A Woman Unknown Page 0,3

mother must leave this house was the time the rat came down the chimney. Now she spotted another bloody flea on the bed sheet. She snapped it between expert fingers, and then dropped it in the chamber pot, the only way to deal with the little devils. They lurked in cracks in the walls, planning torments. You could murder half a dozen in a minute; there would still be a small army waiting to drop from the ceiling. There’d be none of that in the nursing home.

Sometimes Deirdre transported a flea or two home in the seams of her dress. Fitz would complain that she came back stinking of poverty and trailing disease. He worried about his health and his weak chest.

Her mother opened her eyes and gave a gummy smile. ‘I thought you’d gone home.’ Her body might be wasted, but her mind was sharp as ever. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s twelve o’clock. I’ve brought you calves foot jelly. While you eat it, I’ve summat to tell you.’

A spark of hope lit her mother’s eyes. ‘You’ve heard from Anthony?’

‘No.’ It took a few moments for Deirdre to raise her mother up and prop her with pillows. She placed a towel under her mother’s chin, and handed her the spoon and dish.

Her mam swallowed a mouthful of the jelly. Then she said, ‘I dreamed Anthony came. I’m sure he’s on his way.’

She wanted to see her son once more, before she died. She had dictated a touching note to the little boy who had left for New York twenty-three years ago. The words had made Deirdre squirm.

‘Don’t get your hopes up, Mam. He hasn’t written.’

‘In the dream he was just the age as when he left. His locks hadn’t been shorn. Your uncle did that, took the scissors to make a big boy of him.’

Deirdre said nothing. She had written to her brother Anthony every year since she was ten, and in a decade and a half had received two brief replies. Two months before marrying Fitz she developed cold feet and wrote to Anthony. Would he send the fare for herself and Mam to go to New York? Answer came there none. She married Fitz.

‘Mam, I’m making an arrangement for you to be more comfortable.’

Her mother dug the spoon into the jelly and left it there. ‘I’ll accept nothing from Fitzpatrick.’

‘There’s this lovely place, run by a woman whose grandmother came from Kilkenny. You’ll build up your strength. There’s a garden to look out on.’

‘I won’t accept that man’s charity.’

‘I’m paying for it. I have a job, working for a solicitor.’

Even before she reached Leeds Bridge, Deirdre caught the tang of the River Aire, a sharp, foggy, back of the throat smell. Lucky river, winding to sea. On this hot August Friday afternoon, wouldn’t she love to be flowing in that direction herself? She ran her hand along the ironwork bridge, and for her pains muckied the creamy fingers of her glove.

Below, two bargemen called to each other. Looking along the riverbank, she saw Calls Landing, its name painted in glory-of-God-size lettering on the side of the building. It was grand to be in the town with its hustle and bustle. In the distance, the protestant parish church stood smug and certain, sharp against the sky.

A used-up creature shuffled towards her. He caught her eye, as though one person with no legitimate business would always recognise another. The sole of his left shoe flapping, he sidled out a little to give way. He was a man down on his luck, passing the time until nightfall when he would be let in to some lodging house, or the Salvation Army hostel. Deirdre dipped her hand in her pocket and slipped him a coin.

And then she saw the man: Giuseppe Barnardini, lithe, lean and looking not a day over thirty. There was something comical and unmistakeable about him as he lolled over the bridge, bantering with the bargemen.

This man was different from her previous two encounters. The first boy-o had been a will-o’-the-wisp fellow with a shocking cough. The second, a stout chap of few words, half-heartedly asked her to name her price for something extra. He did not take it amiss when she declined.

And now Barnardini, who was gazing at her, in something like wonder.

She heard herself say, ‘Are you the man himself?’

He raised his hat, and gave a slight but stately bow. ‘If you are the lady herself, then yes, I am he.’ He reached to take her bag.