The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  “Aye, a-do.” The mechanic glared at Herkie as he sidled back to stand sheepishly beside his mother. “That wee pig does nobody no harm.”

  “Say sorry to Mister…eh…”

  “Grant.”

  “Say sorry to Mr. Grant, son.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Grant,” said a suitably chastened Herkie.

  “Now, what do I owe you for the oil?”

  “Oh, the oil’s on me.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Grant.”

  “I’m Augustus.” He held out a grubby hand. “But I get Gusty for short. And who would you be?”

  “Halstone,” she said at once, giving his hand the briefest of shakes, a smile flashing like a blade. “Mrs. Halstone.” Had he looked even a teeny bit well-off, she’d have used her first name.

  “Ma, that’s not our—”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Grant,” she said, a bit too loudly. Then, through gritted teeth: “Herkie, come on now. Let’s go.”

  Herkie once again climbed aboard the record player. Bessie settled herself into the driver’s seat.

  She threw the car into reverse and drove out onto the main road.

  The mechanic stood in the middle of his junkyard, tracking her every move. She rounded a bend. He slid from view. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

  Please, God, let the bloody fan belt hold!

  Chapter four

  The road Bessie found herself on a few minutes out of Grant’s garage was, like her past, a bumpy one. She raised dust and scattered crows as she roared along, trying not to think about the events that had brought her to this sorry remove.

  For life had never been easy for the careworn blonde with eyes as sad as twilight. What with an alcoholic father and his foul-wafting rages, a harassed mother stretched out on Christ’s suffering cross, and the grudging, green-eyed sister Joan, any happiness that might have been circling got turned away early from the gate.

  If childhood had been difficult, then girlhood proved even more unpalatable. Cupid’s arrow might have struck her heart, but the wound it left went deep. Packie Lawless—handsome once, attentive once, but all too soon mutating into a tattooed monster—had used the housekeeping money to fuel his binges and his fists to end disputes. He’d lit the wick of love, then snuffed the candle out, bringing mayhem into the home and the scourge of bloody IRA wrath into their lives.

  At the mere thought of the terrorists, she raised a hand to her forehead and squeezed hard. They’d given her a headache that could last a lifetime—literally.

  She pressed down on the accelerator, as if increased speed might zap the memory of it all.

  And the reward for all that suffering? Well, was it this? Widowed, homeless, and penniless, barreling down a road to nowhere. Oh, the injustice! The sheer bloody injustice!

  She braked suddenly for an unforeseen bend and unseated Herkie, who thumped down into the dashboard with some force.

  “Och, Ma!”

  He struggled back onto the record player, a ruby bruise forming on his forehead.

  “Sorry, son.”

  At that, the loaded Morris Traveller began to slow. Bessie engaged the accelerator hard, but the vehicle wouldn’t respond. Her temper rose with the red needle of the temperature gauge.

  “Ma, look: There’s smoke comin’ outta the front!”

  “Jesus Christ, I don’t bloody believe it!”

  But her expletive was lost in an ominous grumbling. The car began to buck. There came an ill-omened spluttering. The engine died.

  She turned the ignition several times. Nothing. The engine was as dead as Packie and the Bogman of Aran.

  “Will I run back and get Mr. Grant, Ma?”

  “No, it’s too far for you to go. Get me a cigarette there.” She was trying to remain calm. “I’ll take a wee look.”

  She got out, raised the bonnet—and was nearly blinded by blue-black smoke. Since the innards of a car were as alien to her as the abdominal viscera of a chimpanzee, she slammed the bonnet back down again in disgust.

  Herkie came round the side of the car, puffing the cigarette into life. He handed it up to her. My God, what were they going to do now? She hadn’t factored in a breakdown. A nervous breakdown, maybe, but not the bloody car.

  She leaned back against the driver’s door, her headache now in full throttle, dragged deeply on the cigarette, pulled the bottle of whiskey from her bag, and took a swig. By the hedgerow, Herkie amused himself by bursting the sepals of a foxglove. She stuffed the bottle into her bag just as he turned back to her.

  “Ma, what’s that called?”

  “A flower, son.”

  “Aye, but what kinda flower?”

  “A fox’s glove, I think.”

  “Och, Ma, foxes don’t wear gloves.”

  “Look, son, don’t be silly. Yer ma needs till think.”

  Herkie, hot and bothered, left off his inspection of the foxglove and moved on to a gatepost.

  The rush of the alcohol was having a steadying effect. A warm breeze fanned her face, curling the leaves on trees she’d never learn the names of. She shaded her eyes and gazed about. They were well and truly stranded. The pollution and clamor of the big city were a distant memory now, but the silence and the isolation of the countryside—which should have been welcome—were showing her another kind of woe.

  “God, how can anybody live out here?”

  Summer had come early for the farmers. All about lay pastures of rapeseed and barley, scorching under the sun. The sweet odors rising up through the steady heat threatened to nauseate her. An alien funk. Field upon field stretched away to the mountains, with not a house in sight.

  “What are we gonna do, Ma?” Herkie was beside her, chewing on a piece of straw and gazing up at her.

  “Don’t know, son. Wait for someone to come, I suppose. And take that hay out of yer gob. One of them sheep back there prob’bly pissed on it.”

  “Yuk!” He spat it out. “But what if nobody comes, Ma, and it gets dark?”

  “God, you’re a real ray of sunshine, son.” She threw down the spent cigarette and squashed it underfoot. “How should I know? We’ll sleep in the bloody car then, and wait till somebody comes. We’re not in the middle of Siberier, although we might as well be.”

  “Ma, why did you tell that man a diff’rent name?”

  “Son, I’ve decided that’s what we’re called from now on. Till we get tae yer auntie’s. You’re not Herkie Lawless any more; you’re Herkie Halstone.”

  “But why, Ma?”

  “’Cos it’s not safe using our own name with the bloody Dentist on our tail. Halstone’s your granny’s name, don’t ye know, and my name before I married yer useless da. So, what’s your name, son?”

  “Herkie Law—Hilton.”

  “For pity’s sake, Herkie Halstone!” She kicked a stone on the road. “See that? What is it?”

  “A stone, Ma.”

  “Yes. And your name is Halstone. Got it? Now, tell me again.”

  “H-Hal-stone. Herkie Halstone.”

  “Good boy!”

  Herkie went over to a broken-down gate and began climbing it.

  “You watch yourself, Herkie Halstone! I’m gonna sunbathe here. Might as well get meself a tan.”

  She took a cushion from the car and positioned it on the warm bonnet. Removed her blouse to reveal a flesh-colored slip with a lacy scalloped neckline. Hung the blouse on the open car door.

  She settled herself on the bonnet and closed her eyes, offering her face up to the sun. She hoped the mishap with the car was just a blip on the radar of her plan. There was no way she was going back to Belfast. She’d suffered enough because of Packie, having been spouse, skivvy, and regular punching bag for far too long. And now, because of his shenanigans, she had the Dentist to contend with—a psycho who was threatening to drill holes in her shins if she didn’t return the money Packie had made off with.

  There was only one problem: Bessie hadn’t got it. But would the Dentist believe that? Fat fri
gging chance of that…

  She knew, of course, what Packie and his two “associates” had done. They’d concocted a plan to embezzle the money from the bank job the three had just pulled for the Dentist. She’d overheard them discussing it.

  “Sure, of course the Dentist’ll know,” she’d heard Packie say. The three had drunk the best part of two bottles of whiskey, and consequently their voices were raised more than was good for them. “But we’ll have tae get our story straight, so we will. The Dentist’s a smart bastard. Any slipup an’ he’ll be on till us. Ye know what that means, don’t ye?”

  “The Nuttin’ Squad,” Donal Carmody had said, equally loudly.

  “Aye, the Nuttin’ Squad. And ye know what that bastard’s like with a Black & Decker.”

  “I do,” said Aidan Mahon, plumber by day and getaway driver by night. “Don’t I have a pair of metal knees to prove it? So what’s the plan then, Packie?”

  “The plan is that we were stopped by the UDR. And they found the money. But they let us go.”

  “What?”

  “Ye can’t be serious, Packie,” came the dismayed voice of Donal. “If we were stopped by the UDR we’d be in the clink now.”

  “We wouldn’t,” Packie said, “because the Ulster Defence Regiment is full of hoods, as you well know. What we’ll say is that they pocketed the cash themselves. That way, it won’t appear on a charge sheet, and no one but us will ever know it was recovered. So what d’ye say—split three ways or what?”

  “Begod, it’s a great plan altogether,” Aidan said. “Let’s split it now, Packie. No time like the present.”

  “No!” Packie had sounded vexed and a little concerned. “We don’t split it yet. In fact, we don’t so much as touch that money until all this has blowed over. I don’t want your Maisie and Lil goin’ mad and buyin’ out half o’ bloody Woolworths. It would draw attention to us. Nah, we have tae be one step ahead of that baldy fuck and them bastards in Special Branch.”

  “Aye, right enough,” said Aidan. “So what do we do?”

  “I’ll hold on to it,” Packie told him. “It’s safe here. I couldn’t do a runner with it even if I wanted to, ’cos I’d have you two as well as the Dentist on me tail. No, I’ve stashed it here in a safe place. Not even the missus would find it. We’ll meet back here this day week, same time, and divvy it up.”

  “Bloody brilliant!” Donal said. “Ye’re on, Packie.”

  “Right, now I’ll run you home, Aidan. Then I’ll go and break the bad news tae the oul’ baldy. See you next week, Donal.”

  “Ye’re on, Packie.”

  It hadn’t worked out that way, Bessie thought bitterly now. Packie never got to tell his concocted tale to the Dentist. That had been left to the hapless Donal. That night, Packie and Aidan lost their lives in a head-on collision. Taken out by a Belgian nun, of all people, in a pair of built-up shoes, driving on the wrong side of the Belfast-to-Comber road.

  Packie had never confided to her the hiding place of the £10,000.

  Then the mayhem. Oh, the mayhem, gushing through the days and nights, swamping everything. She grimaced, her whole body tensing at the memory of it: the doorbell sounding in the early hours, a stern-faced cop, “Ye’d best sit down, Mrs. Lawless.” Packie’s mutilated face on a mortuary slab. The Dentist barging into the funeral home. “I’m givin’ you a couple-a days tae bury yer useless husband, ’cos I’m considerate like that. Then I’ll be back for my money.”

  She’d torn the house apart, combed the attic and every conceivable place of concealment.

  Not a thing.

  It was typical of Packie Lawless. In life he’d given her nothing but bother. And he was still tormenting her from beyond the grave.

  “Ma!” Herkie was calling out from the top of the gatepost where he’d perched himself. “I think I see something comin’!”

  Her eyes snapped open. She snatched up the blouse.

  “Where, son?”

  “Over there! It’s comin’ through a field. Maybe it’s a tractor.”

  Quickly doing up her buttons, she went to the gate and hauled herself up next to the boy. He was right. She could just make out a vehicle turning onto the main road. It was headed in their direction.

  “Thank God for that. Get down from there, son. Quick!”

  Through the heat haze they watched as a smudge became a blob; grew into a shivering, jellylike mass; sprouted wing mirrors, a set of headlights, and a very grimy windshield. The windshield revealed what looked like a Martian wearing a cap and goggles; the vision finally mutated into an unshaven mug wearing thick glasses. Their most recent acquaintance, Mr. Grant, drew to a clattering halt alongside them in a battered green truck. He wound down the window.

  “I kinda knowed ye were gonna have a bitta bother, Mrs. Hailstone. But I didn’t think it’d be as soon. That’s yer fan belt, I’d say.”

  “Halstone,” Bessie corrected him. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She resented being dependent on this stranger. In her experience, a man never did a favor for a woman without expecting a return on his investment—usually of an unseemly nature—with added interest. She draped her arms about Herkie’s shoulders and held him in front of her like a shield.

  “As I say, I could fix it for ye when I get that part in Willie-Tom’s.”

  “That would be great, Mr. Grant. I’m much obliged. Is there a B-and-B near here?”

  “Naw, there’s nuthin’ about here—on account that nobody comes here.”

  You don’t say. “Not even in Tailorstown?”

  “Naw, nuthin’ there, neither.” He adjusted his glasses. Inspected a cloud formation. “But y’know, I maybe could help ye out.”

  “Oh, no, you’ve been too kind already, Mr. Grant.” A picture of a shack with sagging sills and a warped door loomed up before her. Spending the night on a rubbish tip would be preferable. “I wouldn’t dream of impo—”

  “Now, it isn’t the garage place. It’s another house on the far side o’ the town. It belonged to me Aunt Dora, but she died a couple-a months ago and it’s been empty since.” Bessie’s ears pricked up. “Ye could stay there the night, if ye want, ’cos I wouldn’t see a body stuck, so I wouldn’t. An’ sartainly not a woman like yerself, Mrs. Hailstone.”

  Now that was a different matter altogether. She hadn’t reckoned on the scruffy mechanic having a second property. Besides, she was in no position to decline; she was effectively homeless. And he was offering to fix the car the next morning.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Grant,” she said, gifting him with a wide smile. She looked down at Herkie. “Isn’t it, son?”

  “D’you make Lurgan stew, Mr. Grant?”

  “What’s that ye’re sayin’?”

  Bessie pinched Herkie’s arm. “Say thank you to Mr. Grant, son.”

  Herkie squirmed. “Thank you, Mr. Grant.”

  “Right ye be. Well, if ye want tae lock her up there, I’ll run yis over tae the house. She’ll be safe enuff tae I come back with me tow-rope.”

  “Okay…I’ll…I’ll just get a couple of things from the boot.” She turned away from him to cover her unease. “Come on, son. Help me out here.”

  A scene from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre flashed into Bessie’s mind. Well, she’d have to take her chances. Augustus Grant, homicidal maniac or improbable gift horse?

  She’d soon be finding out.

  Chapter five

  Father Connor Cassidy paced the aisle of St. Timothy’s parish church, one hand clenched behind his back, the other extended in front of him and gripping his breviary. At forty-five he was one of those fortunate men for whom the passage of time seemed to be having a beneficent effect. The lush, dark hair turning silver at the temples, as opposed to gray; the proud symmetry of a lean physique; the fine hands and gracious manner—all conspired to lend an elegance that he himself seemed unaware of. When ladies met him they wondered why he’d become a priest, and when men met him they felt grateful that he had.

  He mumbled the p
rayers he knew so well, trying to instill some sincerity into the all-too-familiar words. But that afternoon his mind was on other things. Just six months into his tenure in Tailorstown, he was still smarting from the fact that he’d been plucked from his Derry City post to fill in for Father Billy Brady. Father Billy had tripped on the hem of his alb one Sunday morning while saying Mass and struck his head on the altar. Father Cassidy suspected that drink, not clumsiness, was the likely cause. On the few occasions he’d met Father Billy, the older man had smelled like a distillery in high summer, so who was to say when he’d be coming back? Between drying out and getting his head in order, he might well be leaving his stand-in, Father Cassidy, stuck in the backwoods parish of Tailorstown for the best part of a year. And that was being optimistic.

  At the same time, Cassidy was discovering that there might well be an upside to being stationed in such an isolated little place. A priest running a one-man show in a small town was left pretty much to himself, to conduct himself very much as he pleased—behind closed doors, at least. He’d also had the good fortune to be blessed with a particularly unobservant housekeeper.

  But his luck had not held. Miss Betty Beard, the dithering housekeeper, had announced she’d be taking a leave of absence. Her mother had been laid low by a Baker’s cyst on her left leg, thus forcing Father Cassidy to look for a replacement. He’d already put an advertisement in the post office window, but so far the only respondent had been Rose McFadden, a woman who seemed to shadow his every move like some kind of Stasi spy. As a last resort he’d typed up a card advertising the vacancy, which the town’s stores and eateries had put on display. And, just to be on the safe side, he’d commenced a “never known to fail” novena to St. Martha of Bethany, patron saint of cooks, cleaners, and domestic servants.

  The priest came to a halt by the confessional at the back of the church and sighed deeply while gazing raptly at the solid oak box with its red velvet curtain and half door. He’d been a priest for fourteen years. The first ten had been spent serving parishes in Belfast and Derry—cutting his teeth on the raw, working-class housing estates of both cities.