The Disenchanted Widow Read Online Free PDF

had been left to the hapless Donal. That night, Packie and Aidan lost their lives in a head-on collision. Taken out by a Belgian nun, of all people, in a pair of built-up shoes, driving on the wrong side of the Belfast-to-Comber road.
    Packie had never confided to her the hiding place of the £10,000.
    Then the mayhem. Oh, the mayhem, gushing through the days and nights, swamping everything. She grimaced, her whole body tensing at the memory of it: the doorbell sounding in the early hours, a stern-faced cop, “Ye’d best sit down, Mrs. Lawless.” Packie’s mutilated face on a mortuary slab. The Dentist barging into the funeral home. “I’m givin’ you a couple-a days tae bury yeruseless husband, ’cos I’m considerate like that. Then I’ll be back for my money.”
    She’d torn the house apart, combed the attic and every conceivable place of concealment.
    Not a thing.
    It was typical of Packie Lawless. In life he’d given her nothing but bother. And he was still tormenting her from beyond the grave.
    “Ma!” Herkie was calling out from the top of the gatepost where he’d perched himself. “I think I see something comin’!”
    Her eyes snapped open. She snatched up the blouse.
    “Where, son?”
    “Over there! It’s comin’ through a field. Maybe it’s a tractor.”
    Quickly doing up her buttons, she went to the gate and hauled herself up next to the boy. He was right. She could just make out a vehicle turning onto the main road. It was headed in their direction.
    “Thank God for that. Get down from there, son. Quick!”
    Through the heat haze they watched as a smudge became a blob; grew into a shivering, jellylike mass; sprouted wing mirrors, a set of headlights, and a very grimy windshield. The windshield revealed what looked like a Martian wearing a cap and goggles; the vision finally mutated into an unshaven mug wearing thick glasses. Their most recent acquaintance, Mr. Grant, drew to a clattering halt alongside them in a battered green truck. He wound down the window.
    “I kinda knowed ye were gonna have a bitta bother, Mrs. Hailstone. But I didn’t think it’d be as soon. That’s yer fan belt, I’d say.”
    “ Hal stone,” Bessie corrected him. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She resented being dependent on this stranger. In her experience, a man never did a favor for a woman without expecting a return on his investment—usually of an unseemly nature—with added interest. She draped her arms about Herkie’s shoulders and held him in front of her like a shield.
    “As I say, I could fix it for ye when I get that part in Willie-Tom’s.”
    “That would be great, Mr. Grant. I’m much obliged. Is there a B-and-B near here?”
    “Naw, there’s nuthin’ about here—on account that nobody comes here.”
    You don’t say. “Not even in Tailorstown?”
    “Naw, nuthin’ there, neither.” He adjusted his glasses. Inspected a cloud formation. “But y’know, I maybe could help ye out.”
    “Oh, no, you’ve been too kind already, Mr. Grant.” A picture of a shack with sagging sills and a warped door loomed up before her. Spending the night on a rubbish tip would be preferable. “I wouldn’t dream of impo—”
    “Now, it isn’t the garage place. It’s another house on the far side o’ the town. It belonged to me Aunt Dora, but she died a couple-a months ago and it’s been empty since.” Bessie’s ears pricked up. “Ye could stay there the night, if ye want, ’cos I wouldn’t see a body stuck, so I wouldn’t. An’ sartainly not a woman like yerself, Mrs. Hailstone.”
    Now that was a different matter altogether. She hadn’t reckoned on the scruffy mechanic having a second property. Besides, she was in no position to decline; she was effectively homeless. And he was offering to fix the car the next morning.
    “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Grant,” she said, gifting him with a wide smile. She looked down at Herkie. “Isn’t it, son?”
    “D’you make Lurgan stew, Mr.