Where Old Ghosts Meet (12 page)

“It's the finest kind of place here when we get a bit of good weather.” She looked at him sideways.

“Yes,” he said and began to move on.

He took the lead as the climb grew steeper. Close to the top, the trail had been washed away altogether, leaving only a rough, steep area with very little growth. He worked his way slowly to the left, searching for footholds, guiding her along step by step. Her foot slipped on the gravel and she slid backwards. “Here,” he said, reaching down to help her over the last hurdle. She reached out, clasping his outstretched hand, and was taken aback by the softness of his skin. In that instant she realized she had never before touched him. “Come on,” he urged, and with a little pull she was beside him. He released her hand immediately. Pausing to catch her breath, she took a furtive look at her own hands, rubbing the palms self-consciously, dragging them roughly against the cloth of her skirt. When she looked up he was watching her.

She pretended to brush away a spot of dirt and then pushed past him, lengthening her stride and not stopping until she reached the top of the hill. “The berry patch is that way.” She pointed and hurried off down the other side.

She came to a halt by an area of low scrub and with growing anticipation dropped to her knees and reached into the woody undergrowth. Gently she lifted the clusters of tiny glossy leaves, exposing the deep red berries. “Here.” With her fingertips and thumb, she gently began to rake a little pile into the palm of her hand. She knew it was best to wait until after the first frost before picking these particular berries but she wasn't about to tell him that. The berries were not important today. She held out her hand for him to taste.

“Tart.” She laughed as he made a face. “But good for jam.”

They worked together in quiet companionship, moving apart, drawing close, ferreting out the good patches, pausing from time to time to stretch their aching backs. The berries were plentiful this year and the brin bags filled rapidly.

“The light is fading, Matt, I think we should be getting back.”

They walked up over the hill a little way to where she knew there was a sheltered hollow that looked out across the water to the far headland, to the place they called Larry's Hill. On a night like this you could watch the moon as it climbed along the brow of the hill right to the top, and then like magic it would lift off and float up into the night sky.

“Let's sit here a minute. Shortly you'll see the moon climb up over the hill.”

She set down the bag of berries, propping it carefully between two stones and suggested he do the same. Then she sat down on the grass, easing her aching back against a rise in the ground. “Nature's own daybed,” she laughed, “just like home.” Her hands settled behind her head and she stared up at the darkening bowl of the sky. There was a slight breeze off the water but the night was still warm. Night came in a hurry at this time of year. She looked around; he was nowhere to be seen. She closed her eyes, anxious, willing herself to relax.

“I've found some blueberries.”

She looked up. He was standing directly above her on the rise, his face white against the dark sky. She thought he looked beautiful, like an apparition. He came and sat next to her, holding out a small mound of berries.

“These taste better,” he said, “less tart.”

“They're a bit puny looking, just about done for this year.” She sat up and picked one off the top, taking care not to touch his bare hand, but then she laughed, threw caution to the wind and scooped up a little pile, threw back her head and tossed the lot into her mouth.

A fleeting smile crossed his lips as he tipped back the remainder of the berries. She watched his jaw move up and down and his throat contract as he swallowed. He suddenly appeared clownish, with his lips and tongue stained with the purple berry juice.

“Look,” he said.

Her eyes followed his across the water. A white disc edged over the base of Larry's Hill.

They watched, spellbound, as the moon slowly rode the dark edge of the hill, rising gradually and finally lifting off, full and unfettered, into the darkening sky.

“It's beautiful,” she said dreamily.

The pale light cast a flickering streak across the water.

She looked sideways at him. He was far away. “Matt.” She brought her body around to face him. “Matt,” she tried again. “I'm happy when I'm with you. I believe you're happy too. I can feel it right here.” She tapped her chest lightly with her fist. “But see, when we're together, half the time I think it's just like we're in another world. We're livin' a fairy-tale life, the two of us; no real plans, not even for the comin' winter. I worry about that, Matt, and Father is anxious too.”

“We'll be all right, Peg, don't you worry. The garden this year is fairly good. I'm getting to know the ground here now and what to expect from the season. Later on I'll take a few birds so there'll be plenty of meat, and Pat Tobin asked me the other day if I'd be interested in going caribou hunting on the mainland. So we'll be all right.”

“I'm not talkin' meat and potatoes, Matt. I'm talkin' about us.”

Alarm swept across his face. His eyebrows shot upwards, making deep runnels across his forehead. Then, just as quickly, they disappeared and he became pensive.

She reached for his hand. It felt limp. With her index finger she began to trace the outline of each fingertip. She felt no strangeness now, only the warmth of his skin against hers. She turned his hand over and laid it against her own, palm to palm, as if for a handshake. Hers were good hands, she decided, strong and well shaped, but his were beautiful and she loved that. On an impulse she brought his fingers to her lips and touched them lightly. “I love you, Matt,” she said simply.

The whole world, she was sure, was listening, for at that moment she could hear no sound: not the surf below, not the breeze in the tall grass all around, not their breathing. She looked at him then, feeling happy and confident that at last she had spoken her mind. She waited, expectant.

“Thank you,” he said.

At first she wasn't sure that she had heard correctly except that the words kept repeating in her head over and over again … thank you … thank you … like she'd handed him some foolish gift.

She stared at the top of his head, her eyes penetrating, demanding that he look at her. When finally he did look up she saw what she dreaded most of all: that lost sad look that put fear and dread in her heart. It was a look she could not penetrate. At times like this she felt as if he had drawn an imaginary circle on the ground all around him; it meant: keep out. She could not approach him now. Whatever was going on inside had to be settled first before she could try again.

She got to her feet then and walked away, leaving him sitting alone on the grass.

“I can't,” he said, his voice just loud enough to reach her and stop her in her tracks. “I can't. I'm a married man.”

It was as if someone had just punched her between the shoulder blades and knocked the wind right out of her. She felt unable to move, unable to respond. She heard his step behind her.

“We'd better be getting back. It's late,” he said.

He looked ridiculous, his mouth smeared with all that purple juice, and in a flash she realized that she must look the same; the two of them, just a pair of stupid fools. She turned away. “You go on, I'll be down later.” She could hardly speak, her tongue felt that dry and thick in her mouth.

“It's getting dark. You might need help around the rough spots.” He had begun to move away.

“I'll manage,” she whispered. “I'll manage on my own.”

She watched the bobbing figure as he made his way down over the hill. Every so often he turned side on to find a better footing. Then she could see his pale profile beneath the black head of curls. Soon he disappeared from sight. She continued to stare down over the hillside, knowing the exact spot where he'd come back into view. He was moving quickly now, almost running on the lower slope. She thought he had stopped once to look back, just before disappearing into the grove of alders, but in the moonlight it was hard to be sure.

She looked around, feeling utterly desolate. The bags stood propped against the rock. He had forgotten the berries.

She walked back to the spot where they had been sitting; the grass lay crushed and flat to the ground. She dropped to her knees and reached out a hand to touch the place. It was still warm, and then she was raking the spot, coaxing the grass to stand up again to be whole and straight. She shuffled and fluffed at it, her hands working frantically, until it stood in crooked ragged spikes. Sitting back on her hunkers she looked at the mess. “Damn, damn,” she cried out, her fists pounding the earth. “Stunned, I am. Pure stunned,” she yelled. The tears rose painfully from deep within her chest, filling her head, stinging her eyes until finally she let go. They ran freely down over her hot cheeks and fell into the ragged grass at her knees. Why hadn't she guessed? She should have seen the signs. In a rage she stumbled to where the two bags of berries lay propped against the rocks. She grabbed both bags and with all her might flung them one after the other as far as she could. The berries flew from the bags in a shower of shining red droplets and disappeared into the long grass.

“God in heaven,” she sobbed, “how innocent am I at all?”

“He wasn't there when I got home.” She turned to look at Nora. “I waited up for the longest while and in the end I gave up and went to bed. He came back to the house sometime in the night but I never heard him. By morning he was gone, without a word.”

10

The
house had settled into a quiet slumber but sleep would not come to Nora. The room was hot and stuffy and the pressures of the day had sapped her energy, leaving her restless and depleted. She wondered about Peg. Was she by some miracle feeling the opposite, unburdened and content, fast asleep in her bed?

Nora's earlier attempt at opening the window had failed, but this time, driven by heat and frustration, she threw back the covers and hit the floor at a trot. The small slider window was set a little too high on the wall for easy access, so she had to struggle hard, pushing against the glass with her palms, finally managing to inch it open just enough to get her fingers around the edge and pull. The night air rushed in. She closed her eyes and pushed back the tangle of her hair, relieved to feel the cool breeze on her face and neck. She was about to climb back into bed when she remembered the night sky. She moved back to the window. It was a golden night, thick with stars, bright with moonlight. Suddenly she wanted to be outside, to stand again on the little rise at the back of the house where she had stood earlier in the day. She whipped the coloured blanket off the bed, threw it around her shoulders and quietly crept to the bedroom door and eased it open. The whiskey bottle, ominously lit by a streak of moonlight, stood on the kitchen table, solitary, like an actor at centre stage, his moment done. She tiptoed to the back door, her bare feet making no sound. The cat! She looked around, but remembered then that she had seen it follow Peg into her bedroom. The back door was unlocked. She opened it cautiously and stepped outside onto the cool grass. Except for the gentle heaving of the ocean below, the night was eerily quiet. It felt strangely romantic, standing there in the moonlight, a lone figure on the mound, her nightdress flapping around her bare legs. What if anyone should see her? She looked about but there was not a soul to be seen. On the far headland a single light pierced the darkness. In the community of Shoal Cove several houses were still awake. She pictured the people inside, clustered around the TV or drinking mugs of hot tea at the kitchen table, possibly discussing the young woman from away, who, that morning, had shown up on Peg Barry's doorstep looking for some relative or other. The night, clear, sweet and uncluttered, brushed aside such thoughts.

She searched the sky, picking out the Plough and the North Star and the Great Bear, but that was the limit of her ability. If her grandfather were alive today, she mused, he might have walked her to the edge of the bluff and stood there beside her, guiding her through the maze of the constellations. He would surely have known about things like that. Her mind drifted to a sheltered hollow long ago, the moon climbing up over Larry's Hill and a figure fleeing down the side of the hill. Was he shy, or scared? Unable, or unwilling, to give it any more thought, she pulled the blanket tightly about her shoulders and walked back to the house, closing the door softly behind her.

Back in the little bedroom she sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the first book on the pile by the bed. It was a collection of poetry. She made herself comfortable against the soft pillows and began to read. Gradually she drifted into a kind of easy contentment and when she finally turned out the light, sleep came easily.

She was awaken by shuffling noises in the room. Instantly alert, she lay rigid in the bed, her face to the wall. For a moment she was confused, unable to recall where she was. Her heart thumped painfully, loud and insistent. The window … immediately she remembered where she was. She had left the window open. There was someone in the room. She could hear little crooning noises now, more shuffling. She raised her head slowly, terrified. Across the room she could see the outline of a white figure by the bookshelf. In an instant she realized it was Peg, her pale wisps of hair loose and hanging down the back of her nightdress. A thin hand, feverish and agitated, searched the shelves of books and finally eased one from its place. Nora watched the white figure, now quiet and content, turn the pages. After a little while Peg closed the book quietly and put it back in its place. Then slowly she turned and began to make her way across the room to where Nora lay petrified. Peg paused for a moment and then leaned forward, her eyes hovering just above Nora's. The faint smell of stale whiskey was on her breath. Nora pulled back against the pillow but the eyes, glittering like two polished marbles, came closer, pinning Nora to the spot. Suddenly, as if sensing she was unwelcome, the white figure turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.