Aisling Gayle (46 page)

Of course, he pondered, he had no
real
evidence that Mrs Lynch was a fan of Shakespeare but, given the heavy tomes of literature he had seen her carrying from the library, in all probability she would be inclined towards any area of culture.

He eventually decided on a parking spot a little further up the street from where the madman had pounced. And also a bit closer to the Garda station, should there be – God forbid – a repeat performance.

He sat for a short while, cleaning and polishing his glasses with his hanky, and then carefully adjusting them to the right position on his nose. He had put on a fresh white shirt, and was now wishing that he had followed his instincts about wearing a tie. He felt rather bare and exposed around the neck without his usual jumper or sleeveless pullover, but it was too late now for regrets.

The street was quiet as he emerged from his father’s car. He looked up and down then stepped smartly across the street towards Mrs Lynch’s house. As he walked along, he reminded himself to hold his shoulders back, and keep his chin up. He could almost hear his mother’s voice reminding him of these things, as she did on a daily basis. Normally, he let all the instructions wash over his head – but on this occasion, he wanted to make the right impression on all fronts, which included having a straight back.

He stood for a few moments, negotiating the sliding bolt on the seamstress’s low, wooden gate, then eventually decided to by-pass its awkwardness by stepping over it. He moved confidently towards the front door, and gave the knocker three good raps.

There was no answer.

Charles gave a further three raps – louder this time. But still no reply. He stood for a couple of minutes, hand stroking his chin, while he pondered the situation. Where was a widow woman with a child likely to be at eight o’clock on a midweek evening? The obvious answer was the library, but Charles knew well that this was not one of the evenings that it opened this late.

The next obvious deduction was the church. A funeral immediately sprang to mind. Not the actual funeral – which would take place in the morning – but the removal of the remains from home to church.
Of
course,
Charles thought to himself,
she would be at the church.
He looked at his watch now, deducing that Mrs Lynch would be due back at the house in the next quarter of an hour or so – giving her time for the odd few words here and there with neighbours and acquaintances. He would amble back to the car and wait for her there – because he was determined not to go home tonight until he had a firm date secured for th
e theatre. He wanted everything arranged and watertig
ht before his parents returned – and before his mother found something wrong with Mrs Lynch to put him off the whole business.

On that positive note, he made his way down the path and actually leapt back over the gate without tripping or catching his trousers on any treacherous rosebushes. He then headed back to the car, rehearsing his opening gambit about how delighted he would be if such a cultured person like Mrs Lynch would agree to accompanying him to an acclaimed performance of
Othello
.

Charles was seated in the driver’s seat of the car only a couple of minutes when an awful thought suddenly struck him. A thought that Peenie Walshe had put into his mind earlier in the evening. What if Mrs Lynch was actually out for the evening with a male friend? Perhaps at this very moment, she could be taking a slow walk along the Grand Canal towpath? And what if that male friend was indeed the madman who had leapt on the bonnet of his father’s car?

A hot, flushing feeling came up over Charles’s chest and neck. Surely, he wouldn’t have got things so terribly wrong? The seamstress had come across as a nice, gentle sort of woman. Not at all the sort to take up with a rough individual. But maybe it wasn’t wise to presume such things. Maybe he should head off home now, rather than risk meeting up with the widow and a male friend.

Then, just as he went to turn the key in the ignition, the door from the house next to Mrs Lynch’s opened, and a young, black-haired woman came out with a pair of garden shears in her hand. She came across the little square of grass in front of her house, then set about trimming the straggly bush that grew between her house and Mrs Lynch’s.

It suddenly struck Charles that the woman might have seen the seamstress going off earlier on, and could enlighten him as to whether she had gone off on her own or with the child – and whether there was a male companion.

Depending on how the conversation went, Charles thought he might be able to get a description of the man-friend to see if it tallied with the lunatic’s description. Then, he would soon know whether pursuing the affections of Mrs Lynch was indeed appropriate or not.

Oh, Peenie Walshe need have no worries about Charles Kearney. Women weren’t the big mystery Peenie made them out to be. A little bit of logic was all that was required to work them out. No mystery at all – according to psychology books he had studied on the subject of human relations.

He eased himself out of the car once again and, as he headed back towards the house, he pondered over the exact nature of his interest in Mrs Lynch. The physical side was the least – although Charles had to admit that there was an element of curiosity regarding the courting ritual. Even from a scientific point of view, he was interested to see how things would progress if Mrs Lynch took him up on his offer of an evening at the theatre.

He wondered if the physical stirrings he had read about might manifest themselves when they were in closer proximity than standing on the doorstep.

So far, he had never felt anything that resembled physical desire in his life. According to Peenie’s graphic descriptions, Charles knew he was definitely a late starter – but it didn’t bother him in the slightest. There was more to life than basic physical urges.

Far more important to him was the idea of suitable company for excursions out, excursions that nobody else he knew was interested in, excursions to places like the theatre, museums, art exhibitions and the like. Maybe even some day in the future an excursion to Jodrell Bank over in England to see the space observatory – that kind of thing.

And then further down the line, the relationship might develop into the sort where they could eventually think of marriage and a home together. It was time after all. Charles was over thirty years of age, and still living in the family home. He knew it was time to spread his wings, and think of a place of his own. A place he could share with a like-minded individual, where they could read their own books and listen to their own music – and enjoy the rest of the time discussing these things in great depth.

And of course if that like-minded individual could also take over the domestic side of things, then that would really be the icing on the cake. And it was a fair assumption to make in the case of the seamstress, for someone who was handy with a needle would likely be a dab hand at baking and washing and the like – all the routine chores that made life very complicated for a person like himself.

And it wouldn’t be all one-way traffic,
for Charles had a nice little nest-egg in the bank that would give them a good start on buying a house. It would all depend now on Mrs Lynch’s reaction to his offer of a night at the theatre.

As he ambled along to the house now, he reminded himself about the seamstress’s son. He might well be a fly in the ointment – if he was the kind that demanded a lot of attention. Some children were inclined that way. Still – that was a problem for the future. A day at a time, Charles thought. A day at a time – as they say.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Charles called to Mrs Lynch’s neighbour. He came to a halt at the gate, giving a friendly smile and jangling his father’s car keys in an attempt at a casual manner.

The attractive, dark-haired woman stared at him for a moment, then she started moving backwards over the little square of grass, glancing anxiously over her shoulder towards the house.

“I was just wondering if you’d know the whereabouts of –”

“Get away!” the woman hissed, waving the garden-shears. “He’ll murder you if he comes out!”

Charles stood for a moment, wondering if he’d just imagined her telling him to ‘get away’ and mentioning the word ‘murder’. “I’m looking for Mrs Lynch . . .” he continued hesi
tantly, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose.

The woman suddenly rushed forward and brought the shears down heavily on the hedge. “Feck off, will you – ya
amadán
!” she said in an urgent, almost hysterical voice. “Feck off!”

Charles stepped back, straightening up an imaginary tie on his neck. “I think,” he said, clearing his throat, “we’re at cross-purposes here . . .”

The front door opened now, and the woman’s head jerked backwards as she checked to see who was emerging from the house. “Oh, Christ!” she moaned to Charles, her eyes glazed as though she were in agony. “If you don’t move now – you’re going to get it!”

Charles took a deep breath and turned towards the open door, his hand tightening on the car keys.

And there, standing on the doorstep – with a look of complete incredulity spreading on his face – was the man who had thrown himself on top of the car.

“
You
again, yeh bastard!” the man roared, stabbing a finger in Charles’s direction. “I don’t feckin’ well believe it!”

“Hang on there, now . . .” said Charles, holding his hands up to halt the man. A bit of reason was needed to sort this nonsense out once and for all.

“I’ll hang on to yer bloody neck!” shouted the man. Then, he started moving down the steps towards Mrs Lynch’s house, all bulging eyes and arm-swinging gestures.

Something about the man’s blazing eyes suddenly gave wings to Charles’s feet. All thoughts of trying to reason things out were cast aside and he found himself taking off down the street, the lunatic in hot pursuit.

Charles made it to the car – the man only a few yards behind – and threw himself inside. He fumbled for a moment getting the key in, and then started up the engine. Thankfully, it roared into life straight away. Then, he yanked the gearstick into position and went to put a heavy boot down on the accelerator when the driver’s door flew open.

In less than a second, a fist had caught him squarely on the cheekbone just under his eye. Then, another box descended on his ear, as he struggled to fend off the man and lock the car door.

“That’ll learn yeh!” the man roared as the car started to move away. “Comin’ round here looking for other men’s wives! I’ll feckin’ strangle yeh if I catch yeh near the house again!”

Charles moved away, his brain firmly fixed on trying to both manoeuvre the car and take in what the man was shouting, trying to glean any kind of meaning from all this violence and mayhem.

Then, as he pulled away along the road, he missed the two figures rushing towards the seamstress’s house. It was Mrs Lynch and her young son. She stopped in her tracks, waving frantically into the car as Charles passed her by, blood trickling down the side of his face.

But her over-regular customer saw neither the seamstress or her waves. His gaze was firmly fixed on the road ahead, and he was concentrating on getting back home to the safety of the shop and home before his life’s blood drained completely away.

Chapter 35

New York

The day before Aisling was due to leave, Frances Carroll insisted that she have a trip up to New York city to see some of the more famous shops.

“Thomas is well enough now to not miss us for one afternoon,” Frances said, “and we can’t have you going back to Ireland without seeing something of our wonderful city. Besides,” she went on, “Sam and Jameson can have a boys’ afternoon with that blow football game they bought him, and Bill Scott will drop you and me into the shops.”

Although she was hesitant about leaving Jameson, even for a few hours, Aisling agreed to go, because there were still some presents she wanted to buy to take back and she wanted to buy a small gift for Jameson and Thomas before leaving.

Thomas had continued to improve, and everyone gave a cheer of relief when they visited after breakfast Thursday morning, and saw that all his main tubes had been disconnected. This meant that he could now walk about more freely, and move around as much as his tender wounds would allow.

Aisling had explained to him that her holiday was coming to an end, and that she would be going back to Ireland in a day or two. The fact that he didn’t quite understand helped Aisling a little. Thomas just kept repeating that he would be strong again when she came back, and they would go out in the boat and swim in the lake. Aisling smiled in agreement but kept her eyes lowered from Jameson’s gaze.

The afternoon shopping was sunny and hot, and Aisling was delighted as they wandered around Frances Carroll’s favourite stores, which surprisingly were not the wildly expensive places Aisling had imagined.

“I still find it hard to be extravagant,” Frances confessed to Aisling over a coffee and hot cinnamon cookies with vanilla sauce. “I much prefer to search for a bargain. I get a real kick when I feel I’ve got something at a knockdown price.” She smiled now. “I remember when Sam and I first got married, and we had to count every penny. Everything we had went into the business in those days.” There was a far-away look in the older woman’s eyes for a moment. “I was Sam’s secretary, you know. The first secretary they could afford to hire.” She touched Aisling’s hand and laughed. “It’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”