The Disenchanted Widow by Christina McKenna Read Free Book Online

why they call him Barkin’ Bob. Collects bits o’ scrap and sells it.”
    “Why’s the horse so wee, Ma?” asked Herkie, fascinated by the spectacle.
    “It’s not a horse. It’s a mule. He calls it Brenda.”
    “There ye are, son,” Bessie said. “You’d never see the like of that in Belfast, now would you?”
    About a half mile out of town, the mechanic made a left turn down a narrow road and over a bridge. Soon, on the rise of a hill on the right, a small house hove into view.
    “There she is now: Rosehip Cottage, me aunt’s place. She called it that on account a them hip bushes at the side there.”
    Bessie had been half expecting a hovel and was pleasantly surprised by what she saw. It was a quaint whitewashed cottage, complete with dormers, window boxes, leaded panes, and a brick-tiled roof. There was even a garden out front, trimmed by thick box hedging, and a white wrought-iron gate.
    The truck ground to a halt.
    “How lovely!” Bessie exclaimed as they alighted. She brushed some hayseeds from her skirt. On consideration, it might be profitable to be nice to Mr. Grant after all. “Your aunt must have been very house-proud.”
    “Aye, she was right ’n’ proud of her house right enough.”
    He opened the gate and led her up the garden path. A chorus of fragrances filled the air—freesias and slipper orchids. Bessie could identify them easily. Her mother had kept a little garden, not as healthy or well-tended as this one, but a garden nonetheless. And she knew her blooms. Was proud of them.
    Meanwhile Herkie, glad to be out of the truck and excited by his new surroundings, dawdled behind. Out of sight of his mother and Mr. Grant he seized on the opportunity to twist the heads off some prize dahlias.
    On the step, the mechanic produced a large key from the depths of his overalls and turned it in the lock.
    Bessie stepped inside.
    After the sun-filled yard, she was taken aback to find herself in murky darkness. She blinked, heard the swish of drapes, then suddenly, blessedly, daylight was flushing the gloom.
    The doll-size living room, all blossoming pinks and chintzy coverings, was crammed. Aunt Dora had either been a house-proud hoarder or a miser who didn’t believe in throwing anything out. Bessie’s bemused eyes took in plump armchairs andembroidered cushions, trinkets and religious statues made of delft and molded glass. A glossy sideboard with porcelain knobs held a plaster replica of the grotto at Lourdes. In a corner: a spiky plant the height of a six-year-old. On the mantel: oil lamps of tulip-shaped crystal. Framed icons all but obscured the hunting-scene wallpaper.
    It did not exactly chime with what the plucky widow aspired to, for, despite her humble background, she had a hankering after style and the finer things in life. In her book, life was too short to frill a cushion, crochet a doily, or stitch felt ducks on a satin pond and pass it off as a fire screen—activities which Aunt Dora had obviously engaged in. Terrible, she thought, what those old spinsters would do to compensate for the lack of a social life.
    “I can see your aunt was very good with her hands,” was all she could say.
    “Aye, that’s why I’d want all her stuff tae be kept just the way she left it, Mrs. Hailstone, if ye don’t mind. She left it tae me in her will…the house. And she ast specially that nuthin’ be touched.”
    As he spoke, he was eyeing young Herkie, who’d lifted an ornament from the windowsill and was earnestly attempting to liberate a purple gnome from its yellow toadstool. So much was there to see in the cramped room that the boy was growing excited, uncertain of what to vandalize first.
    “I quite understand, Mr. Grant. Everything will be absolutely safe with me.”
    Bessie followed him upstairs, hauling Herkie after her.
    Grant showed them the aunt’s bedroom, their sleeping quarters for the night.
    The small room was dwarfed by its outsize furniture. A brass bed with a candlewick