where his collar had tightened round it like a noose.
“Come on then, give.”
Her brother composed himself for a moment and then gave a smile which was almost beatific.
“I gave it all to the Church,” he said. “To Father Burke. Lovely man.”
“You – what?” Mrs Megarrity bellowed.
“I thought that was only fair, seeing as how the miracle got me the money in the first place. Ye know, ‘What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul’.” He lowered his head and looked up past his eyebrows at her, a contrite expression on his face. “Was that the wrong thing to do, Lizzie?”
“Good God Almighty, you’ve hardly been inside a chapel in yer whole life.”
“It’s never too late, darlin’.”
“Don’t you darlin’ me.”
“Well, I can tell ye one thing, this miracle has made me realise there’s people a lot worse off nor me.”
“Ye’re damned right there is. Me!” But then she regarded him for a moment and her fierce look faded a little. She said in a softer tone, “I wouldn’t have thought ye had it in ye, John McGhee. I have to admit that was a fine thing to do.” Her features momentarily clouded. “Ye wouldn’t be lying to me, would you? If I thought for a minute you were lyin’ – ”
The Miracle Man Page 18