Four Respectable Ladies Seek Part-time Husband

by Barbara Toner

  Norah Quirk, following him not nearly as covertly as she imagined, hesitated when she reached the verandah. Mrs Mayberry had made the rules quite clear in her lecture to staff and sundry volunteers on How You Are To Comport Yourselves and What Your Duties Will Be Once Our Guests Arrive. Martin Duffy was in charge and he alone would have access to the main body of the house. Everyone else was kitchen only. So Norah hesitated, not sure whether she dreaded the wrath of Mrs Mayberry more than the disappointment of Mr Stokes. She said to Maggie O’Connell, who passed her on her way to reload her tray, ‘What on earth have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Cut it,’ said Maggie.

  ‘It looks …’ Norah Quirk strove to be offensive without sounding it.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Martin Duffy, emerging through French doors from the Mayor’s office where he had really no business to be even if he did have licence. ‘Modern. Suits her.’

  ‘Listen to you,’ Norah Quirk said huffily. ‘You’re not supposed to be in there.’

  ‘Mrs Mayberry’s about to make her speech. I’m about to introduce her. You need to do a tray run before I get the band to strike up her march.’

  ‘What room’s that?’ Norah asked Maggie as he hurried away.

  ‘It’s where Mrs Mayberry keeps her notes,’ Maggie snapped. Then she disappeared into the crowd where all sorts of conversations and chance remarks were giving rise to amusement, amazement, boredom, indignation and hurt as they will do at any spirited gathering, Peace notwithstanding.

  Norah Quirk, carrying a perfectly empty tray on her way to Mr Stokes, was waylaid by a young woman not much older than she was, who pulled her roughly into the shrubbery. ‘Stop, Norah,’ she hissed when Norah tried to break free. ‘This is important. I haven’t been able to sleep. You are not, I really mean it, Norah, not to repeat a word of what I said to you last night. I should never have mentioned it. You haven’t told anyone already, have you?’

  Norah shook the woman off. ‘Don’t be so silly, Lorna. I have to go. I need to see Mr Stokes.’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake, don’t tell him.’

  Whatever she did tell him caused Mr Stokes’ face, large and pendulous, to contract with rage. ‘See what I mean?’ he observed to the Mayor, who had listened to the report.

  The Mayor said, ‘No trouble though, Mr Stokes, I want no trouble.’ But it seemed to be brewing, whatever he wanted, as tiny incendiaries well beyond his control exploded in exchanges that were on the face of it innocent.

  Larry Murdoch had struck up a conversation with Adelaide about her brother’s intentions regarding Somerset Station. ‘I want to buy it,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve every reason to believe he’d like to sell it to me.’

  Louisa found herself buttonholed by Baby Worthington, who asked spitefully if she’d heard that William Mayberry was about to marry an heiress whose brother he’d served with in Syria, and Louisa was saying, ‘Good luck to him,’ even though her expression suggested that luck of any kind had deserted her.

  Theresa Fellows was asking Maisie Jenkins if she had any idea what Lorna Stutt was doing in Prospect when she was supposed to be in Broken Hill with Frank O’Connell, and Maisie Jenkins was saying wasn’t she back on the telegraph in Myrtle Grove?

  Joe Fletcher was explaining to Pearl McCleary that his brother had indeed captured suspects on the Myrtle Grove Road and that they’d thrown great light on his Prospect enquiries. ‘He’ll be interested in your theory though, by Jove. Now what about a drink?’

  Maggie O’Connell was speaking to no one. As she studied her reflection anxiously in the office window she saw on the Mayor’s desk the BLUETT V O’CONNELL LAND DISPUTE (FINAL!) file with contents spilling from it in a way she knew for certain the Mayor would never have left it. She would have tidied it to save Martin Duffy’s skin had not the Mayor’s wife called her loudly to adjust her headdress.

  It was both a relief and a nuisance to all of the above that Martin Duffy at this very moment gave a nod to the bandleader then hurried back to the verandah, where he sounded the dinner gong three times as instructed. The crowd duly fell silent, however urgent the remark on their lips, and where Martin Duffy should have called, ‘We welcome Victory and the Peace she has brought to our land,’ Ed O’Connell did instead. As Martin Duffy disappeared back into the house, the lad’s wonderfully piping voice carried about the grounds and was so innocent and pure in its tone and intention that everyone cheered, so Mrs Mayberry forgot to be furious.

  She appeared as if on wheels through the drawing-room doors, resplendent in a dress made from a flag emblazoned with the words King and Country and wearing on her head the best part of an olive tree, which Maggie had attached to her hair with wire. What wild acclamations. What clapping and whooping. The band played ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ as the citizens of Prospect marched behind her into the main tent where she mounted the podium and held up her hand for silence.

  ‘People of Prothpect,’ she began. ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Yes, welcome,’ called the Mayor, from the back of the tent. ‘I will of course be addressing you when my lovely lady wife has said a few words.’ He waved to his people, who turned their backs on him, and annoyed by the insult and by his wife’s unusual speech patterns, he allowed his attention to roam. He’d placed himself next to Mr and Mrs Murdoch, infinitely superior, he thought, to Mr Joe Fletcher, tenant of Somerset Station, whose standing with his wife was lost on him. Mr Joe Fletcher, he saw, had joined Mrs Nightingale and her housekeeper, natural enough when they were neighbours. He steered clear of Mrs Nightingale, out of deference to Mr Stokes who had no time for her. He valued Mr Stokes’ opinion in as much as it was wise not to contradict it, either in word or deed. Mr Stokes, he noted, was not in the tent. He’d remained with his pig, turning it, basting it, lavishing love on it.

  ‘And so it is with great pride, people of Prothpect, that I thank our brave men on your behalf and welcome them back into the fold of our community whoothe Christian values, so beloved of us all, they have defended against the heathens and the Bolsheviks.’ A small murmur arose among the citizenry, expressing less concern for the accuracy, than approval that the theme so well explored in her last speech was being revisited by this wonderful local icon on such a momentous occasion. ‘And now I have something of great import to ask of you. I would ask you, on this night of nights, to thupport me in my own battle against the self-same enemy. I intend to carry my battle, which is your battle,’ she raised her arm as Victory did, ‘to Parlia–’

  Blast and rats! Her plea for their encouragement, and votes when the time came, so patently the true point of the evening, so beautifully poised on the tip of her tongue, was overtaken by a breathtaking scream, tentative at first then shrill and persistent, so terrifying at its conclusion that men at the back of the tent turned as one and ran towards it. They were followed by their womenfolk, whose intention was to bear witness or give succour, make tea or whatever else was required under the circumstances.

  Mr Stokes was there before anyone, dragging Martin Duffy though the French doors while little Norah Quirk was to be seen leaning against the verandah balustrade, clutching her chest with one hand and her brow with the other. ‘He assaulted me!’ she cried to them all. ‘I found him stealing from the Mayor then he tried to … to …’ She was lost for words.

  Pearl McCleary had left the baby with its mother in order to run towards the scream and, like everyone else, pulled up in horror at the scene before her. ‘I did no such thing,’ Martin Duffy protested. ‘I would never do such thing. I don’t know why she’s saying that. I stole nothing. I didn’t touch her.’

  ‘I hope you’re not calling Miss Quirk a liar, you young scoundrel,’ Mr Stokes bawled, but whatever Martin Duffy replied was lost to the town as he was surrounded by Mr Murdoch, Mr Stokes, the Mayor and Joe Fletcher. Mainly they wanted to hear what Norah Quirk had to say, which was less lost as she had managed to compose herself pretty smartly.

  She’d found Martin Duffy in the Mayor’s office stea
ling from the safe. She’d only gone into the office, which was out of bounds to her, because she’d heard a noise, like a safe cracking, and when Mr Duffy saw he’d been discovered, he’d jumped to his feet and taken her in his arms then forced himself upon her. The look on his face! The fear in her heart! As her tale grew longer and increasingly vivid and the crowd more restless, her mother took her by the arm and, attended by Maisie Jenkins and Theresa Fellows, assisted her into the kitchen. The menfolk bustled her assailant back into the Mayor’s office while they decided what to do with him.

  Everyone else was left to their own devices. Should the merriment continue given the plight of the wretched girl? They decided that it should, because, when you boiled it down, the speeches were dull, there was a pig on a spit, they’d already drunk quite a lot and they were here for the dancing. But when is dancing more fun than fighting and arguing and making your opinions heard above everyone else’s?

  Chapter Forty-five

  Mrs Mayberry wanted to continue her speech but few of her guests could be persuaded to return to the tent even when the band struck up their favourite melodies. They gathered around the verandahs drinking, thanks to the committee stepping into the breach with the pouring. Before long, sides had drawn up – several sides, not just one against the other, all of them against each other.

  The man was a Bolshevik, a bushranger, a common Irish thief. No one had ever trusted him. He hadn’t fought, had he, what was he doing here anyway, and what had he been doing in the office when he should only have been in the kitchen? Others said no, he was allowed out of the kitchen. He’d been, inexplicably, in charge of the whole proceedings. Norah Quirk, equally, had been brave, foolhardy, too pleased with herself and terrified, poor thing. Or, she was talking through her hat and had made the whole thing up and was a known fibber, did everyone remember what she’d said about that blind boy who’d gone to war? No one could because they’d drunk too much.

  What it boiled down to was evidence. Had anyone checked the safe for missing items? This was precisely what Joe Fletcher was insisting the Mayor do because, first things first, if there was no attempted theft then Miss Quirk must have been mistaken and the whole sorry incident just a misunderstanding.

  The Mayor, in the presence of Martin Duffy, Joe Fletcher, Larry Murdoch and Archie Stokes, approached his safe, which was uncracked as far as anyone could tell, certainly not swinging open and empty of its contents. The Mayor knew for certain it was as he left it but he assumed the expression of a rich man worried for his fortune. He asked if the company could all turn their backs while he used the combination to open it. Archie Stokes gave him the slightest of winks and the barest of smiles.

  How heavy was the weight of expectation on the Mayor. The battle between his best interests and his conscience was normally a battle of little consequence but tonight there were witnesses. He must be seen to be doing the right thing in front of the town’s citizenry, especially Mr Joe Fletcher, whose brother was reportedly something secret to do with law and order. On the other hand, Mr Stokes was depending on him to ruin the Irishman whose foolish curiosity had taken him into territory that locals had long recognised was forbidden to trespassers. He was decided. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he cried. ‘What’s this?’ He turned to announce his findings to the witnesses and realised that one of them, Mr Joe Fletcher, damn it, hadn’t looked away as requested. What had he seen? What had he not seen? ‘Absolutely as I left it,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure, Mr Mayor?’ barked the grocer.

  The Mayor avoided his glare. ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘And is everything else as you left it?’

  The Mayor saw quite plainly that the BLUETT V O’CONNELL LAND DISPUTE (FINAL!) folder had been disturbed but now was not the time to draw attention to it. ‘Looks all right to me.’

  ‘So a misunderstanding,’ said Mr Fletcher.

  ‘Apart from his assault on Miss Quirk,’ said Mr Stokes.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mr Fletcher, and he might have suggested that she be brought in to show exactly how and where she’d been assaulted by a man who hadn’t been stealing anything had not Maggie O’Connell decided that her beloved needed public defending and she was the very woman to do it. Miss Quirk had felt well enough to emerge from the kitchen with a smile on her face, which so rattled Maggie that she grabbed her by the arm and yelled into that silly face, ‘You are a liar!’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ announced a large proportion of the population. ‘A love triangle.’ It was going to end in tears, mark their words. But it was worse than that. Young Maggie O’Connell was red in the face and shaking Norah Quirk, demanding she admit that nothing she’d said was true, that there had been no attempted theft and no assault on her body. ‘I heard. I heard what happened,’ Maggie shouted. She’d been on her way into the kitchen and she’d heard, plain as day, Norah Quirk ask Martin Duffy to kiss her and Martin Duffy tell Norah Quirk they had work to do and so they’d better get on with it.

  The passion of her harangue brought Archie Stokes from the Mayor’s office with a smirk on his face. He hovered directly in the eye line of Miss Norah Quirk, who at the faintest of nods from him began to sob. ‘He pushed me to the floor,’ she gasped tearfully. ‘He did, Mum. Mr Stokes, he did push me.’ Her mother said firmly, ‘It sounds like a misunderstanding.’ But Maisie Jenkins, reading the grocer’s eye, said shame on her for a mother. She demanded to know who this Mr Liffey was in the first place. He’d come into town from nowhere purporting to be the cousin of a woman no one knew the first thing about and there was nothing to say he wasn’t a thief and a Bolshevik.

  Louisa laughed out loud. ‘I will say it.’ She stepped into the light. She placed herself squarely beside Maggie O’Connell, on whose arm she rested her hand. Maggie released her grip on Norah Quirk but not her position three inches from the accuser’s head. Louisa turned to the throng. In her best Hampshire voice, she announced she had never heard anything so preposterous in the whole of her life. Mr Duffy was Miss McCleary’s cousin and Miss McCleary had arrived in the neighbourhood with impeccable references.

  If neither observation were true exactly, it didn’t matter because it suited the lovely widow to believe it for the time being. What was undoubtedly true was that Martin Duffy had acted with all the propriety of a neighbour’s housekeeper’s cousin and Miss McCleary could not have been a more responsible, well-regarded housekeeper. ‘Mr Duffy has been my lodger for the best part of a month and I know him to be well mannered, intelligent, helpful, considerate and kind.’

  ‘Yes, but how is he in the bedroom?’ asked a lair, a joker, a wise-cracker, all in good fun, which was the spirit of the occasion but so far beyond the pale that a loud gasp swept like an outraged breeze across the lawns. It tossed high into the air any vestiges of laughter that might have been lurking. A few people chuckled but only briefly. It might have been what everyone thought, or wanted to think, it might even have been quite funny when Louisa Worthington was so stuck up, but it was outrageous to cast such aspersions on the widow of a man who had died for them.

  ‘How dare you?’ demanded Adelaide Nightingale, taking her place beside Louisa and Maggie. ‘How dare you say anything so vile to the widow of a war hero? Miss McCleary is my housekeeper and I have met her cousin on numerous occasions. He’s an honest, trustworthy and decent man, and a good many of you could learn from his example.’

  ‘Ask the housekeeper if he’s her cousin. Ask her,’ said Norah Quirk. ‘She doesn’t even know where he’s from.’

  It was ugly. Could it get any uglier? It could. Maggie O’Connell administered a quick slap to Norah Quirk’s face to spare Pearl McCleary from lying. Norah Quirk emitted such a howl of rage and anguish that Archie Stokes hurled himself onto Maggie O’Connell and pinned her arms behind her back. Martin Duffy was on him before Joe Fletcher could lift a restraining hand. He gave Mr Stokes an almighty push from behind, which had positively no impact on the grocer. ‘Let her go!’ he yelled. ‘Let her go or I’ll see you in jail f
or assault.’

  The grocer roared with laughter. ‘There isn’t a judge between here and Timbuktu who’d listen to you.’

  It was a desperate shame that Mrs Mayberry chose just then to stagger from the tent through the crowd with her olive tree askew, pale and tearful but striving for dignity. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Stop it. I order you all to take your hands off each other and behave.’ She turned to Martin Duffy. ‘I don’t know who you are, Mr Liffey, but if you are a Bolshevik then you will be found out and hounded from the district. As for you,’ her wave took in pretty well everyone, ‘I won’t have anyone insulting respectable women like Mrs Worthington and Mrs Nightingale in my house.’

  Archie Stokes inclined his head in the direction of Norah Quirk, who raised her voice in triumph. ‘They aren’t respectable,’ she announced. ‘And nor is he.’ She pointed at Martin Duffy. ‘Mrs Worthington advertised for him. He is her part-time husband. He has four part-time wives: Mrs Nightingale, Mrs Worthington, Maggie O’Connell and his own cousin, Miss McCleary.’

  The intake of breath was enough to deprive all the plants in that garden of life-giving oxygen. ‘Trollops!’ someone shouted. ‘Whores!’ cried another. The ladies, ashen and disbelieving, huddled together, speechless. Martin Duffy and Joe Fletcher took up positions in front of them but the crowd, which might have moved on them, was diverted by a voice that came from nowhere.

  ‘Norah, you made that up!’ shouted Lorna Stutt. ‘You know that’s a lie. I told you it was a lie yesterday. You can all take it from me that Norah Quirk is a liar.’

  For a few seconds it was unclear just who had spoken because it seemed to come from the shrubbery. Maggie O’Connell broke away from her co-part-time wives and took one or two steps towards the crowd so she could peer into the darkness for a closer look at the woman so boldly bearing witness to her own testimony. ‘You!’ she gasped. ‘You! Where’s my father? Where is he?’