The Disenchanted Widow (35 page)

Picture him now catching sight of a platoon of British soldiers erecting barricades and barking orders at the disorderly crowd.

“Feckin’ murderin’ scum!” he roared, waving his stick at a squaddie in a maroon beret. The maroon beret marked the soldier out as a member of the much-reviled Parachute Regiment, fiercely unpopular with the nationalist community since their gunning down of fourteen unarmed civil-rights marchers in Londonderry nine years before.

“Put a sock in it, granddad,” said the squaddie, turning his juvenile, pasty face on the trio.

“God, Ned, don’t say anything more.” Rose tightened her grip on his arm. “You’ll get us all arrested.”

“Aye, shut the fuck up,” Gusty added helpfully, more interested now in Mrs. Hailstone sashaying up ahead. She was wearing a green bias-cut dress that moved nicely about her hips. Lucien-Percy had one similar, but with braiding round the hem.

Rose crossed herself. “There’s no need for that language, Gusty.”

Ned ignored the pair of them and launched into a boisterous rendition of a ballad from the IRA hit parade: a paean to the doomed Republican martyr Roddy McCorley.

“Oh, see the fit-hoof hosts-a men who march with faces on—”

“Jesus, Ned, don’t sing that here!” The sweat was pouring off Rose.

“For young Roddee McCurlee goes tae die on the bridge-a Toome the day.” On a bawling endnote he broke free of Rose’s and Gusty’s grasp and headed toward the nearest army jeep. “I need-a piss.”

“Ye can’t piss here.” Gusty plunged after him.

“I’ll piss anywhere I want in me own yard.”

“This isn’t yer own yard, Uncle Ned,” Rose cried. “Gusty, quick! He’s gonna do it.”

“I said get back in line, granddad!” The young paratrooper, fingers drumming on the stock of his self-loading rifle, was growing impatient with the old man’s antics. He had more pressing concerns. His gaze alternated between the crowd and the rooftops. The threat of sniper fire was an ever-present danger. Wouldn’t be the first time the IRA had used a bomb scare to lure them out, only to pick them off like ducks in a shooting gallery.

Gusty nodded sheepishly at the soldier while steering Ned toward the public toilets.

On finally gaining the square, Bessie sat down on a sunseat and lit up. The quick shot of whiskey had done her a power of good. She felt calm and happy; didn’t much care how long she’d be detained. She’d been caught up in so many bomb scares in Belfast that she considered them to be a part of everyday city life.

Herkie, still smarting from the knickerbocker glory that never was, stood staring up at a soldier’s gun, wondering what it would be like to hold it and peer down the barrel.

Rose, in the meantime, exhausted from old Ned’s antics and the unexpected nature of the evening’s events, needed urgently to sit down and get her breath back. She spotted a vacant space on one of the sunseats and made a beeline for it. It was only when she’d settled herself and the person next to her turned round that she realized it was her nemesis.

“God, Mrs. Hailstone, is it you?”

“Oh, Mrs. Mc…”

“Fadden. I’ll just sit down here beside you tae get me breath back.” Rose’s fingers fluttered at her necklace, face red as a radish.

Bessie smiled and made more room for her. Her sudden change in circumstances, her recent turmoil, was inclining her to kindness rather than her usual knee-jerk hostility.

“Is Mr. Grant all right?” she asked, having seen Gusty frog-march the elderly man out of the square moments earlier.

“Oh, Gusty just took him to the toilet over there. Ye know what these old men are like. They’re like cars, truth be told. The more miles on the clock, the more chance that sartin things don’t work proper, or God-blissus-and-savus, stop workin’ altogether.”

Bessie, unaware of Rose’s propensity for verbosity, didn’t know what to say. Then, recalling what Herkie had told her about seeing Ned Grant being stretchered out to the ambulance, she said, “But he’s out of hospital now. That’s good. It was very good of him to give Herkie a bit of work. Keeps him out of mischief. You know what young boys are like.”

Rose mopped her brow with a hankie, looking puzzled. “Oh, but he was never in the hospital, Mrs. Hailstone. Ye could hardly get him tae go tae a doctor’s surgery, never mind a hospital.”

Snatches of a shortwave radio exchange could be heard in the background. “
Roger, over…suspect package…location…ladies’ Kelly…arms…backup…
”

Bessie looked over at Herkie. A soldier was hunkering down beside him, showing him his machine gun.

“That’s a lovely wee boy ye have there.”

All at once, the mystery of Ned’s missing pension money and the telltale evidence of the Milky Way wrapper she’d found on the doorstep was becoming clear to Rose. But tactfully she decided to spare Herkie’s embarrassment—for the time being anyway—and his mother’s certain blushes.

“He must miss Belfast,” she went on. “Big change for him, coming here. But I suppose it’s better for him to be away from all
that bother in the city. Must be hard for him without his father…hard for you, too, Mrs. Hailstone, truth be told. Taken sudd—”

“Y’know, I had a slice of that lovely fruit loaf you made Father Cassidy,” said Bessie, slamming shut the closet door that Rose was trying to pry open. Those skeletons were not for her to see. “It was very good. You’re an excellent cook.”

The trick worked a treat. Rose blossomed. “God, d’ye think so, Mrs. Hailstone? Well, d’ye know I must show ye something I made this morning.” She reached down for the bag. “It’s a sticky-toffee layer cake I made—”

Her hand grasped empty air.

She quested about, shock and disbelief tensing her normally jolly features.

“What is it, Mrs. McFadden?”

Herkie ran over to them. “Can I hold the soldier’s gun, Ma?”

Normally she would have said no, but Mrs. McFadden appeared very distressed. Bessie glanced over at the soldier. He smiled and nodded.

“Go on, son. But be careful, you hear?”

“Aye, Ma.”

Bessie turned, to find a horror-stricken Rose clasping her face in her hands.

“What
is
it, Mrs. McFadden? Are you ill?”

Rose’s mouth moved, but the words would not come.

“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

L
orcan 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 but 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.”