Moonshine. Victoria Clayton

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       FIFTEEN

      The bus station was deserted apart from a friendly dog and a sleeping tramp. The ticket counter was shuttered. I put down my suitcases and sat on the cleanest bit of the bench that ran down one side of the waiting room. I saw Kit’s car go past the door on its way to Westport and a disagreeable shiver of loneliness ran over me like a cold draught. The dog and I exchanged sniffs and words with mild enthusiasm. It was a large dog with a coat of long brown ringlets, like an apprentice perm. As five minutes became ten, I grew increasingly fond of the dog and less fond of the tramp who muttered in his sleep, broke wind several times and scratched his stomach with a grimy fist. I began to wish that I had thrown in my lot with Kit and faced the inevitable complications of such a course. When, three-quarters of an hour later, my thoughts were too wretched to be borne and the bench too hard for comfort, I rose and began to pace. This provoked the dog to bark. The tramp opened his eyes and sat up.

      ‘Blood and wounds! Will you shut it now, you little devil, before I knock your dratted head off your body!’ he commanded. He screwed his knuckles into his eyes then stared at me. ‘Would your name be Miss Norton, by any chance? For Curraghcourt?’

      ‘Yes. I’m Bobbie Norton.’

      The tramp revealed a jumble of teeth. ‘That’s good! You’re very welcome, miss! Timsy O’Leary is my name.’ He pulled off a ragged cap to reveal a shock of mousy hair standing up above a seam of dirt made by the band of his headgear. ‘I was sent to fetch you to the house.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Is that the time? The old one’ll be cross as briars with you being so late.’

      It would not do to fall out at the beginning of our relationship so I restrained my natural feeling of annoyance. ‘Is this your dog? She seems … intelligent.’

      ‘No-ho. She belongs to Miss Constance. Sure you might scrape all Ireland with a fine-toothed comb and you’ll not find a better dog.’ He bent down, supporting himself with his hands on his knees. ‘Come here, Maria darling. Come to your uncle Timsy.’ Maria barked defiantly in his face and ran from the waiting room. ‘Well then, Miss Norton. We’d better be making tracks. The car’s outside.’

      We followed the dog into the street. I perceived from the unsteadiness of his gait and the smell of alcohol on his breath that Timsy O’Leary had been drinking. Or could this be part of the stage Irishman impersonation Kit had described? Was Timsy O’Leary actually sober and wearing clean underclothes beneath the beggar’s outfit? Perhaps he had a consuming interest in Florentine Mannerist painters? I picked up my suitcases and followed him.