The Misremembered Man Read Free

tightly across her chest.
    “This egg’s hard! You know I can’t eat anything hard with my digestion.” The air crackled with the static of Elizabeth’s sudden anger. “Dr. Moody says I have to be very careful.”
    “It can’t be hard.” Lydia concentrated on a tiny bunting that had just landed on a garden post. “I gave it the usual four minutes with Lettie McClean’s egg timer.”
    Every heirloom and antique in Mrs. Devine’s home bore the previous owner’s name, a custom which Elizabeth had picked up from her mother and unwittingly passed on to her own daughter. Lydia had been raised among a ghostly crowd of relatives and friends who still lived among a clutter of crockery and bric-a-brac.
    “Ah, Lettie McClean, now there was a woman; so good with her hands.” Elizabeth lapsed into one of her spiels about her old, departed friend, the egg quite forgotten. “Could turn her hand to anything, so she could. Her flaky pastry was the talk of the parish and…”
    The bunting suddenly rose up and circled the garden before swooping back to light on the same post, its russet breast athrob. Lydia marveled at its beauty, quite lost to her mother’s ramblings.
    “…it was the butter, you see. She once told me that her secret was the Kerry Gold. Never any of that nasty lard everyone else used. Her apple tarts won the Harvest Thanksgiving three years running, you know.”
    Without warning, the bird took flight and Lydia took her own cue. She turned, annoyed to see the toast and egg barely touched.
    “Mother, I know all about Lettie McClean’s tarts. I’ve heard about them often enough. Now eat your breakfast before it goes cold. I’ve got to get on .”
    She had almost shouted the final word, but just managed to retain her composure.
    “Don’t want any more breakfast,” Elizabeth said defiantly, pushing the tray away.
    “Really, Mother, you’ve eaten nothing. All that good food going to waste.”
    Elizabeth did her best to dismiss the patronizing reprimand. How times have changed, she thought, and her eyes began to well with tears. The mature woman by the window was no longer the child she had doted on. Lydia had grown free of her grasp, had outgrown the ponytails and ankle socks, the dolls and coloring books, and those bedtime stories that had transported her into sleep. Oh, how her mother wanted those times back again! When she alone was the fairy queen who could open doors and create magic in the little girl’s world. When she had the power to make her daughter believe in dreams.
    She struggled to remain stoical, still conscious of the importance of staying in control, and fumbled in the little tapestry bag for her glasses.
    “You still haven’t told me why you’re all dressed up,” she said, in no time at all back to her old battling self.
    “Mother, it’s the first day of my summer holidays. Did you forget? I dressed up because I felt like it. Because I’m free.” She turned back to the window. “Well, nearly,” she added ruefully.
    “Oh good, then you can take me to the hairdresser’s. I have the Women’s Institute trip on Thursday and I promised Beatrice Bohilly that I’d make the effort, if only for your dear father’s sake.”
    She patted her hair with both hands, as if checking that it was still part of her.
    “He always liked me to look my best,” she continued. “And he probably would not approve of my purple-pansy rinses. But you know sometimes he could be very strict, your father could, especially when it came to a woman’s adornment; lipstick was for the harlots of Rome and jewelry for the traveling classes and—’
    “In that case I expect you’ll be wanting to be up and ready soon. I’ll be back in a minute.”
    Lydia hastened to remove the tray, fearful she might get trapped in yet another tangled web of her mother’s reminiscences.

Chapter three
     
    A fter his midday meal, Jamie McCloone dozed contentedly by the fire. At his feet, Shep, the collie, was wrestling