The Miracle Man

by James Skivington

  “Did you guys ever stay in a place like this in your entire life?” the American reporter at one table asked his two companions, one of whom was a Londoner of Asian extraction who was determined to find a sex angle in the miracle story. The other was Mr Patel, who had come to England from India with his BA Eng. Lit.(failed) and to his surprise had quickly landed a job as a reporter on a daily tabloid. The Londoner said,

  “Not me. There’s a chippy on the Commercial Road that runs it a close second, though.”

  Mr Patel was more positive.

  “They say that there are eating-houses in Calcutta where the holy man blesses you before you go in, and if you manage to walk out, he demands a fee.” He gave a smile which was not returned by his companions. “I think perhaps we will see a holy man with a begging bowl when we leave here.”

  After a few moments consideration the American said,

  “God dammit, you know what? I think I’ll forget this miracle story and write a piece about this place. Except they’d never believe it back home.”

  The Londoner looked at a notepad he had been scribbling in and said,

  “How about this? ‘No Sex For Miracle Man Who Loses Stiffness After 68 Years.’ What d’you think?”

  “Jee-sus,” the man from the Boston Globe-Tribune breathed and shook his head. “Listen, you guys, what d’you say we get the hell outa here and find somewhere that serves food fit for human consumption?”

  “But I have not seen any other place near here,” said the man who was almost a graduate in English literature.

  “Look, I don’t care if I’ve gotta drive from one end of the country to the other. I just want something decent to eat. What d’you say, Lou?”

  “Lee,” the Londoner said, without looking up from his notepad. Then he tapped his pencil against his teeth and asked, “What about – ‘The Night The Senior Citizen Fell For The Virgin’? I’m with you, Don. Lead on.”

  The American pulled a face and said, “Dan. And how about you, Shrivna – eh – Mr Patel? You wanna join us?”

  “Ah, this is the famous American pioneering spirit, no? Even if there is nothing there, you will find it.” His eyes grew wide. “Yes. Perhaps even in this wilderness, there might be a curry house somewhere.”

  Rising from the table the American said,

  “A curry house? Hell, no. I’m looking for an improvement on lunch, not a repeat performance.”

  As the three men walked through the foyer they met Dermot who glanced at his watch and said,

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Are we not dining in tonight?”

  Dan Kowalski, the American, shook his head and said,

  “No sir, we’re not dining in tonight. We haven’t recovered from lunch yet. Tell me, where d’you get your cook? Dyno-Rod?”

  “Ah – yes – very good.” Dermot gave a little laugh then leant forward to say in a low voice, “She’s not the best, I know, although she has her moments.” Mr Patel rolled his eyes. “But she’s only here in the off season.”

  Mr Patel said to Lee,

  “I think this means that everything is off, yes?”

  “Look,” Dan Kowalski said, “is there anywhere else around here we could get a meal?”

  “Well, you could try the Strand Hotel about five miles away, on the road to Castleglen. But it’s their off-season too.”

  “Their cook isn’t a sister of this one, by any chance?” Kowalski said.

  “Well, if she is, she doesn’t admit it. Ha ha.”

  The American started for the door, saying to Lee and Mr Patel,

  “Okay, guys, let’s go.”

  “Oh, by the way – guys,” Dermot said. The three reporters stopped. “There isn’t that much to do around here in the

  evenings.”

  “You’ve noticed,” Kowalski said.

  “But tomorrow night, there’s something that might be of interest to you. The Miracle Man, John McGhee? He’s holding a big party. I won’t be able to make it myself, but I’m sure you’d be very welcome. Apparently it’s open to all comers. You could do worse than go along? Meet the man himself, have a few drinks, enjoy yourselves, and you never know,” Dermot forced a laugh, “you might even pick up a good story for your newspapers.”

  The three journalists glanced at each other and variously recalled venues from Tierra del Fuego to a Finnish forest in midwinter that had been more full of promise. Dan Kowalski said,

  “If we’re not whacked after playing dominoes, we’ll maybe give it a try. It’ll be the first time we’ve been able to clap eyes on this guy since we arrived here.”

  “Well, you can’t miss it. It’s in the house about quarter of a mile past the bridge. Big place, red roof, front gates rusted away. I’d say it should be at full steam about eleven o’clock or so.”

  When the three journalists had gone out of the front door, Dermot smiled and said,

  “And then about twelve o’clock maybe you’ll get a story that’ll keep you writing all night.” And he laughed and rubbed his hands together.

  Ten minutes later, when the Winter Cook came banging through the door into the dining-room with fourteen plates of soup on her trolley, she stopped and surveyed a room that was empty save for her three regular diners. Slowly she shook her head and said,

  “Jasus tonight, they’ve all gone. I told McAllister we were feeding the buggers too well!”

  chapter seventeen

  Limpy McGhee’s big old Ford squeaked to a halt in the car park at the side of the Glens Hotel and gave a muffled bang before the engine shuddered two or three times and stopped. A few curses were laid on the head of a certain car salesman in Castleglen as Limpy fought to open the car door which, suddenly yielding, almost threw him face first out of the car.

  “By Jasus!” he said, shaking his fist at the car, before slamming the door shut. A shower of rust flakes fell from the underside of it to the ground. Nevertheless, he stood for a moment, looking back and admiring the sweeping curves of the bonnet, the rake of the windscreen, the places where the hub caps should be. He was sure Cissy would be impressed.

  Going through the little gate at the side of the hotel back yard, Limpy quickly took himself to the door leading to the back stairs, all the while keeping his eyes on the kitchen door further along the building, from which his sister Lizzie might well emerge at any moment. Safely inside, he was about to take the stairs to the first floor, when he stopped and rubbed his chin, scraped clean of stubble with a cut-throat razor he had sharpened on the back step of his house. Then opening the door to the hallway which led to the foyer, he looked out before walking quickly and quietly to the foot of the stairs, all the while listening intently and glancing around him. Leaning to one side, he looked through the open doorway into the empty sitting-room. He gave a little smile.

  On the foyer table beside him, there was a brass bell, a newspaper waiting to be collected and a vase of dried flowers which had shed most of their petals and now looked more like a corn stook. Limpy pulled a face and tiptoed back down the hallway to the dining-room, where he poked his head round the door. And when he looked at the nearest table, he gave a big grin and crept into the room.

  Standing outside Cissy’s bedroom door, Limpy slapped his hair flat and straightened the mauve and puce tie which, not possessing an iron, he had laid under his mattress the night before in a vain attempt to flatten the kinks in it. He held up the bunch of dried flowers which he had taken from the dining-room table and gave a smile of satisfaction at the neatness of the fresh newspaper wrapping. Then he knocked lightly on the door. At first there was no reply, but after he knocked again, a little louder this time, a sleepy voice from within said,

  “Yes, who is it?”

  Limpy’s reply was a further knock. After a few seconds the door was slowly opened and Cissy peered out.

  “Oh, it’s you. Well, I’m sorry, John, but I’ve got nothing to say to you. Please leave.”

  The door began to close but Limpy stuck his foot in the gap.

&nb
sp; “Cissy, wait a minute now. I just want a word. I brought ye these.” He thrust the bunch of flowers through the gap and into her hand. “Look, can I come in for a minute? I don’t want the whole world knowing my business. Only for a minute, please.”

  “No, John, I don’t – ”

  “For old times’ sake, Cissy. For what we once meant to each other? I’ve got something important to tell ye.”

  Cissy looked at the old, lined face under the slapped-down hair. Then she slowly opened the door.

  “Only for a minute, mind. And you’ll stay by the door. I remember old times too, John McGhee.”

  Limpy gave a low chuckle.

  “Ah, we had some good times, Cissy, eh? D’you remember when . . . ”

  “Just say your piece, John.”

  “Cissy, look. What happened in that bedroom with old Pointerly, that was none of my doing. That was a set-up job by Lizzie – Mrs Megarrity. You of all people should know I’m not like that.”

  Cissy looked away from him and her hand tightening on the bunch of flowers made the newspaper crackle.

  “People can change. It’s the best part of forty-five years.”

  “Ah Cissy, that’s near a whole lifetime. Why didn’t we do something, you and me?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do. My family would never have allowed it.”

  “Well then we should’ve said to hell with them. And it’s not too late now, Cissy. Look – “ He took a step towards her and she moved backwards. “I’ve arranged a party on Saturday night – specially for you. It’ll be a great night, darlin’. Music and dancing and a wee drink or two. Ye used to love parties, didn’t ye? Tell me ye’ll come to it.”

  “A party? For me?” She looked down at the flowers and began to pick at one with a tiny fingernail. “I – don’t know. I mean, I haven’t been to a party for – “ Cissy slowly shook her head. “For half a lifetime.”

  “Then ye’re long overdue for one.” He stepped forward quickly and caught her by the arm. She did not resist. “Say ye’ll come, Cissy.”

  “I – I really don’t know, John. You know what Margaret’s like and – ”

  “To hell with Margaret! Cissy Garrison, it’s about time ye were yer own woman.” He looked earnestly into her face. “C’mon, what d’ye say? For the first time in yer life, break free!”

  Into Cissy’s eyes crept a little twinkle of excitement which had not been there for a very long time.

  “Well – I don’t know. It would be nice, I suppose. And it has been such a long time.”

  Limpy clapped his hands together.

  “That’s my girl! Now ye’re talking.” He gave a little skip. “Boy, this is going to be one helluva night, I can tell ye!”

  “Where’s it going to be, this party? Oh, I hope Margaret doesn’t throw one of her tantrums. You’ve no idea, when she gets started.”

  “Never you mind about Margaret.” He gave a knowing smile. “And I’ll provide the transport there and back for you. Chauffeur driven.” He rubbed his hands together. “Ah, it’ll be just like old times, Cissy, so it will. Just like old times. Leave everything to me.”

  “And – I’ll need to think of something to wear. I’m sure I haven’t got a single decent thing and – with us never going to social events, or anything . . . ”

  “Never worry about that. If ye put one of them bin bags on ye’d still look beautiful. Ye’ll be the belle of the ball, Cissy.”

  Cissy lowered her eyes and gave a little smile.

  “Oh, get away with you, John McGhee. You’re as full of blarney as ever you were. Now, off you go and let me have a look through this bunch of old things I’ve got in the wardrobe.” She gave a little sigh and said half to herself, “I just know I’ll have to go to Castleglen to buy something new.”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” Limpy said, hardly able to contain his excitement. Cissy looked at him for a moment.

  “And for goodness sake, John McGhee, you haven’t changed one bit.” She turned and, lifting a brush from her dressing-table, she came over to him and began brushing his hair, saying, “Look at you. You’re like something the cat dragged in.” While he stood beaming, she put a parting in his grey hair and swept back the sides to give it a semblance of neatness. “There. That’s a bit better. Now, off you go. But before you do – “ She took the flowers from the paper and with a smile and a shake of her head she handed them to him. “It was a nice thought, but you can take these back down to the dining-room where they belong.” She opened out the newspaper and began to smooth it. “And I’m sure Mr McAllister would like to read today’s newspaper on – “ Cissy stared at the front page of the Northern Reporter. “Oh – my God!”

  “What? What is it?” Limpy came round beside her and looked down at the newspaper. Across two columns at the top of the page it said, “Amazing Sex Life of Miracle Man,” and underneath in smaller type, “by Fergus Keane”.

  “Ah – Jasus,” he said softly.

  Cissy was rapidly scanning the article beneath, with phrases such as “many lovers” and “love nest on the hill” leaping out at her.

  “Oh,” she said and threw the newspaper from her to land on the floor. “How could you – embarrass me with this?”

  “Ah now listen, Cissy, listen. Don’t believe a word of that. He made it all up. Ye see, I told him ye thought I’d gone queer, and how bad I felt when ye wouldn’t see me again. So the boy’s only trying to do me a favour – get me back in your good books, like.”

  “Good books? Good books? John McGhee, you get out of this room at once! I never want to speak to you again! Ever!”

  “Ah Cissy, don’t be like that. Ye know there was never nobody but you.”

  Cissy marched to the door and flung it open.

  “Out – you – you – gigolo! I wouldn’t go to a party with you if you were the last man on earth!”

  With fingers from both hands squeezed into the one small handle, Limpy hauled at the door of the telephone box, using all of his strength and more than a little of his weight against the strong spring. No sooner had he got the door open far enough to dart inside than it came slamming back and threw him against the far side of the box. Angrily he kicked the bottom of the door.

  “Bugger!” he said and then he began rummaging through his pockets, bringing out one coin from this pocket, two or three from that one, until he had a small pile on the shelf before him. He lifted the receiver, screwed up his eyes as he concentrated on remembering the number, before slowly and deliberately pressing the required buttons.

  “Hello? Georgina, is that you?” he shouted into the receiver. As he recognised the voice, he smiled. “This is Johnny McGhee from Inisbreen here. Listen, Georgina, I’m having a party on Saturday night, and everybody and his brother’s going to be there. It’ll be the best bloody party this side of Ballymane, so it will, and I want ye to come – and bring yer girls with ye.”

  In the kitchen of the Glens Hotel the pots fairly rattled together as Mrs Megaritty nested them before putting them away in the cupboard under the sink. Wee Henry, who had brought the fish order and was now sitting at the table drinking tea and eating a sandwich that looked as if it had been cut with a hatchet, knew the signs well. Mrs Megarrity was on the warpath.

  “What a set-up,” she was saying. “What a bloody set-up. It’s Soddomin Begorra all over again. I tell ye, that McAllister wants doctoring. Throwing out a decent wife like that so’s he can put one up that little tart.”

  Wee Henry appeared to choke on a piece of bread but he made no comment.

  “And now her at it behind his back with one of them bloody Englishmen. I knew all along she was nothing but a hotarsed little scut. And her a convent girl too.”

  “Aye, them sort’s often the worst,” Wee Henry agreed absent-mindedly, and then, after proper consideration, “or the best, depending on your point of view.”

  Mrs Megarrity turned and gave him a look that had the little man’s heart shrivelling inside of him. He
gave a series of rapid blinks.

  “For some people. I’m not – ”

  “Drunkards and fornicators every one of them! My mother, God rest her, would turn in her grave if she knew I was threw in with a crew like this – and me always wanting to be a nun when I was a child.”

  Wee Henry stared over his huge sandwich, his eyes widening as his brain struggled to imagine Mrs Megarrity in a nun’s habit.

  The Winter Cook pointed to the door into the hallway, which was slightly open.

  “But I’ve got the wee bitch taped, so I have. There’s something going on up there while he’s down in the bar, and I’m just watching and waiting.” She wagged an admonitory finger. “Watching and waiting, Wee Henry.”

  The Winter Cook continued with her work, attacking the dirty dishes with unaccustomed vigour while glancing frequently at the open door. Having fought his way through the outsized sandwich, Wee Henry proceeded to roll himself a cigarette so thin that it appeared to have scarcely any tobacco in it at all and when he lit it, the end flared momentarily like a Roman Candle. Now and then the Winter Cook would mutter something to herself and jab with the dish-mop at a particularly offensive plate. Then suddenly she stiffened and craned forward, watching something through the gap in the doorway.