The Spinster Wife Read online

  Table of Contents

  START READING

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  PRAISE FOR CHRISTINA McKENNA

  THE MISREMEMBERED MAN

  “Her portrait of rural life is amusing and affectionate, wittily and winningly detailed.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  “Known chiefly as a painter . . . McKenna proves in this, her first novel, to be equally adept at word portraits.”

  Washington Times

  “I love how McKenna combines seemingly effortless comedy with literary truth. She doesn’t pull any punches. I literally laughed out loud at several points.”

  Goodreads reviewer

  “Outstanding . . . one of the best novels I have ever read. I did not want it to end. She has a wonderful ear for dialogue and a talent for observing awkward social situations and unspoken intimacies.”

  Amazon reviewer

  THE DISENCHANTED WIDOW

  “I’ve been racking my brain to pounce on at least one minor flaw in . . . Christina McKenna’s riveting account of a new widow and her nine-year-old son fleeing the IRA in 1980s Belfast, and all in vain. So I have no recourse but to succumb to the pleasures of her prose.”

  Free Lance-Star

  “There are at least two ways to read this story. One is as an Irish prose version of an Italian opera buff – a tragicomic tale with emphasis on the bumbling comic. The other is as a satire, along the lines . . . of Henry Fielding’s classic novel Tom Jones.”

  Washington Independent

  “This is the second book I have read from Christina McKenna and I LOVED IT. What characters and plot! Story so well told, I couldn’t put it down! I can’t wait for the next one.”

  Goodreads reviewer

  “Her characters have such depth, you feel you know them intimately. This is a gem – a literary page-turner.”

  Amazon reviewer

  “McKenna is a master in the great Irish tradition of telling bittersweet tales.”

  Amazon reviewer

  THE GODFORSAKEN DAUGHTER

  “The Godforsaken Daughter is a perfect complement to the first two books and makes the reader beg for more.”

  Goodreads reviewer

  “Best read for the year. Poignant, romantic, thriller, relationships, love and so many more. How could a book carry so much emotion, and yet flow so fluidly? A compelling read. If there is only one book you have time to read in a year, better make it this one.”

  Amazon reviewer

  ALSO BY CHRISTINA McKENNA

  My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress (memoir)

  The Dark Sacrament (non-fiction)

  Ireland’s Haunted Women (non-fiction)

  The Misremembered Man (fiction)

  The Disenchanted Widow (fiction)

  The Godforsaken Daughter (fiction)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 Christina McKenna

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781612186993

  ISBN-10: 1612186998

  Cover design by Richard Augustus

  For my sister, Marie-Celine

  In memoriam

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nobody heard her tears; the heart is a fountain of weeping water which makes no noise in the world.

  Edward Dahlberg (1900–1977)

  PROLOGUE

  Do you ever ponder how many times you’ve come close to death? How many times you’ve met a stranger on the street, not realizing he carried a knife in his pocket and was randomly selecting “the one” whom his voices that day were urging him to kill?

  But he liked the way your hair shone in the sunlight. And you smiled at his approach, not knowing that your smile had saved you.

  How often have you shared tea with a psychopath? Brushed up against a bomber in the check
out queue? Opened the door to a serial rapist who reads gas meters for a living? Bought fertilizer from a garden centre whose owner killed his wife five years before and sank her deep beneath the patio where you stand to pay your bill?

  But you do it all the time: come within touching distance of the Dark Angel. Except . . . except some inner prompting steers you clear and you survive to take in the next breath. And the next one, and the next one. A lifetime dealt out in breathing and heartbeats, and the sheer blood-pumping effort of surviving, dodging the bullets of happenstance, with your hopes and your dreams, your obsessions and fears held tightly inside. Until one day you trip up, fall down, peter out, and the earth finally claims you for itself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Portaluce, Antrim Coast

  Dorinda Walsh knew she lived in a dangerous world. On the night of 25 January 1986, manifestations of the bleakest kind were invading her dreams, hovering like some great amorphous thing, seeking to engulf her.

  Keep breathing! a voice called from the darkness. Keep breathing. The breath is God, Dorrie. The breath is God.

  Dorrie twitched under the satin quilt of the narrow divan bed but did not awaken. She was caught in a web of terror, haring like a wild creature over a desolate beach, face uplifted, elbows flailing, mouth wide in a voiceless scream. She could feel her heart thudding, sweat coursing down arms and legs, but could not stop.

  She was running towards a light. Eyes steady on the beam. She must not lose sight of the light. If she blinked, all would turn to darkness and she’d be gone.

  Then, quick as a shutter click, the light became a vision. Dorrie slowed. The image was oval shaped, its outline shimmering with a celestial glow. It dazzled her and she shaded her eyes, transfixed.

  Was it the Virgin Mary? Was it an angel?

  No, she saw now that within the bright ellipse stood a familiar figure, one gloved hand raised in greeting. The Fatima-blue coat and the fall of white mantilla were unmistakable. It was her mama. But Florence Walsh was on the Other Side. Those were her burial clothes.

  “God must see me at my best, Dorrie,” she’d said with feeling. “Make sure of that before you put me in the ground.”

  Dorrie had made sure. But now her mother was no longer in the ground. She was very much above ground, standing just fifty yards away, waving. Oh, the joy of touching her again!

  “Wait, Mama dear, wait! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

  Dorrie’s feet gathered pace again, racing over the sand. Death could not touch her in her mother’s arms. It was imperative that she reached her.

  Bongggggg!

  The sound of a bell.

  Her legs buckled.

  She fell.

  Her eyes snapped open. She was lying on her back, gasping for air. Beneath her: the yielding softness of fabric. Not the cold, wet sand of a beach.

  She was in bed.

  It was only a dream.

  Yes, she was in bed. It was only a dream and she was back in the waking world.

  But where?

  Above her: a woodchip ceiling, a light fitting of dimpled glass. Her whole body tightened. Where was she? She blinked, eased herself up on her elbows.

  This was not her room. Light was hazing the window, but those were not her drapes. She took a deeper breath.

  The bell tolled again: deep-throated, ominous. Sunday? Sunday bells calling the faithful to prayer. Over the dwindling notes came other sounds: screeching, clamorous. Gulls. Seagulls.

  It must be Sunday, Dorinda decided, and I must be at the seaside.

  But how did I get here?

  She sat up, squinted at her watch. Ten past eight. Took in her surroundings: white furniture, cupid-pink decor. The carpet, a deeper shade: raspberry. Yes, raspberry; that’s what Mama would have called it. “Colours have personalities, Dorrie. They give us meaning. So they deserve engaging names.”

  Tears. Quick and hot. She squeezed her eyes tight against them. Saw her mother again, radiant in her Fatima-blue outfit, one gloved hand raised. The almond gloves with pearl trim, buried with her too. “A lady is never fully dressed without gloves, dear.”

  Consoled. Yes, at that moment she felt consoled. All would be well. When she dreamed of her mother it was always a good sign. She was with her in spirit. She’d always be, but—

  Without warning, out in the corridor, there were footfalls on carpet. Floorboards creaking, quietly. Dorrie held her breath. Light treads. A woman’s. Yes, a woman’s surely. They halted for a moment at her door, passed softly on, gathered pace down a staircase, clipped across hardwood and were gone. It was safe to breathe again.

  Gingerly she drew back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. Something in the footsteps, their urgency across the hallway, told her she must get moving.

  Her head ached. She pressed a palm hard against her brow, gazed at the bedside table. On it was an empty bottle of Jameson whiskey and a glass. Did I, she thought, drink all that? Alongside the bottle: a brochure lying face down. She turned it over. WELCOME TO THE OCEAN SPRAY. Below the greeting, a reproduction of Under the Wave Off Kanagawa, its curling wash tinged with gold. She opened it up:

  LOCATED ON THE PROMENADE, PORTALUCE

  EXCELLENT ROOMS FACING SEA FRONT

  BEST DRINKS IN STOCK

  CATERING PAR EXCELLENCE

  MODERATE RATES

  COMFORT – STYLE – CIVILITY

  MRS GLADYS D MILLMAN – PROPRIETRESS

  At last, a clue. Portaluce.

  Hard on the heels of this knowledge, a snapshot of her childhood came unbidden. Mama on the beach in a tea dress, frowning. “Uncle Jack” in a gaberdine suit, hands shoved loosely into pockets, staring out to sea. They’d had an argument. Dorrie, standing with bucket and spade between the two, knowing she’d been the cause of it—

  No time for that!

  She slammed a brake on the memory.

  Recent events were what mattered. Events of the evening before. She tried hard to recall them, but they kept slipping from her like elvers on an ebb tide.

  “Focus!” she rebuked herself, softly but firmly. Focus on getting dressed and resolving the situation. The owner of those footsteps would surely know what had happened. Dorinda needed to know, no matter how embarrassing such an explanation might be.

  Emboldened, she stood up and, in one swift movement, slipped out of the nightgown. Only when the baggy thing – two sizes too big in a ghastly shade of yellow – lay on the bed did she realize it did not belong to her.

  Her legs went weak. Good Lord, had a stranger put her to bed? She looked down, horrified to see she was still in her underwear. She never slept in her underwear. Someone had put her to bed. A woman. Yes, a woman, thank heavens. A man would most likely have removed the lingerie.

  Frantically she scanned the room for an overnight bag. If she’d booked in here for a night then surely she’d have packed one. But there was no sign of a bag. Only an untidy jumble of clothes on a chair.

  Dorrie, darling, pull yourself together and get dressed! A voice in her head. Mama’s voice, warm but chiding. Get dressed, go downstairs and have a nice cup of Darjeeling. Go with the flow, my dear. Go with the flow.

  Her hands were shaking as she sorted through the clothing: a beige blouse, black skirt and matching velvet jacket. The colours and soft textures were appealing. Remember, dear, you were born the year Chanel became an adjective. Aim for neutral tints. Bright colours are for prostitutes.

  Oh, how she missed her mother’s sage advice on all things consumerist and shallow! But there was no time now to dwell on the late Florence Walsh.

  Dorrie dressed hurriedly and went to check herself in the wardrobe mirror. Her auburn hair was in disarray, but a comb would sort that out.

  Rat-tat-tat. A soft rapping on the door.

  She tensed, smoothed down her skirt.

  “Yes, what . . . what is it?” Her voice sounded like the rasping of a can opener in the quiet of the room.

  “Your breakfast . . . it’s ready, ma’am!” The you
ng woman’s tone was diffident and for that reason seemed reassuring.

  A pause.

  Dorrie fought for the right words.

  Then: “Miss Gladys wants to finish up, so Cook can get the lunches, you see.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course. Sorry. I’ll be . . . I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She waited for the footsteps to fade away down the stairs. Miss Gladys? The “proprietress”?

  Immediately she scrambled about for her shoes. The black high heels were lying by the bed. But they were a sight: covered in sand, with fronds of seaweed sticking to the soles.

  “I strolled along the beach in my stilettos?” she said aloud. “Never. I always go for walks in flats. Always.” Somehow she had to convince herself of that.

  Panic gripped her. Dear Lord! But there was no time to cogitate on why she’d done such a crazy thing. Dorrie, dear, being late for appointments and keeping others waiting is a sign of vulgar breeding.

  “I know, Mama. I know.”

  Yes, the cook was waiting. Miss Gladys was waiting. She was keeping everyone waiting and it was all her fault because she’d got drunk, lost control and had let a stranger put her to bed. Oh dear, how was she going to get herself out of this one?

  Desperately, she rummaged in her handbag, found a comb, teased her hair into shape.

  Now: a coat. I must, she told herself, have brought a coat in this weather surely. Puzzling that it wasn’t hanging over the chair along with her other things.

  She went to the wardrobe and pulled the door wide open. There was no sign of a coat – but there was a shopping bag. It contained a white trench coat.

  No sooner was it in her hands than she dropped it in horror.

  Down the front of the coat was the ineradicable evidence that something very dire indeed had taken place.

  The coat was mottled with bloodstains.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Samaritan Centre, Killoran

  The phone rang. Rita-Mae Ruttle prepared herself. She sat down. Took a deep breath. Picked up the receiver.

  “Samaritans. May I help you?” Her voice was warm and calming: the tone she’d been trained to adopt when offering succour to the afflicted.

  “I wanna kill meself!” A man’s voice, gruff and breathy down the line. “I wanna kill meself and be done with it, so I do.”