The Disenchanted Widow by Christina McKenna

Mrs. Hipple’s Lilliputian bathroom, fetchingly done up in shades of periwinkle blue and whorehouse pink, Lorcan switched on Radio Ulster and set about his ablutions.
    The news items were mixed.
    “ Pope John Paul’s private secretary will today visit the Maze Prison for a second time. It’s understood that he will again try to persuade hunger striker Bobby Sands and his fellow protesters to call off the strike. President Ronald Reagan stated that the United States would not intervene in the situation, but said that he was deeply concerned at events. Bobby Sands has been on a hunger strike for a total of fifty-nine days, and his condition… ”
    Fifty-nine days, Lorcan thought. Fifty-nine days without food of any kind! He couldn’t even begin to imagine how that must be. He’d read somewhere that after only ten days the body begins to eat itself for sustenance; after twenty days toxins have built up in the liver, kidneys, and brain, leading to dehydration, cracked skin, extreme cold intolerance, vital-organ shrinkage, blindness, bleeding joints…the list went on and on. And that was “only” the physical pain. What about the mental torture? Twenty days, thought Lorcan—and tomorrow Bobby Sands will have been on a hunger strike for three times that. The man was surely a goner.
    He stared at himself in the mirror—lean face, high-domed forehead, Roman nose, eyes the color of ice chips, not unhandsome—and wondered briefly how he might look after fifty-nine days of starvation.
    “… news just in of a security alert on Royal Avenue, Belfast. Police report an incendiary device, discovered in the changing rooms of a boutique close to the City Hall. The area has been cordoned off following a telephone warning, and army experts are examining a package .”
    Lorcan sighed and continued washing.
    He pricked up his ears at the third news item. A man named Donal Carmody had been abducted from his home in West Belfast in the early hours of the morning. There was talk of IRA involvement. He thought of the ominous note he’d received yesterday and sighed deeply. The dreaded Thursday evening appointment was nearing. There was no way he could miss it. No way whatsoever. His hands shook as he pulled the plug on the washbasin and dried his face.
    Back in the safety of his room, he dressed quickly. He favored a bohemian look: jade-colored pin-cord pants with matching velvet jacket, a white poplin shirt, a satin fleur-de-lis waistcoat in brandy tan twinned with a butterfly bow tie in a similar design. Choosing what to wear to the office was seldom a problem for Lorcan. He’d seven white poplin shirts, one for each working day and two spares for evenings and weekends. Mrs. Hipple very kindly laundered and ironed them, folded them, and placed them in his chest of drawers. He’d three velvet jackets: jade, russet, and black; seven pairs of socks in corresponding hues, and four pairs of black shoes. His main extravagances were his cravats and bow ties, handmade by Robinson & Cleaver. He’d more than twenty. He liked to wear a different one each day.
    All thoughts of running into Miss Finch and the ghastly appointment were now being supplanted by snatches of his mother’s phone call. They kept swirling about in his head like laundry on a slow spin.
    Was he all right? It wasn’t safe in Belfast: far too many bombs. What if he got caught in one and lost an arm, or a leg, or aneye—or worse still, both eyes? How would he work then? When was he coming home? Was he getting enough to eat? Did Mrs. Hipple change his bed regularly enough? And finally, the news guaranteed to make him feel guilty: Her legs were playing up. The Crowing Cock was busy at weekends especially, what with Hipster Fred and the Heartbeats doing the Golden Oldie Friday session and the Beardy Boys every other Saturday. Weekdays were manageable, but only just. Bunions and varicose veins. She couldn’t be on her feet with those. A clot could go to the heart; Dr.