Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [32]
“Who’s to know?” Peg’s index finger came up in a cautionary gesture. “Remember, that was a long time ago. Back then there were few questions asked and there were even fewer answers given.”
“What did he say, Peg? What did he do?” Nora leaned forward, insisting on the truth. “Did he think that his mother knew all along?” She waited, exasperated. “Don’t tell me he never asked, never confronted her or that Mickey Dolan or the wife?”
“He did what Matt usually did in those days. He got himself drunk and headed for home.”
“A double blessing, is a double grace,” he announced with Shakespearean flourish as he flung open the kitchen door and tried to focus on the image of his mother and his wife both busy by the hearth. The words were barely out of his mouth when a down draft from the open chimney sent a thick belch of black smoke back into the room.
The mother was by the door in an instant and with a quick shove pushed him out of the way and shut the door. He lost his balance and toppled over.
“A fine state you’re in and you with enough drink in ye to flatten a sailor. Get up outa that. Yer a disgrace to yer country.”
“Ah,” he muttered, attempting to get to his feet, “enterprise … great pitch and moment…lose the name of action. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, now there’s the bucco had the right idea when it came to dealing with the women.”
“For the love of God, Matt, would ye quit yer cod actin’ and get to yer feet. Get up outa that. Whatever it is yer blatherin’ about, makes no sense to me. Get up, will ye.” A strong young arm caught hold of him and urged him to his feet.
“Ah wife! The fair Ophelia. ”
“Mother of God, you’re gone cracked in the head with all that oul’ rubbish you’ve been readin’. Here, catch a hold of me.”
“Is it my wife has come to help her husband in his hour of need? Thank you, madam.” His hand touched the tight curve of her swollen belly and he let it linger there for a moment.
She tensed, tightened her grip on his arm and then continued to pull him upwards. “Look, over there, Matt, by the fire. My brother Mickey, he’s been here tonight with a little cradle was mine once. It could do with a cleanin’ but it’ll be grand for the child.”
He steadied himself, turning slowly in the direction she was pointing. A rough wooden cradle sat on the floor by the hob.
“Now isn’t Mickey Dolan the great fella? Knew exactly when to turn up trumps!” He moved unsteadily across the room, stopping for a moment to size up this new treasure and then bending over, he peered into the empty cradle.
“Now there’s a fine looking youngster if I ever saw one, and would you look at the size of it!” He moved closer, making little clucking noises. “Now, tell me, wife,” he continued. “How is it that our little babby has whiskers?”
There was a hollow silence in the kitchen. The two women glanced quickly at each other.
He straightened up and turned to smile, a strange baleful smile, first at his mother then at his wife. “How is it,” he repeated, taking on a menacing tone, “that this babby has whiskers?”
“It was a bit of a miscalculation,” his wife rushed to explain, “a wee biteen of a mistake, with the time, is all.”
He moved in closer, peering into her eyes, his whiskey breath in her face. “Confess yourself to heaven / Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come, / And do not spread the compost on the weeds, / To make them ranker. ”
“Jesus in the garden! Do we have to stand around here all night listenin’ to this oul’ gibberish? Your wife told ye, she made a mistake. Don’t ye understand or do ye want it straight from the Holy Ghost himself … in several languages?”
He whipped around to face his mother, eyeball to eyeball. “Beware of entrance to a quarrel; mother dear / But being in, / Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee. ”
His mother stared back, cutting straight through the glazed eyes. She held the stare for a moment then turned away and reached for the Tilley lamp. Holding the light high, she leaned forward, bringing her face close to his. “Yer an eejit, Matt Molloy, of the first order.”
The fire spat in the