“Move?”
“Aye, a move…maybe we should make a move.”
“Aye, I suppose we should.” Jamie reached down to stroke Shep, who sat looking forlornly up at his master. “You be a good boy now.”
“Sure we can take the wee dog with us.” Paddy scratched his ear and rubbed his chin, sensing Jamie’s sadness. “It’s not often…not often he gets a…gets a…”
“Wee run out?”
“Aye, a wee run out.”
So Shep leaped into the back of the Minor and off they went, Jamie’s cottage receding and disappearing in the rear window as they struggled up the hill in first gear.
Paddy’s driving was erratic at the best of times, due in part to his poor eyesight, his inexperience—he could only drive the mile or so to and from the village, could only park safely in an area the size of a barley field—and the fact that he’d never in his life sat a driving test. His relationship with his motorcar was therefore a curiously one-sided affair. He knew how to drive it (just about) but not how to care for it. Water and oil were rarely replenished, and as for brake fluid and coolant—well, they’d maybe take care of themselves.
Every car Paddy bought came sooner rather than later to resemble a wounded warrior clinging on valiantly to life; tires bald as a baby’s bottom, fenders dented from ill-judged parking maneuvers, wing-mirrors and wipers hanging on with “that-boy’ll-maybe-hold-her-for-another-wee-while” duct tape. When Paddy drove off with his various revitalized purchases from J & B O’Lynchy’s “Good As Nu” car lot, the dealer knew with certainty that their imminent deaths were assured. There was a God’s acre of such clunkers and wrecks in the McFadden backyard. To his head-scratching bafflement, each vehicle had ground to a halt with a sudden bang, and “for no divil of a raisen” that Paddy could think of “atall atall, begod!”
The Minor in which the trio now rode was his fifth in three years. The car jerked and rocked its way over the tortuous country roads, groaning and grinding as Paddy’s erratic gear-shifting produced wailing overtones. Nearing Killoran, he decided, rather unwisely, to take a shortcut down Pothole Lane, aptly named inasmuch as it hadn’t seen a resurfacing since the Norman Invasion of 1169. On this final leg, both men discovered that conversation was impossible, and the dog went berserk. With every jolt their breath was taken away as they were thrown about, the words bouncing out of their mouths with a “Jezsis boys!” and “That’s a fierce frigger of a—” getting lost in the suffering spasms of the car.
When finally they arrived at the bus station, Shep had collapsed and lay panting on the back seat, ears lying flat, tongue lolling. Both driver and passenger were speechless—Jamie, clutching the bag of rock buns, fearing he must have broken most of them, and Paddy promising himself that he’d never take that bugger of a shortcut again.
Lydia Devine was relaxing in the plush Ocean Spray drawing room, idly scanning an old issue of Woman’s Own she’d found in her aunt’s magazine rack. It was a lovely, tranquil afternoon and she felt at peace in the elegant room with its splendid view of endless sky, sea-leveled sands, and ocean.
It was day four of her vacation, with three more to go, and as she sat back in the velvet recliner, Lydia reflected that, despite its rocky start, this impromptu break was turning out to be very enjoyable after all. In fact, since that little difference of opinion between the sisters concerning the Reverend Perseus Cuthbert and the question of her Christian name, things had, for the most part, remained relatively calm and trouble free.
Lydia knew that it was she who had brought about this level of equilibrium, through her diplomatic maneuvers, by keeping Elizabeth and Gladys apart as much as possible. So she took walks with her mother when Gladys was busy, and had long talks with her aunt whenever her mother was napping. That way, she fulfilled her function as the dutiful daughter and attentive niece—and as such was a bridge and conduit for both.
She had also insisted on their having their main meals in the dining room with the other guests. That way, her aunt got to show off her skills as proprietor and host, a role she, like the consummate actress, reveled in so much that sister and niece were reduced to the minor parts of extras at a table in the corner, and all but forgotten. This situation seemed to suit everyone admirably: Gladys got to exhibit her charm, Elizabeth got to pass cynical comments out of earshot, and Lydia got to enjoy her meal without interruption.
Lydia smiled as she nonchalantly scanned the magazine, enjoying so much being left to her own devices. If I’d had a sister, she wondered, would our relationship have been quite so fractured and restive as that of my aunt and my mother? Perhaps, she mused, we never really stop being the children we once were. Some essential part of us remains wedded to the tantrums of the playpen and the schoolyard.
Soon Aunt Gladys would be joining her for an aperitif whilst Elizabeth had a nap before dinner. She noticed that her mother was eating rather less and sleeping rather more than she did at home; Lydia did not know whether this was a ploy to escape her sister or whether the ocean air was to blame. Either way, the rest was doing Elizabeth good, which was really all that mattered.
The door opened, cutting short her musings. In walked Gladys, looking majestic in a tight-fitting, coffee-colored satin two-piece.
“Now, little Lily, time for our drinky-poos before things get busy.”
Before her niece had time to respond, she strode to an elaborate cocktail cabinet and decanted generous measures of Cockburn’s ruby port into two lead-crystal flutes. Lydia accepted one hesitantly.
“Gladys, you know I don’t really drink.”
“Nonsense.” The aunt sat down carefully on the Grecian sofa. “It’s time you started living a little, dear.” She raised her own glass. “Cheers. Here’s to my little niece finding herself a nice man and settling down.”
“Not much chance of that now, is there, Gladys?” Lydia sipped the port and winced.
“Poppycock! You simply don’t send out the right signals. Men like to know that a woman is available.”
“Yes, but I’m not like you, Gladys.” Lydia looked at her aunt’s generous décolleté with its rich brocade trim, her silk-stockinged knees on show below the scalloped hem—and thought she looked like a woman on her way to bed, or indeed the whorehouse. “It’s not in my nature to be extrovert.”
Lydia set the glass on the coffee table, wondering how she could get rid of it without offending her hostess. These conversations with Gladys always made her feel uncomfortable because they invariably involved men, of whom Lydia knew so blessed little.
“Shall I be frank, dear? You need to become like a taxi.”
“A what?”
“A taxi, dear. How do you know when a taxi’s free?”
“Erm…the light is on?”
“Exactly! You need to show men that your light is on. That you’re available.”
“And how do I do that?” Lydia tried to sound interested. She knew that she must humor her aunt.
“Well, I’ll let you in to a little secret….” Gladys paused and took a cigarette from an ebony box on the coffee table. She reached for a gem-encrusted cherub and pressed its cheeks. To Lydia’s astonishment, a flame shot from the top of its silver-curled head and lit the cigarette. She waited, as her aunt puffed the cigarette into life, wondering what could be of such importance that it merited this nicotine fix preamble.
“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.
Chapter twenty
“Yes, 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 Vincen
t 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.”
The Misremembered Man Page 16