The Miracle Man Page 5

  Heading the big car towards the village, Canon O’Connor passed the Misses Garrison out for their evening walk. As he had always done to every local, he waved a greeting to them, although they were not parishioners of his. Along with a mere handful of others – Frank Kilbride, owner of the Inisbreen Stores was one – they were Protestants, and now and again, on what the visiting minister considered a special occasion, the sisters would attend a service in the little Church of Ireland church that sat among pine trees near the shore road. In the small graveyard beside the stone building, their father and mother were buried, and sometimes, if Margaret only wanted a short walk and was feeling particularly sentimental, she would announce to Cissy that it was the graveyard this evening and would she hurry up and get ready. But this time it was the longer route they would take, from the village to the bridge a half mile up-river, then along the chapel road, but going in the opposite direction, and finally across the strand and through the village back to the hotel – about two miles in all. Margaret insisted on it. It was good for the constitution, she said, and yet she dismissed Cissy with tutting and a wave of her hand when she asked why, in that case, did she always feel on the point of collapse when they finally reached the foyer of the Glens Hotel.

  Now they walked silently side by side between the burgeoning hedgerow fuchsia and honeysuckle, each woman with a walking stick from their father’s collection. Ever since they could remember, they had taken walking sticks on outings such as these. They were a sign of purposefulness. Not just a stroll, such as the locals might take, but a walk. Quite different. For want of anything better, most of the locals had always gone on foot in the old days, and certainly without walking sticks, whereas the Garrisons – father, mother and two daughters – had done so out of choice. And didn’t the walking sticks say who they were.

  They had passed the chapel house garden and were approaching the row of cottages on the other side of the road that ran down to the bridge when Margaret cleared her throat as she always did before she made what she called “an announcement”, and said to her sister,

  “You know, Cissy, that since Mother died, I’ve always taken care of the – financial side of things.” It was probably the first time she had ever broached the subject with Cissy, or anyone else apart from her adviser in Belfast, Mr Rowan, who was even older than she was.

  “Yes, Margaret,” Cissy said with her usual air of indifference. She was watching a large bird which had settled on a tree by the river.

  “And with what Father left us – and Mr Rowan’s invaluable assistance, of course – we’ve been quite comfortable over the years. Mr Rowan has advised me on investments and so forth – I won’t bother you with the details – but generally I left it to his superior knowledge. And he’s done well by us. Very well. But now, as he says, unfortunately money is tight, and we have perhaps even been living a little beyond our means.” A small sigh escaped her lips. “Although, heaven knows, it has been a modest enough existence.” Dreams of another life of grand houses, extended tours and a respected place in high society had faded and gone like the morning mist from the hills. Still, the two women had never worked a day in their lives, nor had the thought of doing so ever entered their heads. “The fact is, Cissy, that according to Mr Rowan, there is very little left in the bank and even if we sell the few remaining shares – which Mr Rowan’s son has kindly offered to buy from us at a very reasonable price – we will only have enough to last about another three or four months. Then – I simply don’t know what we’re going to do. I’ve been at my wits’ end about it for weeks.” Her feeling of despair momentarily gave way to one of resolution. “But I believe there is a possibility of getting something from the government – much as the thought of it pains me – after all of the taxes Father paid. I just don’t know if I could bring myself to ask for it. Mr Rowan said he could perhaps look into it for us, but of course, as we soon won’t have the resources to continue paying him . . . ”

  Cissy was intently watching the bird as it flew to the river bank and began pecking at something in the undergrowth.

  “Have you been listening to me, Cissy?”

  “Of course, Margaret.”

  “And don’t you have anything at all to say on the matter?”

  “I suppose we’ll have to apply for Social Security.”

  Margaret looked at her younger sister in surprise.

  “For – what?”

  “Social Security. They give you money if you haven’t got any.”

  “They – give you money? Who gives you money? And – how do you know about this?”

  “I’ve heard the locals talking about it. Lots of them do it. If they don’t have a job – and sometimes even if they do – the Social Security pays them. They get a cheque every fortnight in the post.”

  “A cheque – every fortnight?” A slight tremble crept into Margaret’s voice. “And how do you get this – cheque?”

  “I’m not sure. I think you just apply.” She had lost sight of the bird now and was looking around for something else to occupy her attention. “It’s some kind of government thing.”

  Margaret gave a little smile at the mention of the government.

  “Indeed. A government thing. Well, that sounds very much like what we require. Social Security.” The words had a kind of warm, protective feeling about them. “Of course, we should need considerably more than the locals, what with hotel expenses and the higher standard of living that we need to maintain, but I’m sure Mr Rowan could sort all that out for us. He’s coming down to see us in a week or two. I’ll discuss it with him then.” She bestowed an unusually warm smile on her younger sister, and with a fresh spring in her step and a renewed vigour in the swing of her walking stick, she stepped out for the bridge over the brown river. Three or four times along the road she said slowly and under her breath, “Social Security,” savouring each word and its golden prospect.

  Later that night, on the mountain road to Castleglen, Dermot McAllister pulled his car off the tarmac and into a clearing shielded by bushes from the few passing vehicles. Switching off the ignition, he sat for a few moments and looked down at the glen below, seeing the pinpoints of light scattered on the slopes grow more numerous as they reached Inisbreen, where they coalesced into a tiny cluster of house lights and street lamps. Above, the last light in the western sky tinged pink the few fingers of cloud that rode above the valley, stragglers lingering there before making their passage eastwards across the sea. From this position, Dermot could almost see the piece of land adjoining his, which was across the road from the house of Nancy Quinn who was at this moment sitting beside him in the car, the land which he had yet to persuade her to sell to him. But he was working on it, and tonight he would bring the big gun to bear. He smiled in the darkness. If he got the timing right, she would give in without a fight. Having taken a long look at the scene, he gave a sigh before turning to Nancy who slipped her hand onto his arm and said dreamily,

  “You thinking the same as me, how beautiful it is?”

  “Well, sort of. I was thinking how beautiful it would be if I could join those fields of mine with that one of yours. Then I could run sheep across the whole lot and get access directly to the road.”

  “Oh you’re not still on about that, are you? Is that all you brought me up here for? To talk about land?” Her lips thrust forwards into a pout. “I wonder sometimes why I ever took up with you at all.” She turned away from him and hunched her shoulders into a sulk. “I don’t think I like you any more, Dermot McAllister.”

  “Ah now, don’t be like that, Nancy,” he said, caressing her leg with a big hand, “Sure you know I couldn’t do without you. But that land’s no use to you on its own. What are you going to do with it, eh?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  Dermot’s hand slipped further up her leg and underneath the short skirt.

  “I could help you out there.”

  She slapped his hand away, though not too hard, the
n pulled herself nearer the door. “You only ever wanted me for one thing,” she said.

  “Well, one thing at a time, I always say. I was never greedy. And I couldn’t think of a person I’d rather steam up car windows with than you, Nancy. Now come on over here and I’ll show you how much I love you.”

  By gentle teasing and slow cajolery he gradually drew her to him, and the embrace into which they fell soon quickened into a flurry of wild kisses and frenzied gropings, fingers racing here and there amidst an embarrassment of fleshly riches.

  “Oh Dermot!” Nancy gasped as she tore at her skirt to remove it. “God save us, we shouldn’t be doing this!”

  “I know,” he said, his hands diving for his belt buckle, “but nobody’s perfect. Put the seat back, Nancy! Put the seat back, I’m coming on over!” Fumbling down the side of the seat she pulled on a lever, throwing the back of the seat and herself flat all at once. Nancy gave a little shriek followed by a louder one as something hairy pressed against her face. She went quite rigid.

  “What? What the hell’s wrong, for Christ’s sake?” Dermot demanded.

  “A rat! There’s a rat on my face! Get it off, Dermot! Get it off me!”

  Reaching out in the darkness, he felt the offending article.

  “It’s not a rat. It’s a – bit of a sheepskin rug I was taking to a fella.” Dermot grasped the dead lamb which he had meant to take to the vet that very day and pushed it further back on the rear seat.

  In the confined space they struggled to remove the appropriate garments. When his hand finally guided hers to the protrusion beneath his shirt, she gave a little gasp and said,

  “Oh – my – God!” with a shudder of fear and pleasurable anticipation. And then, “Oh – yes, Dermot. Yes!” Dermot reached out to steady himself on the door. He found that no further movement was possible.

  “Come on Dermot – please!” Nancy reached up for his shoulders.

  “I – can’t. Jasus, Nancy, I can’t move.”

  “What d’you mean, you can’t move?”

  When at last he spoke, his voice was grave. “I think – one of my legs is – paralysed.”

  “What? Jesus Mary and Joseph! Paralysed? God, I knew we shouldn’t have done this, I knew it. It’s a judgement on us. What’s my mother going to say when she finds out her unmarried daughter’s been shagged by a cripple?”

  In the enclosed space, Dermot’s shout was like an explosion.

  “What the hell’s your mother got to do with it? My life could be hanging in the balance and all you can think about is what your mother’s going to say.”

  Through sobs, Nancy asked,

  “Which – leg is it?”

  Slowly she felt down the leg he indicated and then she began to snigger.

  “Oh, I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

  “You eejit,” she giggled, “you’ve pulled your trousers down over the gear stick.”

  “Well it’s not bloody funny. I could’ve been paralysed for life.”

  Her hand slipped round from the side of his leg to the front of him.

  “As long as this isn’t paralysed,” she said, and guided him towards her. As they commenced a slow and steady rhythm, the car springs creaked, setting up a counterpoint to a dull clash from two buckets in the boot.

  “God, this sounds like a tinker’s cart,” Nancy said, between gasps.

  “How’s that, Nancy? Okay?”

  “Oh, that’s – fine, Dermot, just – fine.”

  “Good. There’s something you could do for me.”

  “Oh God – yes – anything.”

  He suddenly stopped moving.

  “Sell me that field. I’ll give you a good price for it.”

  “Dermot, don’t stop.” She pulled him tightly against her. “I’ll think about it. I promise you. Only – don’t stop now.”

  With the movement of the vehicle the dead lamb on the seat began to rock back and forth, one outstretched leg slowly moving towards Nancy. After a few seconds she said in a timid voice,

  “Dermot. There’s something – tapping against my head.”

  “Ah, come on now, Nancy,” he said with a chuckle, “I’m not that well endowed.”

  “What? I said there’s something touching my head.” Awkwardly, she stretched an arm behind her and slowly her fingers closed around the cloven hoof. Her voice was a high-pitched whine. “Jeeesus! It’s the devil! He’s come for us!”

  “What now? What, for feck’s sake? This is like sleeping with a banshee.”

  “There’s – something – in this car! Jesus, Mary and Joseph make it go away, Dermot! Make it go away, pleeease!”

  “God Almighty would you stop leaping about, woman. You’ll have it wrenched off me.” He reached up and thrust the leg away. “Dammit, it’s only a lamb – and it’s dead.”

  “Dead? You told me it was a sheepskin rug!”

  “Well it is nearly. Now come on for God’s sake. Where were we?”

  “I’m not doing anything with a sheep watching me.”

  “Jasus wept! It’s dead!”

  “I’ll still know it’s there. Those big eyes. You’ll need to get rid of it.”

  “Give me patience. All right, all right, I’ll get rid of it. Mind your knee there, for God’s sake!”

  Nancy moved to allow Dermot clear passage to the driver’s seat, and then she said, “What’s that?” She reached down with her hand to feel what was resting against her knee and then gave a little giggle.

  “What?” Dermot almost shouted. “What the hell now?”

  “It’s – “ Nancy broke into laughter, “ – it reminds me – the other day in the butcher’s – there was a sausage on the floor – “ she gave a shriek of laughter, “ – and somebody had trod on it!”

  “Is it any bloody wonder, with all your shrieking? Let go of me.”

  “And this woman says to her husband – “ Nancy gasped, “thinking I couldn’t hear – ‘I see,’ she says,’somebody’s stood on that sausage. What’s your excuse?’” As Nancy shook with laughter Dermot angrily flung himself towards the driver’s seat, catching a blow from the gear stick that temporarily put all notion of sex out of his head and banging his back on the steering wheel. Throwing open the door he hauled the dead lamb after him. Then standing with his trousers round his ankles, with Nancy hanging out the door pointing and laughing, he held the lamb by the leg, whirled it once round his head and flung it away into the darkness. When he got back into the car, she said to him through her giggles,

  “Oh God, you should’ve seen yourself!”

  “Very bloody funny, I’m sure,” he said.”

  “I couldn’t help laughing, Dermot. You were such a sight. But darling – you know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Oh yeah? I sometimes wonder.”

  “Oh but of course I do. Don’t you know I’d do anything for my big hunk?” Nancy gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Including sell you that piece of land.”

  Dermot sat upright in his seat.

  “You would? Really? Ah, you don’t know how much that means to me, Nancy.” He leant over and gave her a hug. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”

  “Mind you,” she said, “there is a drawback.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “You’ll have John McGhee as a tenant and him hardly paying a penny in rent. You know the old rogue actually came round yesterday looking for a rent reduction? I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Never misses a trick. So what did you say?”

  Nancy laughed. “I told him some people would pay big bucks to live so near a holy place like the Mass Rock and in fact I should be putting his rent up, not down.”

  “I’m sure that made a big impression on that old heathen.”

  “You’re right. He said it hadn’t done him any good and him a cripple all his life.” Nancy slowly began to run her hand up Dermot’s leg. “So I told him he’d just have to keep praying for a miracle. You know what he said? ‘The only miracle’ll be th
e day a Quinn parts wi’ money.’ The cheek of him.”

  But Dermot hadn’t heard the last part of what Nancy had said. He was staring out of the windscreen and through the trees to where the village lights glowed in the valley below, as an idea, a wonderful idea, slowly formed in his mind.

  chapter four

  One evening about two weeks after Dermot McAllister at last acquired the piece of land near the chapel from Nancy Quinn, Limpy was sitting in the small crowded bar of O’Neill’s public house in the village of Inisbreen. Behind the counter Mrs O’Neill presided over the proceedings from her high wooden stool beside the cash drawer, her wrinkled hands plucking coins and notes from hand and counter and dropping them into the till with the speed and skill of a conjurer. While her son Danny pulled pints, wrenched the caps off stout bottles and measured out whiskey and rum for the thirsty customers – and all at a trot – “the Mother”, as he called her, sat serenely in the corner surveying the bar, her eyes and ears missing nothing. Her hawk-like features and formidable bulk had made many a customer give second thoughts to challenging her ruling on standards of language and behaviour in her establishment. Arbitrarily, using no known logic or published code of conduct, and with the plaintiff having resource to no court of appeal, least of all his peers, she would eject customers without explanation as to reason or length of sentence. “You! Out!” was her declaration, accompanied by the pointing of a long and unsavoury finger at the miscreant who, unless he was very swift, found himself in the village street with his unfinished drink still on the bar. She kept it to sell to other customers, they said, but not within her hearing. Humour was not a strong point with Mrs O’Neill, any more than was conversation. Many years before, when Danny was still at “the wee school”, Mr O’Neill had run off with one of the barmaids, young enough to be his daughter, as Mrs O’Neill would have it, a black-haired temptress with scarlet lips, low-cut tops and skirts so short you could clearly see her intentions. Years passed before word began to drift back to the village that Mr O’Neill and his seductress were running a pub in Birmingham and had three children. There was renewed speculation as to how Mr O’Neill had managed to have even one child with Mrs O’Neill, or indeed had succumbed to marriage at all, as it was generally agreed that he should have legged it in the opposite direction the moment she hove into view. It was also an established fact that, ever since, she had been taking it out on Danny and her customers.