The Disenchanted Widow Read Free Page B

At one window a set of lace curtains was half drawn. At another a piece of faded chipboard was doing duty as a windowpane.
    In front stood two fuel pumps.
    Farther down the yard, an open-fronted garage had a sign proclaiming Grant Auto Repairs in sun-bleached lettering. Several vehicles were scattered about in various stages of disassembly. A field to the rear was strewn with more bits of rusting car parts. A bomb might have exploded some years before and no one had bothered to clear up the mess.
    Apart from a couple of hens pecking the ground, there was little sign of life.
    The widow sounded the horn and waited.
    “Can I get out and play with them birds, Ma?” asked Herkie, fascinated by the hens and thirsting for his freedom. Sitting on the record player for so long had given him pink welts on the back of his legs.
    “No, you stay where you are, son. God knows what sort of lunatic lives here. Ye might end up in a pot o’ Lurgan stew or something, and we wouldn’t want that.”
    “Och, Ma, that’s silly. Cannonballs do that.” Herkie began bumping his head off the car ceiling to relieve his boredom.
    “And how d’ye know a cannonball doesn’t live here? I saw a film called The Texas Chainsaw Masker once, and these mountain men did that to a couple of city people who stopped to get petrol off them. Hauled them into the kitchen of a house just like that, and made a dinner out of the pair of them that fed them for a whole—”
    “God, Ma, what’s that ?”
    Bessie hoisted herself up in the seat. “What?”
    “There!”
    A small, fat animal was streaking toward the car, grunting and snorting.
    “Jesus!”
    “Is it a dog, Ma?”
    “No, son. It’s a bloody pig!”
    She was just reaching for the ignition key when a middle-aged man emerged from the depths of the garage, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He cut an odd figure as he loped up the yard: tall and rangy, clad in a set of outsize overalls that flapped about him like tenting in a gale. The piglet, sporting a black backside and matching face, raced to him.
    He stooped down to stroke it.
    “What did I tell you? Only a lunatic could live—”
    “Didn’t hear ye there,” said the man, ducking close to the car window. “But Veronica here’s got better ears than me.”
    Bessie recoiled from his unshaven jib and barn-owl eyes magnified behind thick lenses. “That’s all right,” she said. “Three pounds’ worth of four-star, please.”
    “Ye’re not from round these parts, are ye, ’cos I never seen ye afore. Then again, I don’t get many comin’ round here anyway.”
    How surprising! “No, we’re just passing through.”
    “Headin’ far, are ye?” He rubbernecked Herkie while waiting for the pause to be filled by explanation, but Bessie had no intention of disclosing too much to anyone—least of all this stranger.
    “Just over the border.”
    “Ye’ve got a bit tae go then. Ye’ll be wantin’ yer oil and watter checked?”
    The widow had never thought of checking those. That had been Packie’s job.
    “Well, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    He filled the tank, then raised the bonnet.
    “Ma, can I go to the toilet?” Herkie was clutching his crotch, face crumpled in pretend agony. He reckoned he’d be safe enough, she supposed, now that the ax murderer was fully occupied with the car.
    “How bad d’ye need-a go, son?”
    “I’m burstin’, Ma!”
    She stuck her head out the window. “Can my boy use your toilet?”
    “Aye, just go behind the hedge there,” came the reply. “That’s the on’y toilet there is.”
    “Did ye hear that? No luxuries here, son. Watch that pig doesn’t take a bite outta yer bum.”
    “Och, Ma!”
    Herkie slunk off to the field. Veronica, in the inquisitive manner of piglets, trotted after him.
    It was stifling in the car, and the raised bonnet was obscuring her view. Bessie pushed open the door.
    “Everything all right?” she asked, sidestepping what appeared to be Veronica’s poo—well, she