“Not that I know of. Or was Jim Leary there a while back? But, anyway, none of them are great churchgoers. You’d be more likely to see them here. . . . Of course, there’s something you’ve got to remember . . . .”
“What?”
“She had money herself—had had since her mother died earlier this year. So she could have taken off with any one of her navvy types, and they’re blueing her money on a binge.”
Mrs Harcourt considered that carefully, munching flaky pastry and licking the remnants from her lips.
“Hmmm. It’s possible, but I can’t see it. You don’t know her well, do you?”
“No. Of her, of course.”
“She’s a hard, calculating bitch of a woman, pardon my language. Eye on the main chance and eager for any quick buck there may be around.” She shook her head. “Oh no, she’ll not be paying for her pleasures if there’s any other way of getting them. Careful—there’s Mrs O’Keefe!”
Annie nearly jumped out of her skin. An image flashed through her mind of the body in the bloody yellow blouse—here, at the party, like Banquo in the play. Fearful she had drawn attention to herself, she started towards the room where the children’s party was; but she heard a whispered, “How long’s she been there?” and then a call of “Annie love, how are you? It’s a long time since I saw you.”
She turned reluctantly and went towards them.
“Oh, Annie and I have seen each other not long since,” said Miss Porter. “Had tea together, didn’t we, after church? Been having a quiet eat, have you?”
“No, I’m just on my way back to the party, ” said Annie.
“People say you’re coping very well, you and your dad,” said Mrs Harcourt. “Is there anything I could do? I’d be only too happy to come round. . . .”
“Well, there is something,” said Annie, her heart still beating disturbingly. “There’s no need to come round—Dad’s coping wonderfully, and we all chip in and help—but I did wonder if you could give me a few dressmaking lessons. Quite elementary things—darning, mending and that. Mum taught me to do them, but I’m not really very good. And children’s clothes seem so expensive. If I picked up things quickly, perhaps I could learn how to make simple things for Jamie.”
“Annie love, I’d be delighted. . . . Hello, Mrs O’Keefe! Glad you’re still here. Enjoying the party?”
Annie turned, her reluctance almost palpable, to see a comfortably built elderly woman, with grey hair turning white, a friendly smile and sad eyes. She was dressed in old-fashioned fawns and browns, with sturdy brogue shoes and thick stockings.
“I’m still here, more’s the pity. Helping that great lump of a son of mine. He’s still at sixes and sevens, poor lad.” Her accent was warm and Irish, one that Annie was used to and found comforting.
“Still not got over it yet?” asked Miss Porter.
“Not entirely, though sure it’s what I expected all along. And it’s what anyone should expect if they marry a . . . a woman of that type—and I nearly used a word I shouldn’t and I wouldn’t want to use with a child around!”
“You never had any idea she’d take off like that?” asked Mrs Harcourt.
Mrs O’Keefe considered.
“Well, she was always what you might call restless. Or there are nastier words that describe it better. Even when I was in the same house, she was hard put to hide it. Always on the lookout for . . . well, let’s say, excitement, for cheap thrills. So when she just took off I was surprised, but then I was not surprised, if you take my meaning.”
“You never had any doubts she’d gone off with a man?”
Mrs O’Keefe raised her eyebrows eloquently.
“Lord above, no! Did you know Carmen? If you did you’ll not be doubting she went off with something in trousers.”
“It must have been an awful shock for your Rob.”
Mrs O’Keefe pondered.
“Well, it was a shock, to be sure, but I’ll not say it ought to have been, and I’ll not say it was awful. To my way of thinking he’s the better for her going; and the Fathers can say what they like about the sanctity of marriage, and I’d agree with them, but what’s a man to do if his wife hasn’t the first notion of honouring it? No, it was a terrible shock, but he’ll get over it. Men are great babies, aren’t they? They cry when they lose their lollies, but they’re a whole lot better off without them more often than not.”
“He’ll be back on the rig soon, won’t he?”
“Yes, he will. Maybe that’ll help. Give him time to think. If he sees it aright, he’ll realise she’s no great loss.”
“You’ll be wanting to see how the little ones are doing,” said Miss Porter, turning to Annie with a smile, but clearly wanting to have the sort of no-holds-barred gossip that her presence was preventing.
“I suppose I’d better. Matthew’s with them, though.” Annie tried not to seem reluctant.
“Annie lost her mother some months ago,” said Mrs Harcourt. She cast a meaningful glance at Mrs O’Keefe which Annie intercepted. “Ellen Heenan.”
Mrs O’Keefe immediately turned to her with a look of concern and special interest.
“Oh dear, how sad. I knew her. Sure and she was a good woman, and she’ll be a great loss to you all. How are you doing?”
“Oh, we’re all fine,” said Annie. Then, conscious she shouldn’t minimise their loss, she added, “We miss her, though.”
“You will be doing. Is your dad coping well?”
“Oh, quite well. But there’s a lot for him to learn.”
Annie felt Mrs O’Keefe’s eyes on her and shifted from foot to foot.
“But your mother will have taught you to do most things, won’t she?”
“Oh yes, there’s a lot I can do.”
“It’s better than being split up, isn’t it?”
“Nobody’s going to split us up!” said Annie fiercely.
“That’s right,” said Mrs O’Keefe, nodding agreement. “Now, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Are you not going back to Ireland yet awhile?” asked Miss Porter.
“It can’t be too soon for me,” she replied. “My Rob feels at home here, but I never will. But I want to do one or two things for him before I go. Get one of those deep freezer things and cook some meals for him so there’ll be plenty for him to eat when next he comes home. Men are helpless creatures, God knows, though maybe it’s us that make them so. I could do some cooking for you at the same time,” she added, turning back to Annie.
“Oh, there’s no need,” she said. “We’ve three cooks in the house—Dad, Matthew and me.”
“Then it’s lucky you are. I should have trained my Rob—”
“He may find a woman-friend to look after him,” put in Mrs Harcourt, consciously daring. “A fine chap like your Rob doesn’t like being alone.”
“Well, it’d be sin and contrary to what I believe in and what I taught him. Having once chosen Carmen he’d be better off not choosing a second time. The world’s changing, even in Ireland, but as far as I’m concerned it’s not changing for the better. . . . People haven’t the same conscience about what they do. . . .”
It was a thought that remained with Annie after she had slipped away and for long after. Standards were crumbling, people were doing whatever they wanted to, without thought for what was right or for what the effects on others would be. She didn’t have to look outside her own home to be convinced of the truth of Mrs O’Keefe’s remarks. They became something she tried to live her life by and something she remembered when she and Matthew came back to the house in Calverley Row fourteen years later.
CHAPTER NINE
A Visitor
ALL THE CHILDREN were pleased they had gone to the summer party. For the two smallest it was a change, a meeting with other children who were not school or play-school friends. For the two eldest it provided answers to some of their questions as well as pointing towards some potentially useful avenues of enquiry—if they should decide to start follow
ing them.
“We learnt one or two things,” said Matthew. “We know that on the Sunday evening she disappeared, and her husband and mother-in-law immediately assumed she’d run off with a man.”
“Or just pretended to believe that,” Annie pointed out. “I mean, he’s apparently very upset, or so he makes out. But would you be, if you were married to her, and she was going with all those other men?”
“I don’t know,” said Matthew, after consideration. “It’s something we don’t really know about, isn’t it? He is a Catholic, even if he hardly ever comes to church. For us marriage is for life, so he could be upset because he won’t have any other chance to have children and that.”
“Maybe,” said Annie, thoughtful, too, and conscious of their inexperience. “I wish we could meet him and find out what he’s like.”
“Not very bright, from what you say. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t feel very jealous. . . . Still, we mustn’t forget the other men in her life. They could have been jealous, too.”
“Particularly if they’d been cut out by someone else richer than them ready to whisk her off with him.”
Matthew nodded, then was struck by a thought.
“He wasn’t necessarily ready to do that. That’s what they think because she’s suddenly disappeared. We know she didn’t go anywhere.”
“Yes, we know that. And so does the murderer. . . . What about those names? Jim Leary, Andy Patterson and Kevin Holmes. I think Jim Leary is the father of Sally Leary in my year at school. And there’s her brother, Peter Leary, in fifth year. I don’t know anything about their father or what he works at.”
“Yes, I think that’s the family. And Kevin Holmes has that small garage and workshop somewhere in Stanningley. Dad took the car there once or twice, but he said he wasn’t very good. He said using fellow Catholics had its limits.”
“Has he got any children?”
“Don’t know. There’s a Holmes in fourth year, but I’m not sure that he’s his. What about Andy Patterson?”
“Never heard of him. Doesn’t ring any bells at all.”
“Could he be the rich one, do you think?”
“I don’t think so. They obviously knew him, Mrs Harcourt and Miss Porter, and they didn’t count him as rich. They thought the rich one was somebody unknown—not a member of the congregation or the Irish Club.”
Matthew thought.
“There’s no need for there to be a rich one at all. They just assume there is one, like I say, one who whisked her away. But she wasn’t whisked. There’s no need for there to have been any new boyfriend at all.”
Annie thought a bit about this.
“So what are you saying?”
“That we’d better concentrate on the ones we do know about. The three they mentioned.”
“And we’ve got to remember that even those are just possibilities. They don’t know.”
“Still, we can ask a few questions,” said Matthew.
“Yes. We could talk to the Leary children,” said Annie. “Find out if their dad’s been up to anything.”
“How do you ask someone if their dad’s been up to anything?” asked Matthew. Annie nodded agreement. It wasn’t going to be easy. “You’ve got to be very careful,” Matthew went on. “I don’t think you should ask questions at all. The more questions we ask about Mrs O’Keefe, the more people might wonder about her. Maybe it would be better just to keep quiet.”
“Except that it’s so awful, not knowing,” said Annie.
“Nobody knows. They’re just spec . . . just guessing. But it would be good if we could overhear people talking, like you did yesterday, rather than asking questions.”
Annie shook her head. “I don’t think kids do talk about their father having affairs with other women,” she said. “They just sort of bottle it up. I’d hate to talk to other people about our dad and that woman. I’d feel dirty.”
“Then we’ll have to be really clever,” said Matthew. “Dead cunning.”
But Annie didn’t find it all that easy to be dead cunning next day at school. Dead cunning wasn’t really in her nature. It was a fine day, and there was lots going on in the playground at break times. During the dinner hour she located Sally Leary sitting by the bicycle shed, but she wasn’t alone: There were two of her best friends with her. It just didn’t seem natural to Annie to go over and talk to them because she wasn’t one of that group. She knew them, but she wasn’t one of them. They kept together throughout the break, eating their sandwiches, talking, giggling. As luck would have it, though, when the bell rang for afternoon classes they separated, and Annie could come up beside Sally Leary in the corridor.
“Didn’t see you at the Irish Club party on Saturday,” she said, she hoped casually. “Were you there?”
Sally was a pretty little thing, with soft, fair hair that seemed tinged with red.
“No, none of us wanted to go,” she said, readily enough. “It was our Peter’s birthday, and some of his mates were coming round.”
“You should have come. It was really good.”
“My mum doesn’t like the Irish Club. She doesn’t like Dad going there—he gets drinking and that.”
Annie would dearly have liked to know what “and that” covered, but probably Sally had only the vaguest idea herself.
“Don’t suppose that stops your dad going,” she said.
“Oh, he still goes. But not as much as he did.”
She was certainly talking as if her father was still at home. But then they knew nobody had run off with Carmen O’Keefe—Annie had to keep telling herself that. What was interesting was what, if anything, had happened between Jim Leary and her before her disappearance—a word she now preferred to use to “death,” even to herself.
“Our dad used to go to the club a lot when Mother was pregnant,” she said. “He doesn’t have the time now.”
Sally Leary shot her a glance, but then they had to separate to go off to different classes. As she got together her books and pens, Annie pondered that glance. Did it just say that Sally Leary had heard rumours about their father during their mother’s pregnancy? Or was there something more—something like fellow feeling? Was she indicating that both their fathers had had a fancy woman in common? Annie thought it just possible she had been trying to say that. When she told Matthew about the exchange that evening she said, “I think I’ll sort of hang around. In case she wants to talk about it. You could do the same with Peter Leary.”
“Peter Leary’s three years older than me. I’ve never talked to him—not talked—in my life.”
“He and his mates hang around the corner shop after school—they keep an eye on the kids for Mr Patel, to stop them shoplifting. You could talk to him there.”
“I don’t think he’d be interested in talking to me. He’d think I was just a kid.”
But Matthew was wrong. The Leary children did want to talk to the Heenan children, and they signified their wish by the usual signs and symbols of childhood. When Matthew went into Mr Patel’s corner supermarket—it was two small shops knocked together and operating on a self-serve basis—he saw Peter Leary and one or two of his friends strolling up and down the aisles. He and Peter not only registered each other, but each was aware that the other had registered him. Matthew wandered around trying to decide what he could plausibly buy and finally decided on two tins of corned beef that they could have for tea one day with salad or chips. The tinned meat section was situated conveniently close to where Peter Leary was standing. He was a lanky boy, his school uniform worn with a sort of casual flair, a lock of brown hair falling over his left eye. From the eyes there came a definite glint of intelligence, or at least sharpness.
“Is it true you keep a watchout for shoplifters?” Matthew asked him. Like Annie, he put on a show of casualness as part of the performance.
“Yeah,” responded Peter, much more readily than a sixteen-year-old would normally respond to a thirteen-year-old, and thus giving Matthew one more sign. “Yo
u get to know who they are. I didn’t suspect you, by the way.”
“I never have yet. Does he pay you?”
“In sweets and pop and that. Cigarettes if you want, but only tens. The busy period’s over now. Are you walking down the road?”
Matthew knew then for certain that he wanted to talk. He nodded and smiled.
“Yeah. I’ll just pay for these.”
Peter waited while he paid for the tins. As they went out of the shop and began the walk in the direction of both their houses, Peter said, “It must be difficult managing, with your dad not working.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad. There’s various allowances and extras you can get, with him having to stay home and look after us. From the Social Security office, I mean.”
“Yes, I suppose he can’t take a job or . . . get out much.”
“No, not now.”
“There were . . . stories about your dad a while back.”
So it was out into the open! Matthew put in his penn’orth.
“There were about your dad, too.”
“Were the ones about your dad true?” asked Peter Leary.
“I don’t know. I mean, we don’t know for certain. You see, we never heard any gossip at the time, while Mum was still alive. We heard it only after she died. So we can’t go along and ask Dad about it, just like that. And there’s nobody else to ask. But I think it’s true.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because he was always talking about doing overtime—that’s why he was out of the house so much. But there’s a recession on. People are being laid off, like Dad himself was eventually. His boss practically told me there wasn’t any overtime for him to do. . . . Was there a lot of gossip?”
“No, there wasn’t much. Less than usual with her.”
“Is that what you call her?”
“Yes.”
“We call her that woman.”
They exchanged glances of understanding and sympathy.
“I think your dad and her were a bit more discreet. Perhaps your dad was a bit ashamed, with your mum being pregnant, and some of you very young. . . . Not like our dad.”
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