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Authors: Christina McKenna
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through, are yis?”
“In that case we’ll just have the scones.”
“Right ye be.” Miffed, Josie headed back through the beaded curtain to fix their order.
There was a notice board near the door. Now, if only to pass the time, Bessie got up to take a closer look at it. Meanwhile, Herkie, bored beyond measure and annoyed that he wasn’t getting his ice cream, pulled the sugar bowl toward him and began pouring salt into it.
The board played host to a collection of FOR SALE and WANTED notices.
Missing, spanneil dog brun with white ears and black paws
Reward oferred
Kittens FREE to good home.
Handie Man for higher to do wee odd jobs about the place. Can do plumming, tiling, painting and the like. Ring 226485
Get your fortune told by Madame Calinda as seen on the TV!!!
This Thursday one night only in Slope O’Sheas Bar!
No time waisters
The usual stuff, Bessie thought to herself, which was more than could be said for the spelling in these parts. But there was one advertisement, neatly typed, that stood out from the rest.
Wanted: Priest’s Housekeeper
Temporary position for three months.
Must have pleasant manner and good catering skills .
Apply in writing to: Father Connor Cassidy,
St. Timothy’s Parochial House, Tailorstown.
The widow found herself scribbling the details in her diary. At that moment, the seed of a plan that might bear fruit had dropped onto the fertile soil of her imagination, almost as though the sower in the parable had cast it, albeit unwittingly.
She returned to the table just as the tea and scones were arriving. She saw that Herkie had spilled most of the sugar and was busy graffitiing the tabletop with what looked suspiciously like life-size male genitalia, but which he earnestly claimed was the head of Dumbo the Elephant.
Josie, holding her tray poised above the table, glared at Herkie’s artwork.
“That table was clean afore yis sat down at it,” she said accusingly. “And look at the state of it now.”
Bessie Halstone shook her head gravely, determined to humor Josie. “I do apologize,” she said. “It’s the artist in him, I’m afraid.”
She took the tray from Josie.
“We’ll just move to another table. Oh, by the way, would you know where I’d find St. Timothy’s parochial house?”
“Ye might try lookin’ for it beside St. Timothy’s parish church, like a Christian wud.”
Be gracious, be gracious , Bessie told herself.
“Thanks.” She eyed the tray of tea and scones. “Oh, those look nice. Did you make them yourself?”
“Bake everything meself in here. It’s me café, after all.”
Oh dear! No time at all in the town and she’d made an enemy already.
Chapter nine
S o, how are you faring with the Reynolds?”
Sir Edward Fielding-Payne croaked out the query from behind the vast desk in his antiquated, book-lined study. He’d been curator of the museum for so long he was beginning to resemble one of the exhibits, with his world-weary, watery gaze; the cloud of brittle gray hair riding a bony, waxlike visage; the knobbed knuckles like shot scallions. He would linger over words and was so deliberate in his manner that one could be forgiven for believing he was measuring the time left to him and savoring its bald scarcity. Seventy-four years on the planet had earned him that at least.
“The Reynolds, sir?” replied Lorcan. “Slow, but extremely well nonetheless.”
“I take it you’re still grappling with her intimates?” Sir Edward, a man of the old school—or, better said, the old-boy school—spoke a form of Victorian English that often made his communication stilted.
“Sorry, her whats?”
“Her…her embonpoint, man! Bosoms.”
“Oh, yes, another week should do it, I’m happy to—”
“Sir Joshua,” the curator interjected, bringing a crooked forefinger to his mouth to stifle a cough, “was a rather interesting fellow.”
Being of solid Anglo-Irish stock, Sir Edward did not pay much attention to the opinions of
“In that case we’ll just have the scones.”
“Right ye be.” Miffed, Josie headed back through the beaded curtain to fix their order.
There was a notice board near the door. Now, if only to pass the time, Bessie got up to take a closer look at it. Meanwhile, Herkie, bored beyond measure and annoyed that he wasn’t getting his ice cream, pulled the sugar bowl toward him and began pouring salt into it.
The board played host to a collection of FOR SALE and WANTED notices.
Missing, spanneil dog brun with white ears and black paws
Reward oferred
Kittens FREE to good home.
Handie Man for higher to do wee odd jobs about the place. Can do plumming, tiling, painting and the like. Ring 226485
Get your fortune told by Madame Calinda as seen on the TV!!!
This Thursday one night only in Slope O’Sheas Bar!
No time waisters
The usual stuff, Bessie thought to herself, which was more than could be said for the spelling in these parts. But there was one advertisement, neatly typed, that stood out from the rest.
Wanted: Priest’s Housekeeper
Temporary position for three months.
Must have pleasant manner and good catering skills .
Apply in writing to: Father Connor Cassidy,
St. Timothy’s Parochial House, Tailorstown.
The widow found herself scribbling the details in her diary. At that moment, the seed of a plan that might bear fruit had dropped onto the fertile soil of her imagination, almost as though the sower in the parable had cast it, albeit unwittingly.
She returned to the table just as the tea and scones were arriving. She saw that Herkie had spilled most of the sugar and was busy graffitiing the tabletop with what looked suspiciously like life-size male genitalia, but which he earnestly claimed was the head of Dumbo the Elephant.
Josie, holding her tray poised above the table, glared at Herkie’s artwork.
“That table was clean afore yis sat down at it,” she said accusingly. “And look at the state of it now.”
Bessie Halstone shook her head gravely, determined to humor Josie. “I do apologize,” she said. “It’s the artist in him, I’m afraid.”
She took the tray from Josie.
“We’ll just move to another table. Oh, by the way, would you know where I’d find St. Timothy’s parochial house?”
“Ye might try lookin’ for it beside St. Timothy’s parish church, like a Christian wud.”
Be gracious, be gracious , Bessie told herself.
“Thanks.” She eyed the tray of tea and scones. “Oh, those look nice. Did you make them yourself?”
“Bake everything meself in here. It’s me café, after all.”
Oh dear! No time at all in the town and she’d made an enemy already.
Chapter nine
S o, how are you faring with the Reynolds?”
Sir Edward Fielding-Payne croaked out the query from behind the vast desk in his antiquated, book-lined study. He’d been curator of the museum for so long he was beginning to resemble one of the exhibits, with his world-weary, watery gaze; the cloud of brittle gray hair riding a bony, waxlike visage; the knobbed knuckles like shot scallions. He would linger over words and was so deliberate in his manner that one could be forgiven for believing he was measuring the time left to him and savoring its bald scarcity. Seventy-four years on the planet had earned him that at least.
“The Reynolds, sir?” replied Lorcan. “Slow, but extremely well nonetheless.”
“I take it you’re still grappling with her intimates?” Sir Edward, a man of the old school—or, better said, the old-boy school—spoke a form of Victorian English that often made his communication stilted.
“Sorry, her whats?”
“Her…her embonpoint, man! Bosoms.”
“Oh, yes, another week should do it, I’m happy to—”
“Sir Joshua,” the curator interjected, bringing a crooked forefinger to his mouth to stifle a cough, “was a rather interesting fellow.”
Being of solid Anglo-Irish stock, Sir Edward did not pay much attention to the opinions of
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