The Misremembered Man by Christina McKenna Page A

was to know?—but they had the same mannerisms, and had suffered the same punishment. Master Keaney liked them small and weak. They could not speak out. They sat locked inside their frightened selves.
    Sister Mary patrolled the hall like a great crow, her black robes grazing the floor, her eyes alert for dropped food and foot-fights under the long tables. She could tell, just by looking down the serried rows of lowered heads, which of the boys had suffered Keaney’s “attentions” in the night. They did not want to eat; they sobbed into their hands and swapped their bowl with the nearest little glutton, one who would see in their raw pain his own fat reward.
    She spotted Eighty-Four and Eighty-Six trade their bowls with the boys opposite them, but did not intervene. Just as she did not intervene in the affairs of the men. After all, these children were the products of sin, and did they not, in a way, deserve all they got?

Chapter eleven
     
    L ydia Devine, having ensured that the coast was clear, closed the bedroom door quietly and opened the large envelope marked “Private.” For although her mother was safely out of sight, in the parlor watching Green Acres , she could not trust her to stay put for its half-hour duration. Sometimes the appearance of the hapless, bumbling character of Hank Kimball—whom Elizabeth felt was “a talentless gype” and lowered the show’s appeal—could cause her to turn down the volume and make a cup of tea. Worse still, she might decide to switch off the set completely and go on the prowl to see what Lydia was up to.
    However, at that point, Lydia could hear the burbling television down below and felt confident that she was safe for the time being at least.
    The big envelope contained three smaller ones, each bearing her box number. The first letter was on yellow paper, with two pink hearts entwined before a rising sun—very forward, thought Lydia—and the writing was practically indecipherable. She tried to squint her way through it, but gave up when her head began to ache at the wobbling script and careless spelling. A man who could not manage the word “because” and who omitted his definite articles (not to mention his punctuation) was either a slow learner or a foreigner, or, God forbid, both. A resounding three out of ten, thought Lydia, and resisted the urge to take her red pen and write “Please try harder” across the bottom.
    The second one she opened was a marked improvement. The handwriting was regular and legible. The envelope and paper were in matching bond with a fetching scalloped border. She was impressed.
    2 Harris Green
Killycock,
Co. Derry
     
My Dear Madam,
Whilst perusing the July 14th edition of the Mid-Ulster Vindicator your advertisement caught my eye.
     
    Lydia settled back more comfortably against the pillows. Full marks already for the use of the word “perusing,” and more brownie points for taking the trouble to spell out the word “advertisement.” That dangling participle was, of course, something else again, but she was prepared to forgive it. Here was obviously a man who believed in doing things properly.
    From what I gather, and I realize that one is limited by the space in the newspaper, I sense that you are a cultured person like myself who is creative and likes the finer things in life.
     
    She thought he must be psychic to read such depth in such a small ad. Still, she was flattered—and the proper use of the subordinate clause was impressive.
    I shall now tell you a little about myself so that you can decide for yourself and I do hope that you will decide to write back to me.
I am a retired gentleman. I used to own a shop, selling mostly household items and hardware. As well as items for the ladies. Whatever the public wanted I’m proud to say I managed to get. The lady customers used to call me “Frank the Fixer”. A title, I have to say that I was proud to wear because I believe in fulfilling a ladies needs.
     
    Lydia shifted