Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom? (22 page)

Milly and the Mullingar doctor had moved away from the graveside and, facing each other, only inches apart, were engaged in earnest conversation. He took a pace towards them but his knees buckled and, stepping back, he seated himself on the end of the wheelbarrow and waited for his head to clear.

Milly said, ‘It’s very kind of you to come, Dr Paterson. I didn’t expect to see anyone from home today.’

Michael Paterson said, ‘Home?’

‘I mean Mullingar. Mr Coghlan’s house.’

Dr Paterson smiled. ‘Harry had too many bookings or he’d have been here too. He told me to be sure to pass on his condolences.’

Milly paused. ‘Dr Paterson, may I ask you a question?’

‘By all means.’

‘The baby in my mother’s belly, did he … did it …’

‘Suffer?’ Michael Paterson said. ‘No, Milly. It was too undeveloped to be aware of anything. It would be gone as suddenly as a candle snuffing out,’

‘I see,’ said Milly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Milly,’ the doctor said, ‘how are you?’

‘Better than I thought I’d be. How long will I have to wear mourning?’

‘It’s usually a year for widows but in your case I think a month or perhaps two will be enough. Mrs C will keep you right on that score.’ He hesitated. ‘Unless your father is released, as well he might be, and you decide to stay in Dublin.’

‘No,’ Milly said firmly. ‘Whatever happens, I will not be staying in Dublin. Will you be in court on Monday?’

‘Harry and I will be there if you need us,’ Dr Paterson said. ‘Your friend, Mr Boylan, seems to have recovered.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Nervous exhaustion by the look of it,’ Dr Paterson said. ‘Not uncommon in men of his age.’

‘I’ll take him home and let his sisters look after him.’

‘Will you be able to handle him on your own?’

‘Oh, I can handle Mr Boylan,’ said Milly with a little grimace.

She put out her hand, palm up and cradled Dr Paterson’s hand, palm down, just as Blazes called out crossly, ‘Milly, help required.’

NINETEEN

A
lthough they’d taken his watch, along with his other possessions, Bloom was conscious that the hour of final parting was at hand. He had lain awake since just after dawn watching the band of grey daylight on the cell wall grow ever larger until, before the clink of breakfast trays sounded on the galleries, he’d risen, washed in a basin of cold water and dressed with extra care.

Shaving water would be delivered – lukewarm and scummy – and a razor blade which would be removed after he’d used it but, unlike meals, the timing of that order of prison business was erratic and he feared he might have to keep his vigil with a day’s growth of beard and his moustache untrimmed. He would have a brief period of respite from the sight of four walls when he, with the other prisoners on the gallery, was shuffled downstairs to the long trough to empty his slop bucket and rinse it under a gushing tap, but that sordid exercise in sanitation apart he was faced with another long day alone with nothing to do but grieve for Molly.

He knew what they’d say, those erstwhile friends of his. They’d say he was a coward not to demand parole, that guilt had kept him away from the graveside but, oh, how their opinions would change if ever the truth got out.

If Molly had taken up with anyone other than Hugh Boylan, if, after that first midsummer ‘rehearsal’ in Eccles Street, she hadn’t fallen asleep with a stupid smile on her face, he might have swallowed the remnants of his pride and forgiven her. When Boylan’s four o’clock appointments became regular events, however, he realised that meekly surrendering to Molly’s cupidity was a mistake.

Why, though, did it have to be Boylan? Boylan, that braggart, that dolt, that swaggering donkey with his fat wallet and ever swollen cock, who strutted about Dublin and told everyone who cared to listen who he was ploughing and how parched Molly had been and how Bloom, the cuckold husband, could do nothing but stain the sheets with his impotent tears.

In June, when the affair began, he’d had Dublin to distract him, his jaunts, his voyages about the city, knocking from Pillar to Post Office; Martha’s naughty letters, poor Paddy Dignam’s funeral up there in the Prospect where at half past ten this morning Kelleher’s hearse would carry Molly’s body and Blazes’ bastard to Glasnevin to rest beside his mother and little Rudy.

Molly, Boylan, Dignam; the strand that connected them was not, as Molly might have it, Fate but a word he’d read somewhere or had discussed with young Dedalus in the kitchen in Eccles Street with Molly lying, sated, upstairs. Still dwelling on what the word might be, he seated himself on the side of the cot and, hands clasped between his knees, prepared to surrender himself once more to tears.

Then the clink of a key, the clack of the bolt, the cell door opened and the jailer, McGonagall, rasped, ‘On your feet, Bloom, you’ve got visitors.’

‘Visitors? Who?’

‘Your sisters.’

‘My sisters?’

‘Up from Bantry.’

‘I don’t have— I mean, how kind of them to make the trip.’

‘Since they’re country ladies the Governor’s stowed them in the Lawyers’ Room. You’ve a half hour, Bloom. Get a jig on.’

He grabbed his coat, fastened his collar then, pausing, enquired, ‘What time is it now, please?’

‘A quarter after ten,’ McGonagall told him. ‘Jig-jig.’

Kelleher’s horse-drawn hearse would be en route from the mortuary to Glasnevin, Boylan and Milly following in a carriage. He should be with Milly, consoling her. Instead he was being hustled down a metal staircase to greet sisters he didn’t have.

He had no opportunity to take his bearings. The jailer marched him across the vast hall and through an unlocked door that led to a long passageway with an arched window at the far end. They turned left. The jailer unlocked an ancient iron gate and off they went along a corridor flanked by scarred wooden doors to emerge at length in a waiting area.

When the jailer drew up before a varnished door with a stencilled sign saying ‘Lawyers’ Room’
Bloom could contain himself no longer. Brushing past the jailer, he threw open the door and barged into the room. Tall windows admitted a flood of daylight: a table, three chairs, two occupied. Two women, one of whom he recognised, the other a total stranger, leaped to their feet.

If McGonagall hadn’t pulled him back Bloom was certain the taller of the women would have flung herself upon him and smothered him with kisses.

‘Henry,’ she cried at the pitch of her voice. ‘It’s Martha.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ said Mr Bloom, and promptly turned to flee.

The boy was young, almost certainly still at school, but his Ma had sent him out alone to act a man’s part and, even now that the ordeal was over, he maintained an air of gravity that mimicked maturity.

He was not long out of short trousers, Kinsella guessed, but had picked up from someone, an uncle probably, a neat trick with hand-me-downs that were a shade too long and baggy to fit his skinny shanks. Kinsella watched the boy pluck at the trousers with forefingers and thumbs and, in the act of being seated, hitch up hems and square creases as if he’d been wearing a borrowed suit since birth. The Inspector almost expected him to haul out a pipe, stuff it with ropey black tobacco and puff away like a coal-heaver but young Master Dignam fished a pineapple chew from his coat pocket and settled for that instead.

Riding the top deck of an electric tramcar was no longer the thrill it had once been apparently. The boy appeared to be quite blasé about the wonders of 20th century engineering. He sucked on the sweet, stared dully at the houses flying past and, when Mr Cunningham leaned across the seat and addressed him, took several seconds to respond.

‘Pardon me, young man,’ said Mr Cunningham without a trace of condescension, ‘aren’t you Paddy Dignam’s lad?’

The boy turned his head slowly, eyelids heavy. Kinsella wondered if he’d been thinking of his father and his last trip to Glasnevin. He could hardly have been affected by Mrs Bloom’s passing, given that he’d almost certainly never met the woman.

The boy sniffed and shifted the sweet into his cheek.

‘Yus.’

‘I was a friend of your father’s,’ Mr Cunningham said. ‘I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Martin Cunningham.’

The boy did not answer.

Kinsella said, ‘How’s your mother doing these days? Is she managing?’

‘Yus.’

‘Now,’ said Mr Cunningham, ‘which one are you?’

‘Patrick.’

‘Your father’s first born. Ay, of course. I didn’t recognise you in that fine suit. I take it your ma gave you a day off school to pay the family’s respects to Mr Bloom’s wife?’

Again: ‘Yus.’

Delaney had gone off to the pub with three or four other mourners, Bartell D’Arcy and the barrel-chested baritone among them. Neville Sullivan, with apologies, had sprinted off to find a cab, while he had followed the boy and, accompanied by Martin Cunningham, had boarded the tram just behind the lad.

‘None of Mr Bloom’s other friends from Sandymount turned up, unfortunately.’ Kinsella threw the remark casually into the pot.

Not a nibble from Patrick Dignam.

‘Perhaps Mr Bloom doesn’t have any friends down your way,’ Kinsella suggested.

Patrick Dignam said, ‘Ma says he never done her.’

‘Done who?’

‘Her, the wife, never done her in.’

‘What about your sisters?’ Jim Kinsella asked. ‘Do they think Mr Bloom done her in?’

‘I never listen to what they say,’ Patrick answered.

‘Sisters!’ said Jim Kinsella. ‘I have my share of those. Forever moaning about something and stinking up the house. Do
your
sisters spray themselves with all sorts of stinky stuff, Patrick?’

Patrick looked at him blankly, or so at first it seemed. It should have occurred to Kinsella that when it came to scandals involving sex schoolboys were just as alert to every bit of gossip as adults. He watched the boy’s expression turn sly. He brought the pineapple sweet on to his tongue and, curling his tongue around it, sucked noisily for a moment.

Then he said, ‘Me sister’s chum, Gerty, does. She stinks.’

‘Gerty?’ said Mr Cunningham. ‘Who’s she?’

‘Mr Bloom’s mot.’

Master Dignam watched to see what effect the gutter word would have on the two curious gentlemen. He was ready to duck if one of them aimed a slap at his ear the way Uncle Barney would have done. It was, Kinsella realised, the word that the boy feared might offend, not its implication.

‘Who says she’s Bloom’s mot?’ Kinsella asked.

‘Mrs Stoer. I heard her and Ma talking about it. Ma says it’s the best thing ever happened but I heard from Caffrey that Gerty got a kicking from her old man for going out with Mr Bloom.’

At that age being the centre of attention was more important than discretion. Young Master Dignam, repository of dark schoolyard secrets, looked smug.

‘What else did you hear, Paddy?’ said Kinsella.

‘Heard Mrs Stoer say he done the wife in for Gerty.’ A manly, world-weary shrug. ‘Can’t see as how he would, though.’

‘Why not?’ Kinsella asked.

‘You wouldn’t catch me doing it with a blooming crip.’

‘Gerty’s a cripple, is she?’

‘Lame as a three-legged donkey. Mrs Stoer says he’s stuffing her. Ma says he’s not.’

Mr Cunningham sat back, appalled.

Kinsella said, ‘Gerty: does she have another name?’

‘MacDowell,’ said Master Dignam. ‘My stop. I gotta get off here for the connection.’ Balanced with the agility of youth against the lurching of the tram, he rose to leave. ‘You won’t say I said nothing, will you, if you see me ma?’

‘Our secret,’ Kinsella promised and watched his youthful informant leap down the twisting steps, drop to the pavement and, hitching up his baggy trousers, swagger off.

McGonagall, the jailer, had taken a stance in the waiting area outside the open door. From that angle he could observe the prisoner and his visitors but even with his big elephant ears flapping could not make out much of the conversation.

‘Oh, Henry, how could you do this to me?’ said Anne-Marie.

‘My name’s not Henry, it’s Leopold.’

‘The least you can do is answer her,’ Miss Dunne told him.

‘Did Boylan send you?’ Bloom asked.

‘It’s none of Mr Boylan’s business,’ Miss Dunne replied.

‘Was I so ugly you couldn’t even bear to speak to me?’

‘I was delayed,’ Bloom said. ‘Three times, delayed.’

‘In case you’ve forgotten,’ Miss Dunne said, ‘Mr Boylan’s attending your wife’s funeral this morning.’

‘I thought you’d be taller. Your writing sounded taller.’

‘Penmanship is not a gauge of …’ Bloom began then, leaning across the table, said, ‘What
is
your name, by the way?’

‘Anne-Marie Blaney. Oh, Leopold, did you do it for me?’

‘Do what for you?’

‘Get shot of your wife.’

‘Jesus!’ Bloom formed a Y with finger and thumb and cradled his brow upon it. ‘Oh, Jesus!’

‘It doesn’t matter to me if you’re a Catholic. I’ll convert.’

‘He isn’t a Catholic,’ said Miss Dunne. ‘He’s a Jew.’

‘A Jew! You didn’t tell me he was a Jew.’

‘I did,’ said Miss Dunne, ‘but you weren’t listening.’

The odd thing was that he actually found ‘Martha’ attractive in a grotesque sort of way. She was older than he’d imagined her to be, closer to forty than thirty, with broad, open features and a full-lipped mouth. Strong shoulders supported an impressive bust. He didn’t doubt that the intimate details of what her stays contained had not been exaggerated. He suffered a disturbing vision of her naked, carpet-beater in hand, a mental image that might even have tempted him to cast prudence to the wind a half year ago.

Seated with ‘Martha’ before him in the flesh, however, his imagination faltered. He saw in her a different kind of nakedness, emotional not physical, and experienced a wave of regret for the weakness that had almost led him astray.

‘I’m a Protestant,’ he heard himself say, then, taking a firm grip on his scruples, added. ‘Not that it matters a jot.’

‘It matters to me, Henry … Leopold. After all we’ve meant to each other I’m willing to forgive you.’

‘Forgive me what?’ Bloom said. ‘For being a Protestant?’