The Miracle Man (22 page)

“Round, ye bugger! Round!” The dog headed for the opening. “Now, slow! Slow, damn ye!” The dog responded in the specified direction but not at the required speed and it fairly plunged through the gap in the hedge and raced down the short slope to the riverbank, with the table and Limpy following as they might.

“Bastard! The river!” Limpy managed to shout as his legs flew past each other in a blur of motion. “Stop!”

And the dog did stop, very suddenly and near the edge of the bank. Behind it, Limpy stumbled and fell flat on his face, his upper dentures thrown clean out of his mouth. The table sailed over the bank and across the water, its momentum yanking the toilet seat from the dog’s neck and almost removing one of its ears. There was a kind of slap as the table landed on the water, its load largely intact, and floated off down the river. Pushing himself up from the ground, Limpy watched it go.

“Whuck it!” he said. “Me bloody table’s gone – and the fwiggin’ pension book in the dwawer.”

Then, seeing the narrowed eyes that were turned upon him and the whip clutched tight in the white-knuckled hand, the dog took off into the bushes without waiting for a verdict. Limpy pulled himself round to a sitting position and stared at the table, which was slowly sinking in the brown water.

“And how many whifty whuckin’ pences will it be to buy a new table? Right awhter I strangle that whucker Healy!”

From the doorway of the Glens Hotel a cat shot out three feet from the ground, drop-kicked by the Winter Cook, who bellowed after it,

“Get out to hell! God curse ye for a dirty skitter! D’ye want to give us all dire rear like yerself? Jasus to-night, if I catch ye pawing round that steak pie again I’ll chop yer bits off ye, so I will!”

Mrs Megarrity watched the cat as it scurried down a little slipway towards the river’s edge, and then she turned back into the foyer to put her head round the door of the residents’ lounge and say,

“Good evening to ye, Mr Pointerly. And the Misses Garrison. Good evening, ladies.”

“Beautiful evening, Mrs Megarrity,” Mr Pointerly said with an enthusiasm he usually reserved for occasions other than talking to the Winter Cook. “Just the thing for a brisk walk, mh?”

“Ah well,” Mrs Megarrity said, “I’m sure that’d be very nice for them as had the leesure for such diversions, Mr Pointerly. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody anywhere. Some of us has to keep slaving away, so we have, mucking out toilets and making the meals.”

Margaret Garrison winced at this unfortunate conjunction.

“Not, I hope, in that order,” she said quietly from behind the book she had been pretending to read. Mr Pointerly said nothing. He had never been quite sure how to respond when under attack by a woman.

“And what, might I ask, is for dinner this evening?” Margaret said in a voice heavy with dread.

“I’ve done yez a nice steak pie – in between mopping up after that bloody cat. It’s been coughing up them balls again. I swear to God, it was going at both ends. Ten minutes ago you would’ve needed galoshes in that kitchen. D’ye know, I had to fire the mop out the back window, it was that bad.”

The colour in Margaret Garrisons face quickly faded to a sickly grey, her book was closed and her hands fell listlessly to her lap. Cissy’s face took on a pained expression, her lips curled at the corners as though she already had some of the horrid pie in her mouth. Mr Pointerly swallowed hard.

“Well,” the Winter Cook said in a doleful voice, “it’ll soon be your last meal, so it will.”

“Wh – what?” Cissy managed to get out. Although all three of them had often felt when eating the Winter Cook’s culinary efforts that it might be the last one they would ever consume, it was something of a shock for this to be announced in advance.

“Aye. Soon be yer last meal from me. McAllister’s putting
me out to grass for the summer, as usual – and that hallion Standish is coming in early. Ah, now – “ she held up a hand to restrain the expected wave of protest, “ – there’s no point in saying nothing. His mind’s made up. ‘Ye need a rest, Mrs Megarrity,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long winter.’”

“You can say that again,” Margaret mumbled.

“What’s that, Miss Garrison?”

“I say, ‘Will you be coming back again?’”

“Don’t be worrying yourself on that score. Come the first of October, I’ll be back.” She gave a smile. “Now wouldn’t it hardly be the same if the four of us wasn’t together through the winter months – just like a wee community. If McAllister would only pay half-decent wages, wouldn’t it be a pleasure working for yez.”

And with that she turned and headed back towards the kitchen to check the steak pie for fresh paw-prints.

In his chair by the window, “Chrome Yellow” lying unheeded beside him, Mr Pointerly sat looking with unseeing eyes at the far wall, his long yellow teeth working at his thin lips. Towards her sister Cissy, Miss Margaret was coldly silent, her book thrust before her face, although she had not turned a page in the last five minutes. Miss Cissy, only partially visible in the sunken seat of the couch, was clearly deep in thought, cocking her head first to one side and then the other as she considered something of obvious importance. At last she gave a smile and began to struggle out of her seat, her two little legs waggling like those of a trapped insect, until her feet reached the floor and gave better purchase. Her elder sister ignored her efforts and Mr Pointerly, who would normally have gone to her aid, was oblivious to everything save his own thoughts. When she got to her feet, Miss Cissy gave a little smirk at her sister – unseen from behind the book – and left the room.

A few minutes later she returned with a newspaper, sat
down again and began to leaf through it. From behind her book Miss Margaret sneaked a look at her sister, and was surprised at what she saw. Cissy had never been known to read a newspaper in her life. Up and down the columns, page after page she scanned, until she came to a section near the back of the newspaper. She smiled and started to move her index finger slowly down a column tightly packed with small print. Miss Margaret gave up watching her and retreated behind her book. By the window Mr Pointerly was slowly shaking his head at some remembered incident. Suddenly Miss Cissy gave a little squeak of delight and examined more closely what she had found. Smiling, she turned to Mr Pointerly.

“Would you have a pen I could borrow, Mr Pointerly?”

Margaret looked out sharply from behind her book. If Cissy was going to do a crossword puzzle, it would be the first time, as far as Margaret knew.

“Of course, of course.” His long bony hand dived inside his jacket like a heron after a fish. “I always carry a pen,” he said, withdrawing a Parker, burgundy-coloured and with gold trim, which he held out to her, “although nowadays, there doesn’t seem to be anyone left to write to.”

“Thank you, Mr Pointerly,” Cissy said and after checking the print once again she carefully made a mark against one of the columns. Margaret was intrigued beyond measure but would not lower herself to ask her sister what she was about. With the pen now as a pointer, Cissy set off down the columns again, after some moments stopping with a “Ha!” of satisfaction and making another mark against this second column. Then, holding her finger at the first mark on the page, she struggled from her seat and went to where her sister sat, the book even closer to her face.

“Margaret,” Cissy said. After a moment Margaret slowly lowered her book.

“There you are, Margaret, I knew it. The man is a crook.”
She thrust the newspaper towards Miss Margaret who reluctantly put down her book and looked at what was being pointed out to her. It was the page which gave the prices from the previous day’s London Stock Exchange trading and next to “Commonwealth and Orient” was the figure of 998. “Almost ten pounds a share, Margaret! And look here.” The tip of her small finger stabbed at the second mark. “Consolidated Uranium, 843, eight pounds forty-three pence each. Those are just a little bit more than the fifty pence each he offered us, aren’t they?” Miss Cissy smiled broadly, and the newspaper rustled as her hands trembled. “And with about five thousand shares in each, that makes over – ” she looked at some figures she had written in the margin of the newspaper, “ninety thousand pounds! Ninety thousand, Margaret! I think perhaps that should be enough to live on in the meantime, don’t you? At least until we get a good lawyer and sue that little crook.”

Now she wouldn’t even need to think about using any of John’s five hundred pounds and could give him the good news when she returned it to him. Her eyes wide in disbelief, Margaret stared at the figures until her sister lowered the newspaper and folded it. And when Cissy left the sitting-room to take the newspaper back to Dermot, Margaret blinked, raised her book very close to her face and let the big tears roll down her cheeks.

Dermot took the newspaper with him when he went upstairs for his evening meal. She was like a little timid mouse, Miss Cissy, and always in the shadow of her sister. He didn’t know what was going on between them, but since that man had come to have dinner with them, something had changed. He hoped it was to do with their finances, because the time was fast approaching when he would have to ask them to leave, and although he would happily have put Miss Margaret out – and smiled while doing so – he would find it much more difficult
with Miss Cissy. Of course, if this miracle business really took off, he could well manage without them – and old Pointerly. That would be three more rooms to let at premium rates. He might need all he could get. Today he had taken another two bookings, one for two nights from a man with a Dublin accent, and another from an Englishman who had rung up and asked if he had any vacancies for Wednesday and Thursday nights – with ensuite bathroom and shower, no less. Dermot had told him that it was the Glens Hotel in Inisbreen, not the Shelbourne in Dublin, then the man had laughed when he was told the price, asking if that was for one night or two and saying that he would take it. They could be very peculiar sometimes, these English.

In their private sitting-room, Agnes sat on the couch reading a golfing magazine, her hair tied back with a red bow, her nails filed and painted to perfection, the make-up on her pretty face a complement to her brown-checked skirt and oyster-coloured silk blouse.

“Isn’t she just like something out an advert,” Mary Hanlon had said.

“Aye, for frozen fish,” had come the Winter Cook’s reply.

Dermot tried to get to the small kitchen unnoticed but only made it halfway across the room.

“And what’s keeping Mrs Megarrity with the dinner this time?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be here in a minute, Agnes. I think she had trouble getting a pot big enough to put the cat in.”

As of late, Agnes ignored his attempts at humour.

“And where’s Patrick? I don’t know. I try to instil some discipline into that boy, but I get precious little help from you.”

“I told him to come up. He’ll be putting the bike away.”

“Ah yes, the new bicycle. What prompted this sudden fit of generosity?”

“Agnes, he’s been wanting a bike for ages.”

“Yes, but why now, Dermot?”

Dermot shrugged and moved towards the kitchen.

“Why not?”

It had been worth it to have the little bugger keep his mouth shut. It was bad enough having that conniving old bitch Megarrity screwing him for another seven fifty a week over it. God alone knew what would happen if Agnes ever found out about Nancy. In the kitchen, which had been a storeroom before it was converted and still had an old black telephone screwed to the wall, Dermot rang downstairs. When he asked how long it would be before dinner was sent up, Mrs Megarrity said,

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr McAllister, but do I look like an octopus?” and when Dermot was stuck for an answer she put the telephone down. He went back into the sitting-room and said,

“Mrs Megarrity says dinner’ll be up in a couple of minutes.”

“Very likely,” Agnes said.

Dermot poured himself a whiskey and settled in an armchair with the newspaper, idly wondering what was in it that Miss Cissy had been so anxious to see. Agnes said to him,

“I’ve been asked by Father Burke to join a committee.”

Dermot grunted from behind the newspaper.

“He’s setting it up to help him decide what should be done with the Mass Rock site.”

Dermot lowered his paper.

“Well, you can tell Father Burke he’s relieved of that responsibility. I own the land now, and I’ll decide what’s happening to it.”

“Including charging people for visiting a religious site? Dermot, you can’t possibly do it. It’s the first thing they’re going to ask me about. It’s immoral – making money out of religion like that.”

“You mean, like the Church does? I can see why he wants
you on his crusade committee. It’s just a way of getting at me by the back door.”

“Oh, is that all you think of me as, a back door?”

“You know what I mean. This is a business I’m trying to run, Agnes. I can’t put sheep on that land now that people are trampling all over it. Don’t you see? It’s a golden opportunity to make some money – and you ought to be interested in that. You’re good enough at spending it.”

“Oh, I see. I might’ve known it would come down to that eventually. So it’s all my fault, is it?”

“Did I say that?”

“Oh, I know the way you think, Dermot McAllister.”

Dermot sank behind his newspaper.

“Dear God. Save me from mind readers.”

“All I know is, I’ll be there at the first committee meeting tomorrow night. At least someone around here is interested in the Church.”

Dermot gave her his full attention.

“Tomorrow night? Where is this meeting?”

“In the chapel house, of course.”

“You’re going to the chapel house tomorrow night?”

“Unless you can find some way of transporting it here.”

“But I told you I was going out tomorrow night. I’ve already arranged for someone to do the bar.”

“Well, you’ll just have to stay in. You won’t get Bernadette Tierney to babysit at this short notice. I can’t miss this meeting. It’s an honour to be asked.”

Dermot loudly shook the creases out of his newspaper before sinking behind it again, a thunderous look on his face. There was little point in arguing. When Agnes got something into her head, there was no deviating her from it. What the hell was Nancy going to say? He had promised her big things for the following night. Well, one, to be precise. He stifled a smile. She was such an innocent, but even she would begin to wander
if time after time he couldn’t perform. It had never happened before either with Agnes or anyone else. It was bloody worrying. Surely to God he wasn’t going senile, at his age. It must be the situation, the – atmosphere. It was all wrong. Shagging in the front seat of a car wasn’t exactly the ideal setup, and he had already experienced the results of trying it in the house during the day. What he needed was a better venue. Surroundings more conducive to romance. And Nancy’s house was no good. Her old mother looked as if you couldn’t scratch your arse without her whipping out the rosary beads for a novena. Then a glow of satisfaction lit up Dermot’s face. If he couldn’t go to Nancy, then Nancy could come to him, when the Winter Cook had gone home, Agnes was out at her meeting, and Patrick was fast asleep in bed.