The Miracle Man (41 page)

“For over – forty years,” Cissy continued, “I’ve known – and admired – John McGhee.” Now she was looking directly at him, as he was at her, and their looks seemed to form a channel of mutual affection. She appeared to be speaking only to him. “And all those years ago – “ her little chest heaved, “ – I made the biggest mistake of my life. I let him go – even although I loved him dearly.”

As if from one body, there was a little sigh from the crowd and a smattering of conversation that quickly died into silence.

“Twice recently I almost did it again,” Cissy was saying, “but I’m not going to make the mistake the third time.” She leant forward, staring at Limpy who sat with his mouth open, his face a perfect picture of delight. “John McGhee,” she said, holding his eyes with hers in a steady gaze while each person in the room waited expectantly. “John McGhee – “ her little
hand stretched out towards him, as though searching for something in the dark, “ – will you marry me?” Deathly silence. Around the room eyes widened and breaths were held. From Mr Pointerly there was a forlorn look as he had his worst suspicions confirmed and then Margaret Garrison’s eyes fluttered and she toppled like a felled oak onto the BBC cameraman who had been contemplating the remainder of his career as a toilet attendant at Broadcasting House. On the stage Limpy looked at Cissy blankly for a moment, unable to comprehend the enormity of what she had just said. Then slowly his head began nodding, until he finally managed to get out,

“Ah – Cissy – yes ma’m! Yes indeed, I certainly will marry you! Oh yes!”

At the back of the room Dan Ahearn clapped his hands together and said, “Jasus, if that doesn’t beat all!”, Mrs Megarrity let out a long wail and slumped against the wall and then a great cheer went up from the crowd, journalists and locals alike, and then another, followed by clapping and shouts of “Good man!” and “Well done McGhee.” A journalist in the middle of the room started pushing his way towards the stage, waving and shouting, “Mr McGhee, Mr McGhee – an exclusive! You and your bride-to-be! Your life stories. All right?” Oblivious to all of this, and with his eyes fixed firmly on Cissy, Limpy stood up, went to her and gently put an arm around her shoulders.

With heads bowed a little or tilted to one side, the crowds watched this, smiling somewhat embarrassedly at the show of affection by the elderly couple. At the back of the room, Dermot beamed and inclined his head towards Frank Kilbride, saying out the side of his mouth,

“You’d better get back up to your shop, Frank, and take on two new assistants. I think you’re going to be needing them.”

In a corner, Mr Pointerly was using a newspaper to fan the
face of Margaret, who lay on the floor, pretending to be still unconscious as a result of the sudden revelation of Cissy’s romance and impending marriage. Someone tried to push past Mr Pointerly and he turned and looked up. It was the young reporter, the one he had surprised in McPhee’s house that night. He obviously hadn’t got the sack after all and anyway surely he too must have suffered a similar disappointment over this McPhee business with Cissy Garrison.

“Hello there,” Mr Pointerly said to Fergus, dropping the newspaper, which fell onto the chest of the recumbent Margaret. She opened one eye, saw the departing Mr Pointerly and then closed her eye again in the hope of attracting some other male to administer first-aid. As they reached the door, Mr Pointerly said to Fergus,

“Well, this is a turn-up for the books, eh? Makes one wonder who’s who and what’s what.”

Already Fergus’s brain was racing, a story forming, dramatic headlines flashing before him.

“Eh, yes, I suppose you might be right.”

“Listen,” Pointerly said, gently taking hold of Fergus’s elbow, “I was just thinking of slipping off for a quick one, you know?” He made a show of surprise at Fergus’s supposed reply, and said with mock innocence, “A drink, of course. Care to join me?”

“Well you know, I didn’t drink hardly at all before I came here,” Fergus said, “but – there’s something about this place drives you to it. Certainly, Mr Pointerly, I think I could just do with a stiff one.”

“Oh – jolly good!” Mr Pointerly said delightedly. As they made their way through the doorway towards the foyer, Fergus gave a little smile to himself and said,

“You know, I was thinking the other day of doing an article on the sex life of the older gay man in Ireland. You might be just the very one to talk to on that, Mr Pointerly.”

Outside the Glens Hotel the brown river flowed placidly under the bridge, past where the boats swung lazily at anchor on one side and the hotel on the other, out beyond the sandy point and into the calm green waters of the bay. Along the river and by the shore, seagulls swooped and cried, while wagtails strutted and ran and speared for food in the sand. Above the bay and the green hills and the low meadows where the sheep lay at their ease and the cattle waded to their bellies in the water, puffy little white clouds hung motionless in the blue sky. Near the river a glistening chestnut horse ran in a field to come suddenly to a halt and stand stock-still looking at nothing. And at the front door of the Glens Hotel, the fat black cat ambled out to sit in the sun, which shone without distinction on the saints and sinners of Inisbreen.