“Paddy came to live at Windgate about five years ago,” Fanny began, sipping her tea with relish. “I’d been running the boarding ‘ouse ever since me ‘usband died in WWII, rest ‘is soul. ‘E was a career military man, you see, Captain Wilcox. A good man; a good provider. Paddy and I grew very fond of each other, and we got engaged a year ago. Told me all about ‘is life—about Rathdargan farm, about ‘aving a sister wi’ six children—five daughters and a boy—who’d lost her ‘usband in war, just like me. Told me how ‘e was helping ‘er out, letting ‘er stay ‘ere, though ‘e was legal owner of the farm. But ‘e was allowing his sister—ye—to live ‘ere out of kindness—not cuz ‘e had to, mind you. And ‘e always did say how ‘e intended to come back to Ireland to run the farm when the time was right.
Being ‘is fiancé, I trusted ‘im with my life’s savings, five hundred pounds, which ‘e said ‘e needed to fix up Kildargan, till ‘e could send for me. I was planning on selling Windgate House as a going concern—I’m tired of all the ‘eadaches that go with running a boarding ‘ouse. Ye ‘ave no idea wot it takes...”
Myles looked at Kitty as the story ended. The only sound in the parlor was the loud ticking of the grandfather clock by the heavy mantlepiece, over which stern portraits of Hogan ancestors across the generations hung. Outside, the border collies were still barking and snarling in their high-pitched chorus, and Parnell, the alpha, was pacing back and forth, growling, sensing something sinister abroad in the cloudy summer night.
From Fanny’s account, there was no doubt that “Paddy” was Jack, up to his old tricks. As always, they’d caught up to him, only this time with his wife and son as stricken witnesses and a gallery of ramblers to spread the gossip as fast as their legs could carry it.
Myles knew trouble when he saw it, and this had all the makings. He looked at the intruder with unvarnished hostility. Fanny Wilcox had not been granted her fair share of nature’s bounty. In fact, she was one of the ugliest people Myles had ever laid eyes on; more detached observers would agree. Under five feet and quite obese, she walked with bow-legged limp and had one glass eye that looked dead, almost amphibian. To cap it off, she spoke in a high-pitched, Yorkshire dialect, “Gur blimey, a rum lot, eh wot?”—as enervating to the Celtic ear as fingernails on a blackboard.
To Myles’ amazement, Kitty finished her tea, and with elaborate politeness, then invited Mrs. Wilcox to stay: “Just for the night.” But Myles was having none of it. “Mammie, I don’t believe a word of what she’s saying. How do we know she’s telling the truth? And why can’t we wait till Da comes home? Besides, where is she going to sleep? We don’t have any room for visitors, unless she wants to sleep in the hayshed.” He said all this while glaring at Mrs. Wilcox and before his mother had time to issue a reprimand.
Embarrassed by his outburst, Kitty now took control. “Myles Hogan, you will not talk to a guest like that. Apologize at once!” But Myles was in no mood to back down in front of this creature he sensed was up to no good. “I will not apologize. I haven’t done anything to apologize for. But I’m going to see what Da has to say before I listen to one more word from either a yez.” With that, he bounded out of the parlor and made an elaborate display of stomping up the creaky wooden stairs.
Jack came home after all the ramblers had departed. It was quiet in the kitchen when he walked in, to the unlovely presence of Fanny sitting by the fire, teacup in hand, while Kitty sat silently across from her. Caught red-handed, “Paddy” came clean and admitted to Kitty that, yes, he and Fanny had “grown fond of each other. Sure, it’s only natural…” Myles, listening from the upstairs loft, couldn’t believe his ears. He’d been wrong about his da, and now his worst fears were being realized. This creature was going to stay here, which meant he would have to give up his room and sleep in the dark, dingy parlor on the lumpy old horse-hair sofa. He had heard enough; he covered his ears and withdrew from the stair landing.
There was one thing Myles didn’t understand: his father’s lack of taste. Surely, Myles thought, if his father was going to find another woman to “date,” he could have found someone who was at least presentable. Myles just couldn’t imagine his handsome father being seen with Fanny Wilcox in public, or whatever else “being fond of” meant. When he mentioned this to his mother the next day, she simply said, “Men will do strange things for drink, son. I hope you’ll never know what that’s like.”
The comment made no sense to Myles, but watching his mother’s mouth tighten, he let it go. He had already resolved that this ugly and evil Wilcox creature had to go. He had no idea how, but he knew he hated her and would stop at nothing to rid his family of this cackling menace.
Whatever had been worked out by the adults, Mrs. Wilcox seemed in no hurry to leave. Whenever she went for one of her solitary walks around the farm, Myles could hear his parents arguing. First, his mother’s voice raised in consternation; then, his father’s usually soft tenor voice taking on a hoarse, frightening harshness. Sometimes, too depressed to work, Myles would idle in the hayshed, leafing through a comic book, pretending to be busy. Terrified of losing his da again, he began to conjure up schemes to rid Kildargan of Mrs. Wilcox.
This took little effort, for Fanny Wilcox—having always been childless—made no bones about her dislike for children, especially boys, and Myles in particular. She kept referring to him as “our knuck”—a phrase he, fortunately, never understood—in her grating, screechy dialect. No one told her to knock off the obvious taunt. Later, she tried charming him, but soon gave up in the face of his silent disdain. Myles went out of his way to be rude, refusing to even be in the same room when she was present.
After a month of brooding hatred, he came to a decision: he would kill Fanny Wilcox. It soon became an obsession. At first, he felt guilty, pacing the dark parlor at night and imagining his confession to Father Cavanagh. After all, this would be murder—a mortal sin. Fires of hell for eternity; no priest could even offer him absolution.
On the other hand, Mrs. Wilcox wasn’t even a Catholic. She was barely human; some kind of Protestant. She was going to burn in hell anyway. Surely it was no sin to rid his family of a parasite; it’d be like killing a rat or shooting a cuckoo to keep it from preying on an innocent robin’s nest. Surely, God would understand this, and so would Father Cavanagh.
Seizing on this line of thought, Myles felt relieved, free to focus on concrete plans.
His first idea was to follow Fanny on one of the walks, push her into one of the quagmires near the Far Field where no one would ever find her. Myles had seen one of those swallow a 2000-pound cow; even eight strong farmers pulling on the end of a rope couldn’t save her. He discarded the notion only when he remembered how slowly the cow sank; it took at least 8 hours. He could imagine Fanny Wilcox, stuck and screaming in her shrill Yorkshire gibberish so that that the whole valley would be summoned to witness her accusations.
Finally, he settled on a concrete plan. It was as simple as it was vicious. He would invite Mrs. Wilcox to go hunting with him in the lower meadow, there would be an accident, and she wouldn’t come back. He rehearsed his lines for the aftermath of the killing.
“I don’t know, Mammie. It all happened so fast. Mrs. Wilcox wanted to learn to shoot, and I let her give it a go. The borders were barking, which startled her, then the shotgun back -fired and, next thing I know, she was laying there, the dogs surrounding her, barking like they’d gone mad…I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have let her use the gun. It’s all my fault.”
He imagined his mother and the neighbors trying to console him.
“Now, Myles, you shouldn’t blame yourself. Mrs. Wilcox was a grown woman, capable of making a decision. I’m sure you were just trying to be nice to her. But I know this must be very hard for you.”
It was now only a matter of how to get his quarry in the lower meadow on a different kind of hunting expedition. Never an athletic person, Mrs. Wilcox was not likely to jump at the chance to go hunting; but Myles was determined to convince her.
“Mrs. Wilcox, would you be interested in seeing where the pheasants lay their eggs in the Far Field?”
“Wot is this? A wildlife outin’ with our knuck? Well, well, well… Wonders never cease. An’ I thought ye didn’t even like me. We’ll see. Maybe when I’m feeling a little bettah. Not today, luv. Run along now.”
“Alright, Mrs. Wilcox, I could even teach you how to shoot rabbits and foxes. Might come in handy sometime if you’re going to be around Kildargan.”
“Well, it might, at that. I nevah thought o’ that. Me, shootin’. Blimey! You ‘ave some imagination for a young lad. I may have misjudged ye. I do believe I’ll take ye up on it, soon as I’m feelin’ a tad more chippah.”
Myles smiled and shivered at the ease of his guile. Now the question: did he have the nerve to pull this off? He’d killed and seen killing before: Billy Flood butchering a hog; Packie Ryan shooting his old blind sheepdog, Ben; Peter Doyle putting down the bay colt with the broken leg. No one liked doing it; they just did what had to be done in the situation. This was no different; just something that had to be done. Another hard truth.
(to be continued next Friday)