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.”
Madame lit another cigarette. Lydia could feel her heart pounding. The clairvoyant continued, her great magenta eyelids cast down as she resumed the study of her palm.
“Now, dis fella or buy that you’re gonna meet is a bit rough and ready, but he has a good heart and good hearts is rare in dis world. And he likes a wee drink and a joke and a smoke and a laugh like the rest of us, daughtur, but the two of yeh will be close, whether yeh like it or not—for ’tis he I see in the hand dat you’re showin’ me daughtur, if yeh understan’ me?”
Lydia shifted uneasily.
“Now, I see an older woman here, close to yeh, she is, and she would need ta be takin’ t’ings easy, because she worries a lot and worry isn’t good when yeh get to a sartin age.
“But apart from dat, dere’s nothing, daughtur, dat yeh should be worryin’ yourself about…because the future’s bright if yeh choose to make it so yourself. D’you understand me, daughtur? And I wouldn’t be tellin’ yeh a word of a loy, but I wish yeh all the luck and happiness and good t’ings dat’s due to yeh, because t’ings haven’t been so aisey for yeh, but t’ings are gettin’ aisier—’cause dat’s what I seen in de hand you’re after showin’ me.”
Madame Calinda took Lydia’s hand in her own and squeezed it tight.
“Good luck to yeh, daughtur.”
Lydia thanked her and got up. She had never had an experience like it and really didn’t know what she was feeling. She had entered the painted booth as a test of courage—for a laugh, really—and had come out again confused and incredulous. How could Madame Calinda have known about her father, her mother? The fortune-teller had held up a mirror that she had no desire to look into.
She retraced her steps back up the hill, saw the sun seat she had vacated and decided she could not sit down there again to read. Something had altered. The experience with the clairvoyant had created a subtle shift in her perception of things, so much so that no matter how much she tried to discount her as a fraud, the accuracy concerning her father, she knew, would return again and again to haunt her.
She hurried along the path, conscious that she probably had stayed out longer than the hour she’d promised her mother in the note. The sun had come out again but there was a distinct chill in the air. She drew her cardigan tighter as she made her way round the bend that led back to the seafront.
It was then that she saw the strange man from the guesthouse again; he was walking toward her. The yellow harem-like shoes were unmistakable. He seemed to be eating something from a bag. Candy perhaps, and as he drew nearer, she saw that his eyes were red, perhaps from the wind or…Lydia had the distinct impression that he’d been weeping. All at once she felt an enormous compassion for him. She smiled and said hello.
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, and returned her smile.
“Cold, isn’t it?” Lydia managed to say, and it was only then that she noticed the scar.
“Aye, so,” he answered, holding his hair down and shoving the bag of candy into his pocket. She was suddenly conscious that she’d caught him off guard. She smiled again and continued on her way. She knew that he stood looking after her as she went.
She was aware also, as she hurried back to the Ocean Spray, that the ancient wound to the man’s face bothered her. For the rest of the evening she found herself wondering, from time to time, about the story that surely lay behind it.
Chapter twenty-three
Eighty-Six was rarely allowed inside the big, gray stone house. He was not allowed to sleep there or to eat there, but was kept outside like the farm animals, to work in the fields and sleep in the barn.
Arnold Fairley turned out to be a fat, brutish boy, not much older than himself, but much stronger and taller. When he first met Arnold he thought maybe he could be his friend, but soon learned that, as in the orphanage, friendship on the Fairley farm was as unwelcome as an angel in Hades.
Each morning, Eighty-Six woke up to the crowing of the rooster. His settle bed was in the corner of a shed, separated from the rest by a partition of rusted zinc. The area was used for storing tools and parts of farm machinery. At night there was no light, but that from the moon or the stars. It was perhaps just as well. To have seen their evil faces time and time again, when they came for him, would have been unbearable.
He scrambled out from under the horse blanket, his nightmares still circling him like black ominous birds, their wings beating against any joy that tried to rise. For there was no joy in the boy’s life. As the years passed, he knew this to be the terrible truth; as sharp and fierce as the faces of the Fairleys, as hard and immutable as flint.
There was no need to dress because it was often so cold that he was forced to sleep in his clothes.
He knelt by the bedside. He could not escape saying his morning prayers. Mrs. Fairley had placed a picture of the Sacred Heart above the bed. The beseeching face of Jesus looked down on him, a slender finger pointing to his open, crimson heart. Eighty-Six fumbled the blue plastic rosary from his pocket, ran the beads through his cold-stiffened fingers and mumbled the Our Father and a Hail Mary aloud into the echoing depths of the barn.
When he finished, he took his tin bowl and spoon from the shelf beneath the picture and made his way across the yard, through the quickening light of dawn. It had rained in the night. Little rivers coursed over the yard and rows of delicate rain-beads trembled on the greenery. He hated the
rain, hated the thought of pulling the mucky tubers from their watery pits, hated the squelching mud and the slippery basket and the rain streeling his face and dribbling down his neck. When it rained, he could never get dry. When it rained, everything slowed and Farmer Fairley got angry.
He waited on the stone step outside the back door, peeping now and then through the amber-lit window of the kitchen. Inside he could see the Fairley family at the breakfast table. Beyond them a fire blazed in the grate. He longed to be inside in the warmth, imagined toasting his fingers at the leaping flames and seeing the vapor rising from his sodden clothes. Like everything in his young life, this was yet another unreachable dream, something held from him by the wretched world of adults, those who stood between him and the child he deserved to be.
Arnold Fairley saw him and stuck out his tongue, then resumed cutting up and gorging on his enormous fry-up, smirking to himself as he ate. Eighty-Six stood and stared, his stomach hollowed out with hunger, his feet and hands bleached blue with cold.
Then he heard the latch lift as the back door was drawn open. Constance Fairley was standing in the doorway, her hand stretched out impatiently for his vessel.
He carried the bowl of porridge back to the shed, under his jacket to shield it from the rain, and sat back on the dirty mattress to eat it. He ate quickly because he did not know when Farmer Fairley would appear and order him out to the field. Often he did not get time to finish the food, and then was accused of refusing to eat “the Lord’s good sustenance.” Mrs. Fairley rewarded him for such a wasteful attitude by not giving him breakfast the following morning. It was useless protesting his innocence because he’d get beaten for his insolence instead. One way or another, the Fairleys would find a reason to beat him.
When things were slack on the farm, or if Farmer Fairley had to go away on business, the mistress would make use of him in the house. This did not happen often, but the boy would pray for the shelter of the warm rooms and just a glimpse of the great hearth fire, even if he never got to sit by it.
The Misremembered Man Page 18