The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  “I’ll get you some water,” said Bessie, getting up, “You’ll be all right in a minute. It’s the heat and this crowd. I feel faint meself.”

  Rose caught Bessie’s arm.

  “Oh, God, don’t go, Mrs. Hailstone,” she pleaded, finally recovering speech.

  Bessie sat down again.

  Rose held on to her arm, gazing unhappily about her: at the Lynx helicopter circling ominously, at the disgruntled crowd eager to be home, at the irate motorists being diverted, the army bomb disposal teams and siren-wailing cop cars.

  “I…I caused…I caused all this,” she croaked.

  “What? Don’t be silly, Mrs. McFadden. The bloody IRA caused all—”

  “Me…me…me sticky-toffee…”

  “Yes, what about it? You were gonna show me it.”

  “Me sticky-toffee…tipsy…” Rose was hyperventilating now. “Irish…Irish whiskey—”

  “Yes, I know. Could be using another glass meself.”

  Rose shook her head emphatically. “No, me Irish whiskey…layer…layer cake with…with…crushed nuts…and touch-o’-mint. Me cake for Greta-Concepta. I…I left it in the ladies’.”

  Bessie had to think about that for some moments. At last, comprehension dawned.

  “You mean the suspect package is…?”

  Rose nodded, in tears now.

  “Oh dear!” Bessie glanced back at Herkie. He and the soldier were chatting animatedly.

  “I can’t…I can’t. God, how am I gonna…” Rose found a handkerchief and mopped her tears.

  Bessie knew she had to act. If she didn’t, God knows how long they could be stuck in Killoran. The sooner the army knew they were dealing with a hoax, the sooner everyone could go home.

  “Look,” she said. “I’ll go and tell that soldier, the one that’s talkin’ till Herkie there. I’ll say…I’ll say ye weren’t feelin’ too well and forgot ye’d left the cake in the ladies’.”

  Rose caught Bessie’s arm. “God, would ye do that for me, Mrs. Hailstone? Will I be arrested?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think so. Now, the sooner he knows, the better.”

  Bessie got up, prepared to turn on the old girlie charm for the soldier. Well, it had worked before, when she was making her escape from Belfast. Meanwhile, Rose found a rosary in her cardigan pocket and launched into a decade of the Sorrowful Mysteries.

  She was going to need all the help she could get.

  Chapter thirty-nine

  Lorcan sat at the dining table trying to work up an appetite for his late dinner. It had been a singularly unsettling day. Bessie’s confession, along with the Dentist’s violation of his home, was robbing him of the quality he valued most in himself: his equanimity. He tried to focus on the Steak Diane in order to clear his mind. His mother was a much better cook than Mavis Hipple, and he appreciated the effort that must have gone into his meal. One thing at a time, he thought. For now, just eat and concentrate on the moment.

  He could hear Etta moving about in the kitchen and knew that soon he’d be probed about his new “friend,” Blennerhassett. She’d been quite taken by the brute. If she only knew the reality! He could still sniff him in the pretty room: the pong of cigar smoke, even though he’d opened all the windows.

  “How is it, dear?” Etta said, coming in with a pot of tea.

  “Splendid, Mother. Really splendid.”

  “It was your father’s favorite, you know.” She pulled out a chair at the table and sat down stiffly.

  “Oh, sit in the armchair. Please. Put your feet up. I don’t mind eating alone.”

  “That’s all right, son. I saw Dr. Brewster yesterday. He was pleased with my progress…said my legs were well on the mend and that I should walk about more. Better for the circulation. Now that nice Mr.—”

  “That’s good news. How is the good doc?”

  “Just the same. He was asking about you. Wondered had you met any nice ladies in Belfast.”

  “Did he now? The patter never changes, does it? Is he still touching up Gladys Millman at the Ocean Spray, I wonder.”

  “Now, son, that was just a rumor.”

  He saw Etta gazing dreamily out the window. Knew what was coming next.

  “Son, that nice Mr. Blennerhassett—”

  “Yes, what about him? Is there any more by the way?”

  “Yes. I’ll get it.”

  “No, no, sit.”

  Lorcan went into the kitchen, hoping his diversion tactic would derail her. He spooned some of the remaining sauce onto his plate.

  “He said I had beautiful hair. Wasn’t that nice of him? Your friend, I mean.”

  What a bloody liberty! Well, since he’s got none of his own, the bald so-and-so! He gripped the spoon handle, wondering how to respond. He couldn’t show his mother how incensed he was. Control, that’s what was needed. Calm. Blennerhassett was not going to take away his composure.

  “Did you hear me, dear?”

  He relaxed his grip on the spoon. Set it down gently and took a deep breath.

  “Well, he was only stating the obvious,” he said, coming back to the table and faking a smile. “You do have beautiful hair.”

  Etta beamed, patting her coiffure. “You know, your father never paid me many compliments. City men are different. I suppose it comes from mixing with all kinds of people.”

  You can say that again. He had a mental image of the Dentist’s two henchmen, jaws clenched, muscles ballooning.

  He pushed the plate away, the unwelcome image making him nauseous.

  “Your father was never a good mixer, God rest him. Very set in his ways. Your friend Mr. Blennerhassett said he was in the security business.”

  Oh, the barefaced cheek of him!

  “Mother, he is not my friend. I barely know him. He is a business associate, a client, and he had no right to impose himself on you and pretend he was otherwise.” At that moment his eye fell on an airmail letter propped up on the mantelshelf. The perfect distraction. “I expect that’s from Aunt Bronagh. Would you like me to read it?”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot to say. Time enough, son, when you’re finished.”

  “You know, I think I’ve had enough. Doesn’t do to overindulge.” He fetched the letter and sat down in an armchair. Etta took her cue and did the same.

  He opened it and an international money order fluttered out.

  “Not another one! She’s doesn’t give up easily, does she?”

  “Well, you should go and visit her, son. You’re her favorite.”

  “All in good time.” He crossed to the sideboard, pulled out a drawer, and added the money order to the others Bronagh had sent him.

  He began reading, imitating his aunt’s Yankee drawl.

  Dear Etta, honey,

  I hope life’s treatin you mighty fine these days. I’m a writin this on my patio with a Naked Waiter cause the sun’s so darn hot I reckon I’ve earned it. I’m all tuckered out from the—

  “What on earth is she talking about? She’s just trying to shock me.”

  “It’s the name of a cocktail, Mother.”

  “But how do you know, son?”

  “Well, for a start it’s written with a capital N and a capital W. She says it’s hot and believes she’s earned it, not him. The last time she visited, she had me make her one. Pernod and pineapple juice, if I recall. Shall I continue?”

  “Then why not say, ‘I’m having a cocktail on the patio’?”

  “She’s only teasing. You know what she’s like.” He resumed reading.

  How’s ma favorite nephew and when’s he a-comin ovah to see me? I enclose a little something to help toward his trip.

  Lorcan sighed. “You know, Mother, I’m not ungrateful. But she forgets I’m in full-time employment and no longer the bohemian, carefree artist she imagines me to be.”

  I’m all tuckered out from my fitness class. I’ve stopped givin em and started takin em again. The new instructor guy has a great bod and can sure kick ass. He may be thirty-five bu
t he ain’t as flexible as me—

  “Still as coarse as ever,” Etta sniffed. “What happened to dignity in old age? She is seventy-six, after all. No spring chicken.”

  Have had the most Gad-awful month. My poor Bubba came down with a virus. Had to take him to the Woof Woof sanctuary out on Twenty Seven till he got himself better. I’m sure glad he did get himself better, otherwise I might a been fixin to get him a plot at the pet sematary. It’s all down to Pastor Cooperman. He came and said a prior over him.

  “Said a what over him?”

  “I think she means ‘prayer.’ She writes the way she speaks sometimes.”

  Then if that gaddamned Cuban broad of a cook Rosalia I hired last month didn’t go get herself banged up on solicitation charges. Didn’t know a cotton pickin thing about it till the darn law enforcement shows up with an arrest warrant. Transpires she was dealin drugs and turnin tricks at Betty Mae’s Cat House out on Forty Nine ’tween doin shifts for me and old man Chamberlain at Number Eight. I tell ya this, Etta, if I could get me a decent live in maid I’d be happy.

  “My goodness,” Etta said in bewilderment, teacup halfway to her lips, “what is she talking about? Why was the cook playing tricks?”

  Mercifully, the phone rang at that moment.

  “I’ll get it.” Lorcan went out into the hall.

  A couple of minutes later he was back in the room.

  “Sorry, have to go out for half an hour.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Er…umm…It was Father Cassidy’s housekeeper, Mrs. Halstone.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you knew her.”

  “I don’t…not really.”

  “Is she in trouble, son?”

  “Trouble? No, nothing like that.”

  But Lorcan had a feeling, judging from the tone of Bessie’s voice, that a great deal of trouble was just about to come his way.

  Chapter forty

  Thanks for coming over,” Bessie said, showing Lorcan in, “but I couldn’t tell you on the phone.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s sometimes a relief to get away from my mother for a bit. May I?” He took off his hat and motioned to an armchair.

  Bessie felt awkward, not used to this level of politeness in a man. “Oh, sorry…yes, please sit.”

  He handed her a brown paper bag. “For you. I bet you could use some, given what you’ve been through.”

  Bessie opened the bag and, to her surprise, drew out a bottle of fine Hennessy brandy. She rarely received gifts and was so overcome she didn’t know what to say. She turned her back on him and mumbled her thanks.

  Then: “Maybe…maybe you’d like some?”

  “Yes, but only if you’ll join me.”

  Bessie needed little persuading. She found two tumblers and poured a generous measure into each.

  “Where’s Herkie?” He accepted the rather full glass wondering how he was going to manage it.

  “I sent him to bed. He was misbehaving.”

  Herkie had been reprimanded for fibbing about Ned Grant’s hospitalization.

  “I’m not surprised. He must be bored silly here.”

  Bessie sat down on the sofa. She had tried to make herself presentable. Had put on makeup. Changed into her brightest dress: the red one. But the stress of recent events showed all too readily in her face. Insomnia and worry had done their wicked work, dimming the light within.

  Lorcan raised his glass, trying to keep the atmosphere light. “Well, here’s to better times.”

  “Yes, better times,” she said halfheartedly.

  He took a discreet sip. “Did you find your passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s great news!”

  “Yes, but you see, I couldn’t take it. I—”

  “You couldn’t?”

  “No, I couldn’t—because I found it in Father Cassidy’s bedside locker.”

  “Oh…I see.”

  “I panicked, for if I’d took it he…he’d know I’d been in there. He keeps his bedroom locked, ye see. I—I only went in because…well, because Herkie found a…found a…” He saw her predicament. Wondered what was coming next. “I mean something lying outside the bedroom door, and…and when I tried the door handle, it opened.” She took a large gulp of brandy to help with the next embarrassing revelation.

  “R-right.” Lorcan was mystified.

  She opened her handbag and rummaged in it. He saw her draw something out, then promptly thrust the item back in again. “I just can’t believe he’s like that!”

  “Like what?”

  “And him a priest…it’s just unbelievable!”

  There was a disquieting pause. Bessie coughed politely, trying to fill it. But not Lorcan. He was a man rarely daunted by silences, who could fully inhabit the lull in a conversation with a therapist’s ease. While others babbled he sat and listened, absorbing everything. So he waited now for Bessie to entrust him with this nugget of information about Father Cassidy. She would tell him eventually, and he was in no hurry.

  Finally, she made up her mind and decided to get it over with. She dipped into the handbag again and dropped the packet of condoms onto the coffee table.

  “They were in his bedroom. What do you make of that?”

  Lorcan studied the Durex. There was another long pause.

  “It’s disgusting!” She gulped more brandy, aware that Lorcan had barely touched his, but she didn’t care. The cognac was giving her some much-needed courage.

  “What d’you think it means?” he said finally.

  “Well, I think it’s bloody obvious, don’t you?” This Lorcan must lead a very sheltered existence. “He’s having an affair with somebody…and not just anybody, either. I mean I wouldn’t mind if it was a woman, but it’s a…it’s a…”

  “A man?”

  Why does he not look shocked? Oh, God, maybe he’s that way inclined, too. Christ, what have I got myself into?

  “Some ruffian called Chuck something. I only met him today. Didn’t even know he was in the house until—”

  “Chuck Sproule.”

  “That’s him. Do you know him?”

  “Local bad boy. His bark’s bigger than his bite, as they say.” He swirled the brandy in his glass. “Why does Father Cassidy lock his room?”

  “The safe is in there. Also, he holds the Temperance Club meetings there.”

  “Ah, the famous Temperance Club! In his bedroom, though?”

  “Well, not exactly. His bed is in a smaller room off it. The main area is a kind of sitting-room-office kind of thing.

  “I need to have a look in there.”

  “Why?”

  Lorcan got up and stood by the window facing onto the backyard. “God, this takes me back. That old well…I used to play there as a child. Dora Grant used to warn me if I fell down there I’d end up in China.”

  “Funny, Gusty Grant said the same thing to Herkie.”

  “Bit dangerous having it exposed like that. D’you want me to replace the cover?”

  Bessie got up, feeling quite light-headed, and looked out.

  “Damn, Herkie’s always doin’ that. No matter how many times I tell him to leave it alone.”

  “Shall I?” Lorcan gestured toward the back door.

  “No, no, don’t bother yourself with it. I’ll do it when I’m bringing in the washing.” She went back to the sofa.

  “Can I ask you a personal question, Lorcan?”

  He resumed his seat. “Of course.”

  “Well, I wondered if you’d…if you’d ever been—”

  “Ever been married? No.”

  She waited for more, but Lorcan simply sat there, being his calm, unreadable self. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be nosy,” Bessie said, plugging the awkward pause again.

  “Would you recommend it?”

  “What?”

  “Marriage.”

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently. “Marriage was a prison sentence for me.” She drained the brandy glass. Felt the tingle of threatenin
g tears. Excused herself and went into the kitchen. At the sink she poured herself a glass of water. Held it to her flaming cheek.

  “All right?” Lorcan asked from the kitchen doorway.

  “No, I’m far from all right! I’ve no money and my job’s as good as gone. My uncle in England said he’d give me a job, but I wrote to him ages ago and he didn’t have the manners to answer my letter. The police are accusing me of I-don’t-know-what. If the Dentist finds me he’ll kill me. I’ve nowhere left to go. Oh, God, what’s the use?” She broke down and wept into the sink.

  Lorcan went to her, took her gently by the arm. “Look, Bessie,” he said. “I’m going to help you out of this. I—”

  “God, I had such plans for Herkie and me.” She allowed herself to be led back to the sofa. “I thought we could go away—somewhere, anywhere. God, I even dreamed of us going to Amerikay. Can you believe that?”

  “And you can still do that, Bessie. Dreams come true, if you hold on to them.”

  “Well, a fat lot of good that’s done me so far! I’ve been holdin’ on to useless dreams since I was ten!”

  Into the silence came a bee, zizzing at the window.

  “Don’t give up. You’ve shown nothing but courage so far. You left Belfast, your home, and you made a new start here. You will go far. I know you will. Trust me.”

  No one had ever talked to her like that before. Offered words of praise. Acknowledged her efforts. Lorcan Strong could have been the last spectator in the theater, the one who stood applauding her when all the rest had given up and gone.

  She leaked a tear. Dropped her gaze.

  “Now, it was good that you didn’t take the passport. It means Cassidy won’t have suspected anything—yet. As I say, I need to have a look in that room.”

  “But now he knows that I’m not who I say I am! Sproule called me Mrs. Lawless…if he knows, then Cassidy knows. Who’s to say he hasn’t reported me to the police already? Then they really will think I stole the bingo money.”

  “He won’t report you, believe me. I have a feeling that the RUC are the last people he wants to get involved with. Now, it’s very important that I have a look in that room. There’s something not right about this.” He threw a glance at the packet of Durex. “And those…they’re not what you think they’re for. But, first, I need to make sure that my suspicions are correct and you need to get your passport. Can you get me in there tomorrow morning?”