Aisling Gayle (13 page)

Peenie shook his head. “Big difference, Charlie-boy,” he grinned, taking a half-smoked Woodbine from behind his ear. “You see, I’ve been all over. I’ve worked in Dublin, Cork and London.” He struck a match on the wooden counter and lit the cigarette. Something he wouldn’t have dared to do, if the real bosses had been around. “
And,
” he said raising his eyebrows, “I’ve had women every place I’ve been. Sure, those English women are mad for it. You should go over there yerself some time. You wouldn’t be so slow over there, I can tell you.”

Charles folded his arms. “Sure, I’m in no rush about anything.”

“And
that,
” Peenie said, “is precisely the problem.” He shook his head. “Mark my words – if you don’t make a move with Mrs Lynch, she won’t be a widow much longer. You’ll miss the boat, and some other lad will get in there.”

Charles cupped his chin in his hands thoughtfully. “I’ll be taking a run out later . . .” he said, “and I’ll see how the land lies then.”

“And remember,” Peenie warned, “don’t start talkin’ a load of oul’ shite about books or anythin’ of that nature!” He shook his head solemnly. “There’s no warm-blooded woman that wants to spend her time discussing dusty oul’ library books – especially the kind that you’re always carting around.”

Charles stretched his rounded shoulders up to their proper height, and puffed his chest out. “Now, Peenie,” he said, smiling in a mildly patronising way, “don’t forget that I met up with Mrs Lynch in the library in Tullamore, and she had a pile of books in her shopping bag. That’s
exactly
what made me feel that we might be kindred spirits.”

“Kindred spirits
?” said Peenie, looking baffled. “What’s religion got to do with it? You either fancy her or you don’t!”

Charles lifted his glasses up on to his forehead now, and rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t mean to insult you, Peenie . . . but
matters of an intellectual nature are something that
you
would know nothing about.”

“And women, Charlie-boy,” said Peenie, giving an equally patronising smile, “are something that a brainy fella like you would know nothing about!”

Heavy footsteps sounded towards the door. “Shockin’ weather, isn’t it?” Mrs Gilroy, a daily customer, said. “And isn’t it well for yer mother, Charles – off out to the sun in America?”

“It’s well for them indeed,” he said vaguely, turning towards the back of the shop.

“It was just Aisling that went along with them, wasn’t
it?” Mrs Gilroy checked, running a hand over her headscarf
to see how wet it was. “Pauline and the little one didn’t go –
sure they didn’t?”

“I’ll leave you to it, Peenie,” Charles said, not even hearing the woman’s question. He fixed his glasses back on his nose, then wandered off out the back.

“Isn’t that fella shockin’?” Mrs Gilroy said to Peenie, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. “The Kearneys are lucky they have you here. What would they be thinkin’ of – leavin’ that
amadán
in charge? Sure, he hardly knows what day of the week it is, never mind askin’ him the price of anythin’.” She lifted up a fair-sized cabbage and scrutinised it closely. Then she handed it across the counter to Peenie. “An’ you wouldn’t want to be dependin’ on
him
weighin’ anything out for you. The Lord help us and save us! You could be there all day while he cuts a bit off a piece of cheese, then has to add another bit on because it’s too small.”

“That’s brains and education for yeh,” Peenie said philosophically, wrapping the cabbage in a piece of the
Irish Independent
. Then, he suddenly paused. “But havin’ said that, poor oul’ Charles is the finest. He’s a decent fella, and fair to work for.”

“True for you,” Mrs Gilroy said. “He’s about the best of the bunch in here, anyway.” She lifted up a turnip now. “Although Pauline’s nice enough.” She inspected the turnip carefully. “And isn’t that little Bernadette one only like an angel?”

“Oh, she’s an angel right enough,” Peenie said, ripping a page of the newspaper in half this time, for the turnip. “Although, she has her moments, the same girl.” He winked knowingly now at Mrs Gilroy. “The minute she gets her eye on me, she’s over like a shot, looking for a sweet or a bit of chocolate. But sure, yeh couldn’t refuse her – she’s the loveliest-natured little thing.”

Mrs Gilroy handed over half-a-crown.
“The cratur’,” she said, smiling. “You’d wonder who she takes after now . . .
wouldn’t you?”

Peenie sorted out the change, then handed over the two newspaper parcels to his customer. “Oh, yeh needn’t look far. She’s the spit of her mother,” he said lightly, “the very spit.”

The older woman put the vegetables into her shopping bag, the handles of which were well-reinforced by thick twine. “She might as well be,” she said, nodding her head gravely, “for we’re never likely to see what her father looks like.” She pulled the zip across the top of the bag. “An Englishman, no doubt . . . although there’s some say she could have been that way when she was leavin’ here.”

“Now, Mrs Gilroy,” Peenie said, “you know as well as me, that there’s some that’ll say anythin’.” He came out towards the door, checking on the rain again. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s all Pauline’s business – and nobody else’s.” He held a hand out, checking how heavy the drops of rain were. “If people would mind their own business, they’d have no time to be talkin’ about anybody else.”

“An’ you’re right there, Peenie, so you are,” Mrs Gilroy said, dropping her shopping bag to put her umbrella up again. “If they were half as good at cleanin’ their houses, as they are at runnin’ other folk down, they’d be far better off.” She lifted the bag up now.

“You have it in one, Mrs Gilroy,” he called, as she hurried off down the street, head and umbrella bent against the rain. “See yeh now!” He added to himself: “Yeh nosey oul’ bitch!”

* * *

“I’ll be ready for the dinner in five minutes, Mrs Kelly,” Charles called, as he by-passed the kitchen and headed down the hallway to his bedroom. He closed the door carefully, then made straight for the highly-polished mahogany wardrobe on the back wall. He swung the door wide open, and then reached in for his good navy blazer. He lifted it onto the bed – hanger and all – and then reached in for his tweed jacket with the leather patches on the elbow. That joined the blazer on the bed.

He pushed the remaining hangers along, searching – until he spotted his dark suit trousers. He lifted them down, and inspected the length.
They would surely look all
right with an inch off them
, he thought to himself.
Sure, what was an inch
?
Hardly anything.
He took them off the hanger, and measured them down the side of his right leg
. Would an inch make that awful difference,
he wondered again. He would hate to ruin his good suit altogether.

Maybe
, he thought,
the trousers will wait until the next visit. No point in taking
everything over to her at one go . . . better to spread them out over a couple of weeks
. Charles hung the trousers back up in the wardrobe, and rubbed his hands together.
A couple of weeks?
Sure, ’twould be the best part of a month before they were back!
All that time to do what he liked – go where he liked – without answering to anyone.

Then, he turned back to examine the blazer. There were a few stitches loose on the top of one of the pockets. He lifted it up, inspected the pocket closely. Then, with an unusually quick movement, he ripped the stitching halfway down the pocket. “That’ll do fine,” he whispered to himself. “She’ll never know I didn’t catch it on a door handle.” Then, he went to the tallboy in the corner of the room, and lifted a pair of nail-scissors. It was the turn of the tweed jacket this time. Very carefully now, he cut the stitches holding one of the elbow-patches in place, then he did the same to the other.

He had a spare pair of patches – still in the cellophane – in his underwear drawer that he would take out to Mrs Lynch along with the jackets. That would keep her busy, and then he would have the excuse of going out to pick them up on yet another occasion.

All good, valid reasons to drive out to her house by the canal in Tullamore. Between that, and driving out some evenings when it was dark, to watch her house from his car – he would see plenty of her over the next few weeks.

Charles gleefully rubbed his hands together now at the thought of it all. Then, whistling, he headed down the hallway to the delights of Mrs Kelly’s cooking.

Chapter 10

Charles gave a loud sigh, then he started the engine up, his eyes still glued to Mrs Lynch’s house. It was getting dark now, and there was no point in hanging around. He had been out and about for the best part of two hours picking up vegetables and eggs from two farms, and delivering several boxes of groceries to customers who were housebound.

He had borrowed his father’s car with the comfortable leather seats. His own little van with the two cramped front seats didn’t compare with this two-year-old Morris Oxford, although it was obviously more suitable for throwing the vegetables and the like in the back. Charles would have to give the boot a good clean before his father came back, to remove any onion skins or other evidence that would give away the fact it had been used for the deliveries. But even if he found out, it was worth the row it would cause to have had the luxury of the car while his father was away.

En route back home, Charles had spun round past Mrs Lynch’s house on the off-chance that she might be out working in the garden or maybe out chatting to a neighbour. If he had seen her, he had planned to stop for a few words, explaining that he was just passing by after doing his deliveries. He could imagine her coming over to admire the shiny Morris Oxford, and maybe him even offering to take her a spin around the town in it.

But unfortunately, there had been no sign of the seamstress, and he was afraid to hang about too long in case she got the impression he was spying on her. Although he was keen to see and chat to her, he didn’t want to frighten her in any way.

Thank goodness at least for the last time, when he’d driven out in the van to drop off the blazer and the tweed jacket with the missing elbow patches. A little smile came to his lips as he remembered the look on Mrs Lynch’s face when he handed her the box of
Quality Street
. Absolute shock wasn’t in it!

She had stepped back, clutching the parcel with the two jackets in it.

As he smiled down at her, Charles had noticed how lovely and shiny her hair was. He wondered if she rinsed it in beer the way Pauline occasionally did when washing her hair at home. How his sister’s hair didn’t smell like a brewery, he often wondered.

“No . . . no,” Mrs Lynch said, blushing furiously. “I can’t take chocolates off you.”

“Just to say thanks for all your hard work,” Charles had said – in something like the manner he imagined that Jay Gatsby might. He gave a low sweep of his hand towards the hallway. “I’m sure Dominic might like a few chocolates . . .”

Mrs Lynch suddenly stopped. “How did you know his name?”

“You mentioned it last time,” Charles said with a grin. “I’ve got a great memory for names.”

There was a silence during which Charles considered throwing Peenie’s advice to the wind regarding the books. He was just on the point of asking her what sort of books she preferred, when, much to Charles’s delight, her hand had come out and taken the box of chocolates – just as he
was imagining himself placing them back on the shop shelf in the shop. Second row from the top – next to the fancy biscuits. Luckily, he hadn’t entered them into the till –
so no alterations would be necessary there.

“You shouldn’t have,” Mrs Lynch said, looking shyly down towards the linoleum. “Aren’t you paying me for the sewing . . .”

Charles stepped back, and pushed his sliding glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “Just a little gesture,” he said. “It can’t be easy bringing up a child on your own.” His fist came up to his mouth now, and he cleared his throat in a loud, nervous fashion. “I have a sister at home in a similar position . . . bringing up a child on her own.”

Mrs Lynch’s face flushed. “I know about your sister,” she said quietly, “but I think there’s a difference . . .”

Charles sort of swung away to the side, his eyes no longer meeting hers. “Of course . . . of course,” he said. “I just meant that . . . it can’t be easy.” This was not going the way that he had imagined. What on earth had made him mention her widowed situation? And his mother would absolutely kill him if she knew he had purposely brought up the subject of Pauline’s plight as an unmarried mother.

He stepped backwards now, his trousers catching on the thorns of a small rose bush. “Thanks, now . . .” he said, his voice trailing off as he unhooked himself from the bush.

Then, just as he was ready to go about his business, Mrs Lynch suddenly smiled. “Thanks for the chocolates, Mr Kearney,” she said, “but really – there was no need. I’ll have your jackets ready by tomorrow evening, if you’d like to call back around six o’clock.”

“Charles,” he reminded her, with another little cough. “You can call me Charles. No need for formalities. And I’ll be seeing you around six tomorrow evening.”