Niamh remembered Wednesday morning that she'd been meaning to buy a flask. Something dainty, ladylike, understated - maybe enamelled, maybe in her favourite ice blue. It was a desire she tended to forget until Imelda visited.
Niamh felt it strong as ever today. Today, in a prime example of Ambrose's good intentions tending a garden path to Hell, Niamh and Imelda were on a shopping pilgrimage to Cilldargan. Niamh had protested about staying back with a fussy Kieran, only for her father to volunteer an afternoon of babysitting. Niamh had protested about not having a car, only for Ambrose to remind her that Imelda had hired a shiny red instrument of death and destruction. Niamh had almost said it was silly to buy a new dress until her weight stabilised, but, intuiting Imelda's response to this, she thought better of it.
Now, after two near-misses with pedestrians and one with a bus, they were in the shopping centre carpark, and the younger woman would have killed for a nip of brandy.
They wound their way through the department store, rounding circular metal racks - the kind Niamh would hide from her mother in when she was a child. Had it really been seven years now? Mammy would have known how to quiet Imelda with grace, how to arrest with one look her mind-numbing recaps of TV programmes no sane person would watch.
Niamh pushed past another broomstick-skirted monstrosity, about to give up, when she saw it: a flattering silhouette, inviting texture, princess seams, and modest enough for Sunday, without being dowdy. It was dainty, ladylike, understated, and ice blue. It looked like it might fit perfectly; she lifted it off the rack.
"I'll be back in a moment," she told her mother-in-law, beelining for the change room.
"Hold on, dear," Imelda chirped, holding up a mustard-yellow knit blob, four sizes larger. "Don't you think you'd be more comfortable in something like this?"
Only as my shroud! Niamh clenched her teeth behind a taut smile, and took the hanger. "I'll give it a try."
Kathleen rang up Siobhan's order, hoping as could close soon. "Didn't know you'd taken in a cat," the shopkeeper commented as she bagged the cans of wet food.
"Haven't really," said Siobhan. "Only fostering for now."
"Another doorstep foundling?" Kathleen guessed.
"Correct. Know anyone in the market for a better mousetrap?"
Kathleen made a nervous face. "Can't say as I'd know."
"Not a cat-lover, so?"
Kathleen's eyes darted, and she leaned in for a whisper. "They terrify me," she confided.
The greeting head of Brendan Kearney peeked around a corner display, but he said nothing. Kathleen sighed and glanced at the clock.
Siobhan brightened at the sight of the teacher. "What about you, Brendan? Any interest in a little live-in pest control?"
"Been a long time since I've had a cat, but I'd be happy to meet him. All the literary greats kept cats," he mused.
Kathleen glanced at the clock again.
Siobhan beckoned Brendan closer with a nod of her head. "He's mostly slept off the neuter drugs. Could come meet him." She dropped her voice. "Spend a night if you wish."
Kathleen demolished a toffee. Just a few more days, she told herself. Just a few more days.
After the last two dawdling customers made their exit, the shopkeeper stepped out into the fading light to retrieve the chalkboard sale sign from the walkway. Across the street she saw the publican rolling out an empty barrel, and the curate passing by, pausing to assist.
"Bound for Tenebrae?" she asked, breathless.
"Won't you join us?"
"Cold day in Hell. Does anyone ever go?"
"Fair point. Can't fault a bloke for trying."
"Look, we need to..." she looked behind her for signs of emerging pub guests. "Peter, we need to talk about what keeps happening."
"I know," he said uneasily. "Soon. I promise."
"But not before Easter," she returned, darkly.
He looked at the ground.
"Right," she snapped. "See you at the christening."
Kathleen reached into her dress pocket, but the last toffee was already gone.
Someone has to tell Father MacAnally.
She locked the store and headed uphill for Tenebrae.
Trying not to speculate on the particulars of his two friends' late-night rendezvous, Doc Ryan acknowledged Siobhan and Brendan as he approached the front porch. The latter looked, in the weak porchlight, something like a cross between a scarecrow and a blowfish. It wasn't the worst allergic reaction he'd seen in his career, but an impressive inflammatory response no less.
"Cat's still safe inside?" he asked. The vet nodded.
Brendan made an indignant noise. "You make it sound like I'm the one who made him break into hives."
"Gave him the antihistamine as you indicated, doctor," Siobhan said.
"Looks to be kicking in. I'll hang around a while; if you have any trouble breathing I'll inject you with the epinephrine."
"I don't understand," Brendan gasped, still pink and hot to the touch near his eyes and nose. "Never had that sort of trouble with a cat before."
Siobhan stepped out onto the porch now, bearing water for the patient and instant coffee for the doctor. "Every animal's dander is a little different," she said.
Michael nodded as he took the mug. "And allergies can develop late in the game. I had a patient go anaphylactic on shellfish, out of the blue, at age forty."
"Wish I could keep him," Brendan sighed. "Lovely cat."
"So it goes," said Siobhan, patting his hand.