The Priest’s Housekeeper

It was young Father Doyle’s third change in seven years, and as he wearily watched his furniture being carried into his new quarters he wished with all his might that the bishop would allow him to remain here for the customary six years. He was tired of moving, and even though this new place was never praised by his colleagues, still he would make the best of it. It was a lonely place surely, and it was damp into the bargain, and in the evenings mists stole up from the lough and camped in the fields until early morning. And his nearest neighbours, he was told, wouldn’t give him any trouble for they were at rest in the graveyard and separated from his house by a few chestnut trees and a thick hawthorn hedge.

His parish priest lived five miles away in a less lonely part of the country, and as the pieces of furniture were carried in Father Doyle went to the phone to ring him up. The old priest wished him well and was about to hang up when Father Doyle asked him about the housekeeper he was to get for him.

‘Has she not turned up yet?’ the old priest said in surprise. ‘There was only one reply to my advertisement and I answered at once and told her when to report for duty. That’s bad news. But she’ll turn up, never fear. Do the best you can in the meantime, and if you ever feel peckish just give me a tinkle and I’ll get Bridget to put an extra plate on the table. It’ll be no trouble at all, at all. You must guard against malnutrition. One can’t pray and work if one’s not properly fed.’

Father Doyle thanked him and put down the receiver. He didn’t like bothering people, not even a priest’s housekeeper; he’d be able to manage for a while without one. But the main thing at the moment was to keep warm, and he moved quickly from room to room directing the removers where to place the furniture. And when the last piece was carried in rain fell heavily and he tipped the men generously and apologised for not having a cup of tea ready for them. They thanked him, touched their caps, and climbed into their heavy van. Presently it set off along a road that gleamed like a river in the rain and soon it had disappeared over a hill, leaving nothing behind it except two parallel tracks made by the wheels. Father Doyle shrugged with the cold, turned into the house, and closed the door.

He had two electric heaters and he switched one on in his sitting-room and plugged the other in the kitchen which was as cold as a vault. All his perishable foodstuffs lay on the table: bread, meat, eggs, butter, and a cooked chicken. He had made a list before setting out on his journey and he was pleased he had forgotten nothing, not even a box of matches. He stored most of the things in the fridge and began to light the stove to drive out the cold that had settled in the house.

Wearing his heavy overcoat he made his way upstairs to his bedroom where the furniture removers had screwed up his bed and unrolled his mattress. The window looked out upon the chapel, a rectangular building of grey stone and blue slates, and the rope of an exposed bell hanging down to a ring on the outside wall. Each day he would make sure to ring the Angelus or get the housekeeper to ring it should he be absent. He had great devotion to that prayer since the day a Protestant clergyman praised it as the loveliest of all our Catholic prayers.

The kitchen was filled with smoke when he came downstairs and he opened the draught-door of the stove and heard in a few minutes the healthy roar of the fire. He opened a window and watched the smoke burl out to the cold air. He took a light snack and was making his way to the chapel to read his breviary when a bus stopped at his gate and out of it, stepping backwards, came a solitary passenger. She stood on the roadway, a suitcase in her hand, looked irresolutely about her, and then moved towards the priest’s house. Father Doyle walked down to meet her.

‘Good evening, Father,’ she said. ‘Am I in the right place?’

‘You’re in the right place, I think. I’m Father Doyle.’

‘But it was a Father O’Loan I wrote to.’

Father Doyle smiled: ‘It’s me that needs you.’

She was thin, wore thick spectacles, and her grey hair stuck untidily beneath her hat. She sniffed continually, but whether this was an incipient cold or an ingrained habit he had yet to find out.

He lifted her suitcase and noted that the metal fastenings were unsprung and the case kept closed by two loops of stout string. He’d buy her a new one at Christmas should she turn out to be satisfactory.

‘It’s a chilly house, Father,’ she said in a thin, squeaky voice. ‘I hope I won’t get my death.’

‘I hope you won’t,’ and he checked himself from making a joke about the nearness of the graveyard. At this stage he must be reserved, a bit aloof, until he had found his bearings. He escorted her to her room. It hadn’t been touched since her predecessor had vacated it a few days ago. It was narrow, but it was above the kitchen and it should be warm.

‘This room’s as cold as a railway station,’ she complained. He explained that no fire had been lighted in the house for the past three days and that he himself had just arrived a short while before her. He placed her case on the only chair in the room.

‘I’ll bring you an electric heater. I’ve one in the kitchen and it’ll not be needed while the stove’s in operation. There’s plenty of stuff in the fridge so make yourself a good meal.’

‘You wouldn’t need a fridge in this house, Father,’ she said, gazing out the window at the wet coal and turf stored in a doorless shed.

He turned from the room without a word. She was going to be a grumbler on all accounts, but as he was glad to get her he wasn’t going to cross her if he could help it. More of his weakness, he supposed, more of his misunderstanding of the nature of true meekness.

He crossed to the chapel and finished his office under one light he had switched on near the sanctuary. Darkness had fallen over the country when he came out, stars pin-cushioned the sky, and lights from the scattered homes shone weakly across the fields. His own house was lighted up like a government office, and he presumed his housekeeper was getting into her stride. There was nothing like bodily activity to keep the circulation in trim this cold weather, he mused.

His car, splashed with mud, was in the yard and he pushed it into the garage out of the cold. A cat meowed at his heels. Parochial property, no doubt; and he went in by the back door to get her a saucerful of milk.

His housekeeper was seated at the stove, the oven door open, and her feet held close to it. She still wore the coat she had travelled in; and the remains of her meal littered the table, and a loaf a bread was cut unevenly as if she had chopped it with a hatchet.

‘What’s this now your name is?’ he asked gently.

‘Mary. Mary Carroll.’

‘Well, Mary, there’s a cat out there could do with a little nourishment.’

‘I don’t like cats about the place,’ she said, swiping a finger across each side of her nose and remaining seated.

‘I suppose it could take up its quarters in the coal-shed.’

‘Proper place for it.’

He put milk on a saucer and carried it carefully across the yard, the cat following him, its tail erect. He switched on his car lights, and placing the saucer in the driest corner he called the cat and she lowered her tail, put her head to the milk and lapped greedily.

Father Doyle returned to the house by the front door. He crouched close to his electric-heater and filled his pipe. Later he’d have a little of the cold chicken for his supper.

He could hear Mary coughing, the stove being raked, and coal being shovelled on to it. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it had stopped and he wound it up and set it at the right time by his wristlet watch. It was near eight. He had had a tiresome day and he wouldn’t stay up late.

Behind him mist crept round the windows and covered them. He rubbed his hands together and thought of a colleague who warned him that this place would drive anyone to drink. He smiled and stared at his closed cabinet that contained bottles of whiskey, brandy, and sherry – all for passing visitors and old missioners whose blood required a little stimulant. Never copy the Mercy Nuns, he had been warned, for they were the very divils for offering an old priest tea. He hadn’t, he knew, offered a glass to the van-men, but that was understandable. Their van was clumsy, the roads narrow, and anything could happen – he needn’t accuse himself of lack of hospitality on that score. As for himself, thank God, a craving for drink had never yet possessed him. He had his books, he had his work, and he was content. He had also brought his three hives of bees and they were sheltered now from all winds by the trees and thick hedges in his garden. What would they do, he mused, when the first warm rags of sunlight coaxed them from their winter sleep. Would they try to make their way back to their old home, over the mountains to the parish in south Down that he had just left. He supposed they hadn’t the instinct of homing pigeons and that, like cats, they would speedily adapt themselves to their new surroundings. Attachment to persons was scarcely a characteristic of bees.

The phone rang and he crossed the room to answer it. It was his mother ringing from the city to inquire if he had settled in. Yes, he was nicely settled, he told her. Yes, the housekeeper had arrived. About sixty, he’d say. No, not too robust, but better than nothing.

He paused while his mother took over and launched into her usual litany. He mustn’t be too soft with this one, must be strict with her and keep her in her proper place from the word go. She reminded him that he had more than his share of the wrong sort. But it was good to hear that she was an elderly person: she was likely to be a stay-at-home and not a flighty gadabout or one of those harpies that would be demanding half-days off three times a week. But on no account must he keep her if she happened to be an indifferent cook or slatternly in her ways.

‘All right, mother. Now don’t be worrying.’ He smiled into the phone. ‘I’ve every comfort and I’m in fine form. Good night now, mother … Good night,’ and he just had the receiver down when a loud sneeze broke from him. He returned to his arm-chair, and once again he sneezed, muffling the explosion in his handkerchief. If his mother had heard his sneezes there’d be no peace until she had motored down from the city for a personal inspection.

At nine o’clock Mary came and announced that her poor feet were perished and she was going to bed. She didn’t mention his supper and he was too diffident to ask about it.

‘Them tea things on the table, Father; I’ll wash them up first thing in the morning. It’s too cold for me to stand at that sink in the scullery; I’d get a founder. You understand.’

Yes, he understood.

‘It’s a cold snap of a place this,’ she went on. ‘There’s frost on that window in the scullery and this only the month of November.’

‘It’s nice here in the springtime, I believe.’

‘That’s a long way off.’

‘It’ll not seem so long when you get into your way of going and get to know the people.’

‘The people! What do I want with people I’d dearly like to know. I’m a person who keeps herself to herself. I mind my own business.’

Father Doyle, realising he couldn’t make contact with her, began to outline her duties for each day. He would say Mass at eight and would have breakfast at nine, dinner at 1.30, a light snack at 4.30, and supper at eight until further notice. She was to light a fire in the sitting-room each day during the winter months.

‘That will be all right, Father. That’ll be all right.’

‘Good night now, Mary.’

She closed the door, and he heard her coughing as she ascended the cold stairs.

If she got sick on his hands, he’d be in a nice pickle, he told himself, and turning up the collar of his overcoat he refilled his pipe and pressed his back into the cushions in the arm-chair. Once more the phone rang. His mother, he presumed, remembering some other item on her agenda.

He lifted the receiver. It was Father O’Loan. A sick-call had come through, and as the house was nearer Father Doyle’s end of the parish it would be more convenient for him to go. Father O’Loan proceeded to give him precise instructions how to reach the place. He was to set out immediately by the main road and take the second turning on the right. This was a narrow road, pitted with pot-holes like a battlefield, and he was to drive very carefully. He was to close all the car windows because the briars from the hedges hung out like fishing-rods and were apt to scratch the face off him. A mile along that road on his left he would meet two stone pillars but no gate. He was to stop there and sound the horn and wait. Somebody would come forward and pilot him up the stony path that led to the sick-woman’s house. This sick-call, Father O’Loan assured him, would give him an opportunity to know his people – the first requisite for any young priest in a new parish.

The night was clear and frosty when he set out, and he had no difficulty in finding the road and no difficulty in finding the gateposts. He sounded the horn, and, as in a fairy tale, a man arrived with a lantern and led him up the narrow, slippery path to the house of the sick-woman.

The house was as warm as an oven. Two oil-lamps hung on the walls and a mound of turf burned in a hearth as wide as a Christmas crib. Three grey-haired women welcomed him, all sisters he discovered when he had introduced himself. A door off the room was open, and the old mother, now in her eighty-eighth year, was in bed, a tiny oil-lamp on a table beyond her reach, and pictures of the Sacred Heart, the Blessed Virgin, and Robert Emmet on the walls. About an hour ago she had taken a terrible fit of coughing and they were sure she was going to go on them, but she rallied, thank God, and was now resting peacefully, her black rosary in her hands. Father Doyle felt her pulse, and holding her hand lightly he sat down on a chair beside the bed and chatted to her.

She had given them all a quare fright, she told him. But, thank God, she was ready to go. Her three daughters were all good girls, she went on, and always did their best for her and never gallivanted about the countryside looking for a husband. And her boy Patrick – the man who led Father Doyle to the house – was a biddable boy, none better in the whole county of Antrim. Oh, a great worker: he could cut and clamp more turf in a week than six strong men could do in a month. There was no need to worry about the girls when they’d Patrick to look after them. She could die in peace.

Yes, Father Doyle thought, they’d all die in peace, and their place would fall in ruins and the briars join fingers across the slippery path and defy all entrance.

After hearing her confession he rested his hand on her forehead and told her he’d call again in the morning and not to worry about anything. She smiled with her lips closed. A lovely young priest, she thought, an ornament to the parish. She wouldn’t like to die yet – indeed she would not!

He returned to the kitchen and sat by the fire, glad of the thick warmth that wrapped round him. They made tea for him in a shiny brown teapot that rested on the hot ashes at the side of the hearth. He wanted to take it in his hand by the fire but they insisted on his going to the white-clothed table. And there the tea was served to him in their best china, and the table was laden with home-made bread and jam and salted butter, the measure of their hospitality. The tea warmed him and dispelled a gloom that had come over him whilst talking to the old woman. Good strong daughters and a strong son and not a child amongst them! And yet the old woman would die content!

He took his leave and the son with his lantern helped him to turn his car at the gateposts, and presently he was crunching over the potholes that were paned with ice and arrived back at his own house with the moon shining on it and the windows misted over like tissue paper.

At nine in the morning after he had said Mass, Mary carried in his breakfast. The porridge was lumpy and unsalted, and the fried bacon cracked like a biscuit under his fork and bits fled over the carpet. He told her he’d much prefer cornflakes to porridge if she didn’t mind.

‘That’s all right with me, Father,’ she agreed. ‘It’ll lighten my work.’

And for dinner that day and throughout the whole week, except Friday, she gave him fried steak, potatoes, and onions, and for dessert jelly and milk. Father Doyle, with a certain conscious levity, inquired if she never got tired of steak and onions.

‘No, Father, not a bit of me. It’s a wholesome dish.’

He endured the monotony for another while and recalled how his mother had admonished that he who overcame monotony without complaining had overcome the world. He held his patience. He bought a cookery book, and one night after she had gone to bed he left it on the window ledge in her kitchen. But she didn’t change except to substitute sausages for steak. He complained to Father O’Loan and he advised him to get rid of her.

‘Yes, get rid of her! Get rid of her!’ he thundered. ‘Yes, young man, have no mistaken notions about the meaning of charity. Give her a fortnight’s notice. That’s the usual procedure. And stand no blasted nonsense. She might weep, but woman’s tears are come-easy, go-easy, and you must not soften at the approach of a deluge.’

Neighbours who had brought presents of chickens and eggs to the young priest she turned away. She’d have them all know that neither she nor Father Doyle lived on charity. She made no friends and didn’t want any. Even the cat mysteriously disappeared. The people regarded her as odd, and it was whispered to Father Doyle that she was never seen at Mass on a Sunday, neither at first Mass nor at the second. And on days when he wasn’t at home she didn’t ring the Angelus bell.

She was a failure and Father Doyle waited for an opportunity to give her her notice, and one day when she carried in his plate with the onions still crackling on it (for she had kept it on top of the oven till the last moment) he coughed and said:

‘Where’s this now you said you were before coming here?’

‘I never said I was anywhere, Father.’

‘I mean, Mary, where were you employed?’

‘I was employed in the kitchen of a hospital.’

‘Cooking?’

‘No, Father, washing up.’

‘Maybe, Mary, you’d like to go back to that work?’

‘No, indeed; I like it here, Father. The language in the hospital kitchen was something my ears couldn’t stand. My soul would be in jeopardy if I returned.’

Father Doyle wished at that moment it were in Picardy or anywhere a hundred miles from his own kitchen, and before he had time to make her realise he wasn’t satisfied with her she had glided from the room. However, he had made the first onslaught, and he thought then of bringing in Father O’Loan to give the final push. After all, it was Father O’Loan who had engaged her and by right he should dismiss her. But how was he to suggest such a plan to Father O’Loan. Father O’Loan would probably round on him, scoff at him as a spineless curate, and order him to dismiss her by a certain date. Father Doyle shuddered: it was better to let the hare sit for a while and pretend that there were certain signs of improvement.

Towards the end of February his mother and sister were to visit him and as he told Mary of the impending visit she carefully inquired the day and time and then announced it would be a convenient opportunity for her to take a day off, reminding him she hadn’t taken one solitary day to herself since she came into his employment.

‘But what will they do for a meal, Mary? They’re motoring all the way from the city.’

‘They aren’t invalids, are they? Surely two able-bodied women can look after themselves for one afternoon.’

‘But wouldn’t it be nice if you gave them a free day?’

‘The two ladies will understand when you explain how the land lies.’

‘That’s all right, Mary,’ he said unwittingly plagiarising one of her favourite phrases.

‘And that will be all right with me, Father,’ and left the room.

There and then he resolved that before another week had fled he would get rid of her. And with the days on the turn, the early lambs in the fields, he would have brighter prospects of getting another to take her place. He would discuss all with his mother, and, perhaps, it was better after all that Mary would have that day off.

His mother and sister arrived in the early afternoon. Mary was out and they were free to tour the house from top to bottom. They couldn’t believe their eyes. It was like a pig sty. The slut hadn’t swept under the beds: there were perfect rectangles of fluff for all who cared to see. One can get accustomed to dirt, unfortunately. And did he not realise he was aiding and abetting in another person’s sin – the sin of sloth, one of the deadliest! And how miserable he looked: ill-nourished and pale and gaunt as Lazarus. It wouldn’t do. Not another priest in the diocese would tolerate her for a single hour. And how long had he put up with her – fifteen weeks, if you please. Was he trying to practise martyrdom or was this Mary Carroll trying to make a saint out of him! If he didn’t act and act quickly she herself, being his mother, would pay a visit to the bishop. Indeed she would! And she besought him, with tears in her eyes, to get rid of this dreadful harridan. He promised he would, and after they had driven away he was so dejected he regretted about having complained so much. But he had promised to get rid of her and get rid of her he would! He would not flinch.

He stiffened himself for Mary’s arrival, and as she laid his supper tray on the table he said without looking at her: ‘Mary, I’m sorry to say you don’t suit me. You can take a fortnight’s notice or, if you prefer, you can leave tomorrow with a fortnight’s wages in advance.’

Without a word she left the room. He smiled and congratulated himself. He was a fool not to have spoken bluntly long ago. Polite implication was lost on people like this. The cold truth is the only language they understand.

He turned on the radio. A band was playing a few Irish reels. The mood of revelry appealed to him. The door was knocked on and Mary entered. She stood with her hand on the door-knob. He turned down the radio.

‘Father, you said something to me a wee while ago. I came to tell you I’m not leaving. I like it here.’

She closed the door before he had time to say a word. He switched off the radio and sat still. His heart was thumping. He began to have doubts about her sanity. There was always something queer about her. There was no doubt about that. She couldn’t cook; she was slovenly in her habits; she had alienated the good people of the parish; she had disobeyed his instructions time and time again, and she, a priest’s housekeeper, didn’t even attend Mass on Sundays or major feast days. The whole set-up was absurd. Was it a case for the bishop? No, the bishop would probably declare it was too localised, too petty, for episcopal interference.

It was better not to decide anything until he had discussed it with Father O’Loan. Father O’Loan was old and he was wise and he was endowed with a voice that would waken the heaviest sleeper from the back of a cathedral. Yes, he would follow Father O’Loan’s advice, and the following morning after breakfast he went to see him. He told him how he had given her a fortnight’s notice or a fortnight’s wages in advance and how she had refused both.

‘Perhaps as a last resort I should call in the police?’

‘To have her evicted, you mean?’ Father O’Loan spluttered. ‘No, no, that wouldn’t do at all. History dies hard in these parts. You’d make a martyr of her in the eyes of the people. They’d become friends of hers as quick as you’d crack your fingers. It would never do to bring in the police. Some quieter method we must pursue. Here today and gone tomorrow like snow off a ditch – that’s what we want. It must all go unnoticed, if you know what I mean. Let the hen sit for a day or two.’

‘Whatever you say,’ Father Doyle said, only too willing to agree. ‘I’m sorry for causing this trouble.’

‘You didn’t cause it. She caused it, but I’ll end it! Do you know I’m just beginning to enjoy it. Life here can be very dull. This will give me something to think about. I’ll call; I’ll call tomorrow and I’ll make her do the hop-skip-and-jump in true Olympic style.’

The following afternoon he called as promised. Father Doyle was alone and he told him that her ladyship was in the kitchen redding up the few dishes.

Father O’Loan coughed loudly: ‘Just leave her to me and you stay here in the sitting-room.’

Father Doyle left the door ajar, and in a few minutes he heard Father O’Loan’s voice thunder from the kitchen; then there was silence and a squeaky voice raised to breaking point. There followed a rapid rumbling from Father O’Loan, a deep silence and then his heavy step along the hallway to the sitting-room. He slumped into an armchair.

‘That’s a dreadful woman, a holy terror! Give me a little spirits to steady my nerves. Never in the long history of the parish did the like of this ever happen. She won’t go! And who is she, may I ask.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘How do you keep your pledge with a woman like that about the place? Drink can be a comfort as well as a curse.’ He took another sip at his glass, ran a finger round the inside of his collar, and breathed loudly. His face was red. ‘She won’t go, eh! Well, she will go if it’s that last thing I do in this mortal life. We could file a lawsuit. No, I’ll not do that. That’s out of the question.’ He finished his drink. ‘I think I’ll let her have another broadside before I go. Make it hot and heavy for her and she’ll be glad to flee.’

‘Don’t distress yourself any further. I’ll put up with her for another while. We’ll think of something in due course.’

‘Not a word to anyone about this. We’d be the laughing-stock of the diocese if it leaked out. Oh no, not a word about this to a living soul.’

But word did leak out amongst the priests of the diocese and each morning Father Doyle had an amusing letter from a colleague; one even sent a postcard with an ink drawing of the house, a plane overhead, an armoured car at the gate, and steel-helmeted soldiers on the lawn. He showed it to Father O’Loan and he, in turn, showed him a piece of satirical verse from an anonymous source. Oh, he had a good idea who composed it though. But he’d end it, and in quick time too.

That night he wrote a long letter to the bishop, explaining in detail the disruption caused by the said Mary Carroll in his little parish, and humbly requesting from his lordship direction in the matter.

At the end of the week the bishop invited him to call, and Father O’Loan finding him in jovial form began to entertain him with dramatic renderings of the whole affair.

With a hand cupped to one ear, because he was discreetly deaf, the bishop listened with controlled amusement.

‘Well, my Lord,’ Father O’Loan concluded, ‘that’s the cleft stick I’m wedged in.’

‘Well, well,’ the bishop said slowly. ‘Most unusual circumstances. But lift up your heart. For the good of Father Doyle’s health and for your peace of mind a change is clearly indicated. You’ll be pleased to hear that I am appointing Father Doyle chaplain to the Poor Clare Convent here in the city. He can live with his mother until his health is built up.’

‘But Mary Carroll, my lord?’

‘She comes into the picture too. I am transferring Father Brannigan from Lower Mourne to take his place. He has a faithful housekeeper by all accounts; she is a native, I believe, of your own parish and I’m sure she’ll be glad to be amongst her own people again.’

‘But my lord, that Mary Carroll one is still in residence.’

‘Mary Carroll’s services, as far as we are concerned, are terminated. You’ll find she’ll plague you no longer.’ He looked at Father O’Loan with a knowing smile. ‘Where you have two women quarrelling at the one sink and quarrelling over the one bed things should end in our favour.’

The following morning early Father Doyle’s furniture was on the move again – this time to be put in storage in the city. In the afternoon Father Doyle left for his mother’s house in the city. He didn’t see Mary before he left for she had suddenly turned religious and was up in the chapel saying her prayers. He had already paid her a fortnight’s wages in advance and so he could set off with a free heart and leave her to Liza, the new housekeeper to deal with.

They had their first meeting in the kitchen when Mary was seated at the table taking tea and a boiled egg. Without a word Liza took command. She raked the stove vigorously, filled the kettle, and in a firm quick voice told Mary to hurry or she’d miss her bus.

‘I like it here and I’m not going on no bus,’ Mary said.

‘I like it here also for I was born and bred here and I’m glad to be back as Father Brannigan’s housekeeper. Your duties are ended here and it would be better for you to go to Nazareth House in the city and stay there till work turns up.’

‘I’m going to no Nazareth House. I’m independent.’

‘I’m glad to hear it and would dearly like to believe it.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘You’ve exactly fifteen minutes to get ready. Your case is in my room and I’ll fetch it for you.’

‘You’ll lay no hand on my case.’

‘I’ll stand no more of your oul guff! Take yourself off quietly before I ring for the police.’

‘This is Father Doyle’s kitchen.’

‘It was Father Doyle’s but he has gone off to live with his mother and sister. The kitchen is now Father Brannigan’s and mine, and I must hurry and get the place in order for his arrival.’ She folded her arms and looked out the window at three people standing at the bus stop. ‘The bus will be along any minute now. If you miss it you’ll have to hoof it – them’s my last words to you,’ and lifting the brush she began to sweep the kitchen, watching Mary out of the corner of her eye.

Suddenly Mary pushed back her chair from the table, squeezed the eggshell in her fist and threw the bits into the fire. She left the kitchen, and in a few minutes Liza heard her pounding across the room above her head.

Liza looked out of the window again. The three people had increased to five.

‘Miss Carroll, Miss Carroll,’ she shouted up the stairs, ‘hurry like a good woman, the bus will be along any time now.’

Mary came downstairs with her case tied with loops of string. She sniffed as if she had a cold, and without a word she slipped out by the side-door.

Liza watched from the window. She saw her mount the bus and saw the bus move off, some withered leaves scampering at its heels.

‘Thanks be to God she’s gone,’ and she turned to make herself a cup of tea to steady her nerves.