Masters of the House (11 page)

In the end, the vacuum became intolerable.

“We've got to find out!” Matthew said to Annie, on their way to school. “We've got to find out what people are saying about Mrs O'Keefe.”

“What should we do? Go to church again?”

“It could begin to look suspicious if we start pumping people about Mrs O'Keefe every time we go there. We must try to think of something else.”

So they took thought and nattered, and they had almost decided that Annie should try to have some dressmaking lessons from an elderly, loose-tongued member of the St Joseph's congregation. (“It would be a good idea anyway,” said Annie, a born homemaker. “It would be so useful.”) Then an alternative possibility dropped onto the doormat as part of their meagre mail. It was Matthew who opened it.

“An invitation to a children's summer party at the Irish Club,” he said, his eyes speculative. “A lot of adults are always around at those. Parents and grandparents and that.”

“Who do you think should go?” asked Annie.

“You. You're good at getting the gossip.”

“Why don't we all go? We could say that we're giving Dad a rest.”

“I want to go!” shouted Greg, and Jamie joined in without knowing at all what he was demanding to go to.

“All right, we'll all go,” said Matthew. “I'll keep my eye on the kids while you . . .”

“But you're the elder,” objected Annie. “They'll talk more openly to you.”

“No they won't. I keep letting slip that I know something was going on involving Dad. That's what made Harry Curtin wary. You can go along and just look sweet and listen.”

The party was in ten days' time, on a Saturday in the early evening. It turned out to be a fine June day, and Greg and Jamie were high on excited anticipation all day long. Getting to the club didn't present any problems. They all took the bus into town and then the bus to Temple Newsam that went along the York Road. There were no problems about leaving their father, of course. He was left alone every weekday when they were at school. It was like leaving an old dog in the house that they knew would not get up to anything.

When they got off the bus, they had to cross the York Road by one of the iron bridges that spanned the busy road. This was an adventure for Greg, but Jamie was frightened by the roar of the traffic going in both directions under them. Once they were safely on the right side they quietened him with the prospect of the cakes and sweets and pop he could expect at the party. Irish Club children's parties were lavish in their provision of tuck. When they got to the club and went into the big room beside the bar, they were greeted heartily by all the adults officiating.

“Annie, Matthew! And who are these? Gregory and Jamie, is it? It's good to see you. Where's your dad? Did he bring you?”

“No, we came by bus,” they said, telling the truth in case
they had been seen getting off it. “To give Dad more time to himself.”

“I'll bet he can do with it. Is he coping all right? Sure and you four children must be a full-time job.”

“Oh, we are. He doesn't get many free moments. That's why we wanted to come today.”

Everyone nodded and accepted that, and they began mingling in. Matthew found that once the party started, he was treated as a kind of honorary adult. It wasn't thought that he was in need of sandwiches or sticky buns, but he was pressed into service to see that the others were well supplied. When the party games and races began outside, he was made an umpire. It wasn't as though he was the oldest there. Somehow, without knowing of their father's condition, the adults seemed to sense that he was head of his family. It was an odd feeling, at once pleasing and frightening. Matthew felt, as he had felt before, that he had been ejected prematurely out of childhood.

Annie did not find her task as easy as Matthew had forecast. A girl of twelve wandering round among the adults and listening to their conversation quite soon gets herself noticed. The bar and the other rooms around the club had plenty of groups of adults chatting happily, though there was little serious drinking going on as yet. Annie got herself a plate laden with children's party fodder and walked through the rooms apparently purposefully, really looking for likely gossip sessions. The trouble was that when any hard-core gossip was going ahead, the talkers tended to bend forwards and talk low, and it was impossible to sit near enough to overhear. It was only after wandering around with her plate for ten minutes or so that Annie managed to hear something that made her prick up her ears.

“Oh yes—gone. Just walked out of the house without so much as a good-bye.”

It was Gladys Harcourt, the woman whom Annie had hoped might give her dressmaking lessons. She was tucking into cakes and pastries with Miss Porter from St Joseph's, and they were blessedly oblivious to their surroundings and had not switched to hushed tones. Annie surveyed the lie of the land and picked on a chair near them but slightly behind them. Then she tucked into her food as though that were her only interest.

“Mind you, you couldn't say it was unexpected,” said Miss Porter with relish. “Even by that dim husband of hers, from what I hear.”

“Maybe not. Though by all accounts he was pretty shocked that she just took off like that.”

“Left all her clothes and everything behind, so they say.
That's
not like Carmen O'Keefe.”

“I should think she's found someone who'll provide. Off with the old and on with the new—clothes as well as men.”

“Has anyone any idea who it is?”

“There's been names mentioned,” said Mrs Harcourt wistfully. “But then they turn up at church and everything seems normal. Mind you, I never thought it could be anyone we'd be likely to know. I'd guess it's someone in a different league financially to any of the men at St Joseph's. Always in the past she's had pretty—well, pretty
basic
men, if you get my meaning. You knew what she wanted them for. When she got someone with plenty of the ready, she seized the opportunity with both hands.”

“Rob was home, wasn't he?”

“Oh yes. And his mother was visiting.”

“Couldn't that be why she took off without her things—to avoid a big row?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs Harcourt, pursing her lips in a sceptical moue. “Mind you, they don't know that she took none of her things, because neither of them knows what she had. . . . I wouldn't have thought Carmen was one to avoid a good dust-up, though. Rather enjoyed them as a rule.”

“Still, if she was sure she was wiping the dust of Leeds off her feet, she might not have thought it worthwhile having a fuss. So it could be one of her usual type of men.”

“Meaning beefy, not too bright, wanting a good time, or just wanting plain good old you know what.”

“There have been enough of those in the past—some of them from our congregation, I'm afraid. And a number from this club, too!”

“I suppose we all know some of the names . . . .”

Annie's heart thumped as they went through them.

“I should think we do! Brian Curtis, Rory O'Rourke, Vincent Maddigan, Dermot Heenan, Paul Mackenzie—”

“Right!” said Mrs Harcourt. “Most of them didn't make much secret of it. Dermot Heenan was cannier about it, but then he's a good family man.”

“Poor soul, with all those bairns to look after. He's doing penance if any man is. But some of the others—”

“Blatant! But what I'm not sure about is who she'd been going with recently.”

“Apart from Heenan, you mean?”

“Yes, apart from him.”

Miss Porter put up two fingers.

“Jim Leary and Andy Patterson.” Then she put up a third. “And there was a bit of talk about Kevin Holmes, but I don't know if there was anything in it.”

Annie memorised the names. Jim Leary and Kevin Holmes were vaguely known to her.

“Pretty much her usual types,” said Mrs Harcourt. “Any of them been seen at St Joseph's recently?”

“Not that I know of. Or was Jim Leary there a while back? But, anyway, none of them are great churchgoers. You'd be more likely to see them here. . . . Of course, there's something you've got to remember . . . .”

“What?”

“She had money herself—had had since her mother died earlier this year. So she could have taken off with any one of her navvy types, and they're blueing
her
money on a binge.”

Mrs Harcourt considered that carefully, munching flaky pastry and licking the remnants from her lips.

“Hmmm. It's possible, but I can't see it. You don't know her well, do you?”

“No.
Of
her, of course.”

“She's a hard, calculating bitch of a woman, pardon my language. Eye on the main chance and eager for any quick buck there may be around.” She shook her head. “Oh no, she'll not be paying for her pleasures if there's any other way of getting them. Careful—there's Mrs O'Keefe!”

Annie nearly jumped out of her skin. An image flashed through her mind of the body in the bloody yellow blouse—here, at the party, like Banquo in the play. Fearful she had drawn attention to herself, she started towards the room where the children's party was; but she heard a whispered, “How long's she been there?” and then a call of “Annie love, how are you? It's a long time since I saw you.”

She turned reluctantly and went towards them.

“Oh, Annie and I have seen each other not long since,” said Miss Porter. “Had tea together, didn't we, after church? Been having a quiet eat, have you?”

“No, I'm just on my way back to the party, ” said Annie.

“People say you're coping very well, you and your dad,” said Mrs Harcourt. “Is there anything I could do? I'd be only too happy to come round. . . .”

“Well, there is something,” said Annie, her heart still beating disturbingly. “There's no need to come round—Dad's coping wonderfully, and we all chip in and help—but I did wonder if you could give me a few dressmaking lessons. Quite elementary things—darning, mending and that. Mum taught me to do them, but I'm not really very good. And children's clothes seem so expensive. If I picked up things quickly, perhaps I could learn how to make simple things for Jamie.”

“Annie love, I'd be delighted. . . . Hello, Mrs O'Keefe! Glad you're still here. Enjoying the party?”

Annie turned, her reluctance almost palpable, to see a comfortably built elderly woman, with grey hair turning white, a friendly smile and sad eyes. She was dressed in old-fashioned fawns and browns, with sturdy brogue shoes and thick stockings.

“I'm still here, more's the pity. Helping that great lump of a son of mine. He's still at sixes and sevens, poor lad.” Her accent was warm and Irish, one that Annie was used to and found comforting.

“Still not got over it yet?” asked Miss Porter.

“Not entirely, though sure it's what I expected all along. And it's what anyone should expect if they marry a . . . a woman of that type—and I nearly used a word I shouldn't and I wouldn't want to use with a child around!”

“You never had any idea she'd take off like that?” asked Mrs Harcourt.

Mrs O'Keefe considered.

“Well, she was always what you might call restless. Or there are nastier words that describe it better. Even when I was in the same house, she was hard put to hide it. Always on the
lookout for . . . well, let's say, excitement, for cheap thrills. So when she just took off I was surprised, but then I was not surprised, if you take my meaning.”

“You never had any doubts she'd gone off with a man?”

Mrs O'Keefe raised her eyebrows eloquently.

“Lord above, no! Did you know Carmen? If you did you'll not be doubting she went off with something in trousers.”

“It must have been an awful shock for your Rob.”

Mrs O'Keefe pondered.

“Well, it was a shock, to be sure, but I'll not say it ought to have been, and I'll not say it was awful. To my way of thinking he's the better for her going; and the Fathers can say what they like about the sanctity of marriage, and I'd agree with them, but what's a man to do if his wife hasn't the first notion of honouring it? No, it was a terrible shock, but he'll get over it. Men are great babies, aren't they? They cry when they lose their lollies, but they're a whole lot better off without them more often than not.”

“He'll be back on the rig soon, won't he?”

“Yes, he will. Maybe that'll help. Give him time to think. If he sees it aright, he'll realise she's no great loss.”

“You'll be wanting to see how the little ones are doing,” said Miss Porter, turning to Annie with a smile, but clearly wanting to have the sort of no-holds-barred gossip that her presence was preventing.

“I suppose I'd better. Matthew's with them, though.” Annie tried not to seem reluctant.

“Annie lost her mother some months ago,” said Mrs Harcourt. She cast a meaningful glance at Mrs O'Keefe which Annie intercepted. “Ellen Heenan.”

Mrs O'Keefe immediately turned to her with a look of concern and special interest.

“Oh dear, how sad. I knew her. Sure and she was a good woman, and she'll be a great loss to you all. How are you doing?”

“Oh, we're all fine,” said Annie. Then, conscious she shouldn't minimise their loss, she added, “We miss her, though.”

“You will be doing. Is your dad coping well?”

“Oh, quite well. But there's a lot for him to learn.”

Annie felt Mrs O'Keefe's eyes on her and shifted from foot to foot.

“But your mother will have taught you to do most things, won't she?”

“Oh yes, there's a lot I can do.”

“It's better than being split up, isn't it?”

“Nobody's going to split us up!” said Annie fiercely.