2004 - Dandelion Soup (20 page)

Padraig stood before the counter and waited. He licked his finger and ran it along the sugary counter and popped the tiny crystals into his mouth. They fizzed on his tongue, melting deliriously against the top of his mouth.

Eventually the old woman turned round. She stared at Padraig in surprise as though he were a friendly ghost. Then, as if someone had put a match to an oil lamp, her face lit up into a radiant smile. She leaned across the counter and patted Padraig’s head, ran her fingers down his cheek and cupped his chin. Then she stood back and looked him up and down. If he’d been a horse, Padraig thought, she would have checked his teeth.

Padraig pointed shyly to a tray full of what looked like long twisty doughnuts sprinkled with sugar.

He held up one finger and beamed.

The woman lifted two cakes from the tray and wrapped them in a piece of paper and handed them to him. He offered her a handful of money but she shook her head and laughed gaily.

The cakes were still warm and fresh from cooking. He waved to the woman and she laughed again and waved back. The curtains jingled wildly as he stepped back out into the lane.

He was so hungry that he wanted to swallow the cakes whole, but instead he bit off small pieces, rolling them slowly round his mouth. He had to deliberately slow himself down. The cakes were delicious, warm and sugary, and they melted in his mouth and he didn’t want the feeling to end. When he’d taken the last bite he licked the paper, chewed it into a ball and swallowed it. Then he turned out of Pig Lane and into a road that was called the Calle San Lorenzo.

The Calle San Lorenzo was a steep hill that led down towards the sea. Pig Lane was scruffy in a pretty kind of way, but here the houses were one-storeyed hovels. On the window-sills, cats with ripped ears slept with one eye open, their tails twitching like snakes ready to strike. Dead and dying cockroaches were scattered across the dusty road.

Padraig stepped carefully on the cobbles, avoiding the cockroaches and keeping an eye out for slivers of fish guts and the twisted volcanoes of wormy dog turds that littered the road.

A small boy wearing only a long soiled vest watched him slyly from a doorway, blinking his red-rimmed eyes, while a fly paddled in a weeping sore on his cheek.

Outside the houses, a line of ancient men sat in silence on a rickety bench. Their faces were as wrinkled as currants, their eyes milky with age. Thick hair grew from their noses instead of their heads. The few teeth they had were long and wobbled as they chewed on tobacco. They chewed like lazy cows and launched gobs of spit into the morning air, gobs as big and slimy as oysters. Some of them had clay pipes clamped tightly between their leathery lips, and they blew beautiful smoke rings high into the breeze.

A gust of wind came up the hill, bowling the cockroaches away across the cobbles, scattering the cats from the window-sills. The old men turned their eyes towards Padraig and watched him intently. A smile started up on the nearest old face and travelled eerily along the line.

Padraig felt a frisson of fear run up his backbone. He had a terrible urge to run, to escape from the old men’s gaze.

He walked on quickly. Suddenly, the old men began to stamp their wooden clogs like flamenco dancers warming up. Padraig shivered and began to walk faster. The old men stamped their feet faster and faster. Padraig broke into a trot and the old men’s laughter followed him down the hill.

At the bottom of the hill he turned swiftly into a dark, narrow alley and walked slowly along it. It was similar to Pig Lane except that the houses were smaller, squashed even closer together.

Suddenly, he stopped halfway along the alley and stared in fascination. There, in a small grotto set into a wall of one of the houses and covered by thick glass, was another statue. There were small drops of moisture on the back of the glass as though the virgin’s breath had misted the glass during the night.

She looked lonely behind the glass, shut away from the world. He would have liked to break the glass and take her out give her an airing and blow the cobwebs off her. She was a small slender virgin with creamy-coloured skin and a faded blue robe. But she had a gormless look about her, as if she wasn’t quite all there. There were red paper roses entwined round her tiny feet.

Padraig stood on tiptoe and took a good look at her. It looked as if the statue was made from china, like the one in the baker’s shop, and not precious metal. He didn’t think this was the lost Irish virgin and decided not to take a photograph. He didn’t want to waste his film.

He walked on slowly, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder; he felt sure that someone was following him. He stepped quickly into a doorway and waited, keeping his breathing quiet. He peeped out of the doorway. There was no one there, but he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that someone was on his tail.

When he came to the end of the alley he found himself in a large square. The square was deserted and silent except for an old woman who was sweeping dust and pigeons from outside her house.

In the centre of the square there was a fountain. He ran across to it excitedly and jumped up on to the edge.

In the middle of the fountain a life-sized boy statue stood on a raised block of stone.

Padraig gawped in astonishment. The boy was as naked as the day he was born. And he had his mickey on show for the whole of Spain to see. And out of his mickey, in a wide arc, poured a stream of non-stop water.

The boy was smiling and pissing at the same time! God almighty, if he’d ever dared to do that in Ballygurry he’d have been locked up and the key thrown away. Wait until Miss Drew and Miss Carmichael had a look at this. They’d be fainting and swooning all over the place.

Taking his eyes reluctantly from the statue, he kneeled down, dipped his hands into the fountain and let the water trickle between his warm fingers. He would have liked to take off all his clothes like the statue boy and frolic about in the fountain. Instead, he splashed his face, enjoying the coolness on his warm cheeks. Then he cupped his hands and drank thirstily, the water was sweet and cool and lovely on his lips.

Standing up, he walked slowly round the edge of the fountain, one foot in front of the other like a tightrope walker in a circus.

He imagined the roll of drums in the big top. He pretended to lose his balance. Wobbled dangerously. He imagined the horrified gasp of the audience. He pictured their faces, bog eyed, mouths hanging open, holding their breath.

He steadied himself. Took a few more faltering steps. He stood on his hands. Let his feet drop over his head. He took a low bow and another. The crowd roared.

Then he stood quite still, looking at the statue. He copied the pose. Feet about six inches apart, hip bones tilted, bum clenched. He let his bones slip into the same shape as the boy. He practised the same lopsided smile, the cheeky tilt of the head, the one eyebrow raised. He held the pose.

All of a sudden he realized that the old woman had paused in her sweeping and was watching him carefully, leaning on her broom and squinting at him with a very odd look on her face.

Embarrassed, in case she thought he was going to pull out his mickey and piddle in the fountain, he jumped down and walked across the square towards the church, hands in his pockets, whistling nonchalantly.

The church didn’t look like any of the churches he’d ever seen in Ireland. It was as big as a castle and made of scratchy pale stone with rough windows cut out from the walls. There was a door big enough for giants to pass through without stooping. High up near the roof a cloud of bees buzzed busily and then disappeared one by one into a large crack in the wall.

Padraig stood in the shade of the church wall, rubbing the palm of his hand against the stone surface. It felt warm and rough to the touch.

It was then that he noticed the man. He was sitting on the ground, soundly asleep, with his head and back resting against the wall.

Padraig stiffened with excitement. He crept closer. The man wore a faded black cloak, wrapped round his body even though it was warm. He had the biggest feet that Padraig had ever seen. He could be charged ground rent for them. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed hat that was tilted so far forward it covered most of his face. On the ground by his side stood a dusty knapsack and a silver flask.

Padraig smiled. This man was the Old Pilgrim. Peregrino Viejo. The man he had seen in the photograph in Mr Leary’s scrapbook back in Ballygurry.

Padraig held his breath. There was a yellow butterfly resting on the brim of the man’s hat. It was the most beautiful butterfly that he had ever seen. Each time the man breathed, the butterfly’s wings riffled gently.

What was it Mr Leary had said about him?

That he was as elusive as a rare moth?

That it was rumoured he was an axe murderer?

Padraig kneeled down and peeped cautiously up underneath the hat.

The man wasn’t sleeping at all. Two amused eyes stared back at Padraig.

Then suddenly the church bells began to clank and clatter. Pigeons flew up from under the eaves and a dog barked from a doorway. Padraig leaped back in alarm. The noise echoed loudly round the square and he put his hands over his ears to keep out the sound.

He looked up at the church. These were the strangest sounding bells that he’d ever heard. It was as though a lunatic were up in the tower bashing them with a frying pan.

Moments later when he looked round, the man was gone. He’d vanished into thin air. Padraig looked anxiously across the square but there was no sign of him at all.

Shite! Double shite and hairy backsides. He’d had a chance to talk to the Old Pilgrim and he’d messed it up just because a few old bells had started up a racket.

There on the ground, though, was a blue silky scarf that the man had left behind. Padraig picked it up. It was old and worn, of the most glorious shade of blue he had ever seen. He wrapped it tightly round the fingers of his left hand. The material was so soft that it made him shiver at the touch. He lifted it up to his nose. It smelled gloriously of wood smoke and fresh tobacco, of horses and dandelions.

He walked slowly back across the square and kicked out disconsolately at a stone. He was real mad at himself; he wasn’t much of a detective if he’d let the Old Pilgrim slip away from under his nose. Retracing his steps back past the misty virgin, he turned into the Calle San Lorenzo and once again he had the feeling of being watched.

He climbed the steep hill and walked warily past the old men. They ignored him as he passed, they were sleepy now, their faces turned to the sky like tired sunflowers. He turned into Pig Lane. The window shutters were open on the houses now and smoke coiled up lazily from some of the chimneys. The smell of coffee and fried bread filled the air. Water dripped down from the flowerpots on the balconies. A bedraggled cat stalked across the cobbles. The caged birds on the balconies sang their thin little songs as though they would burst.

As he was about to go into Sefiora Hipola’s house, the curtain parted and two women came out. It was the pretty but miserable girl who was soon to be married and the one with the white teeth and the black eye. Last night the pair of them had looked so down in the dumps and yet now they looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world. They walked quickly past Padraig, whispering furtively together, and hurried away down the lane without seeming to notice him. As they turned out of Pig Lane, he listened to the fading echo of their rising laughter; women, he thought, could be very odd.

Miss Drew woke with a start and sat up on the side of the bed. Nancy Carmichael was still asleep and muttering incoherently under her breath. She was a very restless sleeper and had cried out in her sleep several times in the night Miss Drew looked across at her and smiled. She’d known Nancy Carmichael ever since they were fellow pupils who had sat side by side in the classroom at the Ballygurry school. Chalk and cheese they had been. Nancy had been the cleverest girl in the whole school; she’d been good at everything she’d turned her hand to. There wasn’t a subject that gave her any trouble. Miss Drew had been a hopeless student who had struggled with her schoolwork. She’d copied most of her work from Nancy when she could. She’d longed to have the brains that Nancy had, the quick way she understood things, and yet for all Nancy Carmichael’s cleverness there was something odd about her too.

There had always been a jittery nervousness about her. It was easy to rattle her and the slightest criticism reduced her to tears. Everyone in Ballygurry had known that she’d pass the scholarship to Saint Mary’s convent school, and she did with flying colours, but at the last minute Mrs Carmichael wouldn’t let her go. Instead Nancy Carmichael had left Ballygurry and, it was said, had gone to stay with an aunt in Cork, not that that fooled anyone. It was all the talk that she’d gone into a hospital for people with bad nerves, and when she came back she never did go to the convent school but stayed at home looking after the house and her mother until she’d died a few years back.

Miss Drew smiled to herself and carefully removed her hairnet and hairgrips. She knew now why Nancy Carmichael had never had the confidence she should have had. If she hadn’t rifled through the trunk that day in Ballygurry and seen the pile of letters then she would never have known the truth. Now it was all quite simple. Oh yes, she’d been envious of Nancy Carmichael for all those years, but not any more. Oh no! Miss Nancy Carmichael would be at Miss Drew’s beck and call for the rest of her days when she realized that her secret was out.

She sat listening to the sounds of the strange house. There was a faint scrabbling noise somewhere in the room.

Mice.

Rats.

She crossed herself, slipped her feet quickly into her shoes and tied up the laces.

Her stomach rumbled noisily.

It must have been that disgusting soup last night There was all kinds of muck in it, funny-looking beans and lumps of bread. Ugh! She could have been poisoned. Food fit for abbots her foot. Fit for pigs more like.

Her stomach gurgled again and a sharp pain made her flinch. She dressed hurriedly, picked up her wash bag and towel and made her way downstairs.