Brewster had said so.
Henrietta Strong had given her son a bad night and a return of his chronic indigestion. Lorcan resented both; they affected his concentration. Concentration was paramount in a job such as his—in his day job and his “other” job here in his room. He doubted that Sir Joshua Reynolds ever had a lapse. But then Sir Joshua most likely didn’t have a mother fretting about leg problems, or the threat of having to do stand-in as a bartender whenever family duty called.
He went downstairs.
“Would tha’ be you, Lorcan?”
He found the landlady hard at work over the stove in the back kitchen.
“Good morning, Mavis.”
“Hey up, Lorcan!” she said cheerfully. No sooner was he seated than she was bearing a fully loaded breakfast plate to the permanently set table: gingham cloth, cups turned bottoms-up, and a cruet set in the form of ceramic squirrels atop a log.
The landlady, a pensioner with maroon hair and no eyebrows, hailed from Yorkshire but had settled in Belfast thirty years earlier, having married a drywall plasterer from Ballymurphy.
“Tha tea’s in ’t pot. And there’s more in ’t oven, if you want ’t.”
“Thanks, Mavis. No, this is quite sufficient.”
“Didn’t hear yer come in yesterday, I didn’t,” she said. “Ye got me note then, from yer mam?”
“Oh, yes. Thanks for that, Mavis.”
“Hope ever’thing’s all right?” She brought her own fry to the table and sat down. “Yer mam must get lonely on her own, she must. Hope she’s not poorly.”
Mavis liked to pick and poke at her lodgers for news. The parlor bay window did not supply enough gossip for her needs. It was at such times that Lorcan realized his life would be infinitely less complicated were he to live alone. But then he’d never lived alone; there’d always been a woman conveniently disposed to do for him. First his mother, followed by Mrs. Campbell, who ran a boarding house for students from the art college. And latterly, Mrs. Hipple.
“My mum poorly?” he said. “Oh, no, not poorly—just the usual. She worries too much.”
“Expect she’d like ye settled. A mam always likes a son to be settled afore she goes, like. You’s a nice catch for a woman, Lorcan.”
Don’t you start, he thought. One middle-aged woman fussing over me is bad enough.
There came a creaking of floorboards from above. The landlady raised her missing eyebrows to the ceiling. “That’ll be Miss Finch, it will,” she said, as she always did.
Lorcan lost his appetite at once. But he knew he couldn’t excuse himself until he’d made suitable inroads into the fry. Mrs. Hipple would otherwise be insulted.
“The tea’s a wee bit strong, Mavis,” he said. “Could I have some hot water, please?”
“Course you can, luv.”
In the thirty seconds or so that it took Mavis to maneuver herself out of the chair and cross to the stove, Lorcan had deftlyswept a slice of bacon, a sausage, and half a tomato into the napkin on his lap and stuffed the lot into his pocket.
“God, is that the time?” he said, getting up. “Really got to be going.”
Mavis turned, kettle in hand, mouth open. “But—”
“Not to worry. I’ll save myself for your lovely supper this evening.”
He was down the hallway and out the front door before Miss Finch had time to place the square toe of her vinyl pumps on the first tread of the stairs.
He gave thanks to his gods for yet another escape.
Chapter eight
F or all the misfortune and stress they’d encountered in the day, Bessie Halstone and her son slept soundly that night under the fusty covers and creaking timbers of Aunt Dora’s cottage.
They awoke the next morning to the sound of a cock crowing and the drone of a tractor a few fields distant. Never before had they experienced tranquillity to match it.
“Can I go out and play, Ma?” asked Herkie, climbing out from under a tartan rug on his couch bed and pulling on his clothes.
Bessie yawned and threw back the
Henrietta Strong had given her son a bad night and a return of his chronic indigestion. Lorcan resented both; they affected his concentration. Concentration was paramount in a job such as his—in his day job and his “other” job here in his room. He doubted that Sir Joshua Reynolds ever had a lapse. But then Sir Joshua most likely didn’t have a mother fretting about leg problems, or the threat of having to do stand-in as a bartender whenever family duty called.
He went downstairs.
“Would tha’ be you, Lorcan?”
He found the landlady hard at work over the stove in the back kitchen.
“Good morning, Mavis.”
“Hey up, Lorcan!” she said cheerfully. No sooner was he seated than she was bearing a fully loaded breakfast plate to the permanently set table: gingham cloth, cups turned bottoms-up, and a cruet set in the form of ceramic squirrels atop a log.
The landlady, a pensioner with maroon hair and no eyebrows, hailed from Yorkshire but had settled in Belfast thirty years earlier, having married a drywall plasterer from Ballymurphy.
“Tha tea’s in ’t pot. And there’s more in ’t oven, if you want ’t.”
“Thanks, Mavis. No, this is quite sufficient.”
“Didn’t hear yer come in yesterday, I didn’t,” she said. “Ye got me note then, from yer mam?”
“Oh, yes. Thanks for that, Mavis.”
“Hope ever’thing’s all right?” She brought her own fry to the table and sat down. “Yer mam must get lonely on her own, she must. Hope she’s not poorly.”
Mavis liked to pick and poke at her lodgers for news. The parlor bay window did not supply enough gossip for her needs. It was at such times that Lorcan realized his life would be infinitely less complicated were he to live alone. But then he’d never lived alone; there’d always been a woman conveniently disposed to do for him. First his mother, followed by Mrs. Campbell, who ran a boarding house for students from the art college. And latterly, Mrs. Hipple.
“My mum poorly?” he said. “Oh, no, not poorly—just the usual. She worries too much.”
“Expect she’d like ye settled. A mam always likes a son to be settled afore she goes, like. You’s a nice catch for a woman, Lorcan.”
Don’t you start, he thought. One middle-aged woman fussing over me is bad enough.
There came a creaking of floorboards from above. The landlady raised her missing eyebrows to the ceiling. “That’ll be Miss Finch, it will,” she said, as she always did.
Lorcan lost his appetite at once. But he knew he couldn’t excuse himself until he’d made suitable inroads into the fry. Mrs. Hipple would otherwise be insulted.
“The tea’s a wee bit strong, Mavis,” he said. “Could I have some hot water, please?”
“Course you can, luv.”
In the thirty seconds or so that it took Mavis to maneuver herself out of the chair and cross to the stove, Lorcan had deftlyswept a slice of bacon, a sausage, and half a tomato into the napkin on his lap and stuffed the lot into his pocket.
“God, is that the time?” he said, getting up. “Really got to be going.”
Mavis turned, kettle in hand, mouth open. “But—”
“Not to worry. I’ll save myself for your lovely supper this evening.”
He was down the hallway and out the front door before Miss Finch had time to place the square toe of her vinyl pumps on the first tread of the stairs.
He gave thanks to his gods for yet another escape.
Chapter eight
F or all the misfortune and stress they’d encountered in the day, Bessie Halstone and her son slept soundly that night under the fusty covers and creaking timbers of Aunt Dora’s cottage.
They awoke the next morning to the sound of a cock crowing and the drone of a tractor a few fields distant. Never before had they experienced tranquillity to match it.
“Can I go out and play, Ma?” asked Herkie, climbing out from under a tartan rug on his couch bed and pulling on his clothes.
Bessie yawned and threw back the
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