Where Old Ghosts Meet (29 page)

“Please. Stay.” The priest struggled from the depths of his armchair.

She offered her hand. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet.

“I'm sorry, my dear.” He took her hand. “But I thought you would want to know.”

“It's okay, thank you. I have to meet someone. Thank you.” She hurried from the room into the hall, fumbled with the latch on the front door but couldn't get it open.

“Let me do that. It's a bit stiff. We could do with a new lock.” He moved forward and in a moment had the door open. She stepped eagerly into the sunshine, reaching for the handrail on the steps to steady herself. At the bottom she turned briefly. His hand was raised as if in blessing.

Before getting into the car she glanced back again. The door to the presbytery was already closed.

25

It
lifted Nora's spirits to see Pat, his broad stocky frame and smiling face waiting for her aboard his boat at the wharf. She knew him now to be a kind and considerate man who was protective of his elderly aunt and she liked that.

“Careful now, let me have your hand.” The boat lurched as she stepped on board.

She felt a surge of excitement. Berry Island was now deeply entrenched in her imagination. She had a strange longing to see the place, to smell the grass, to walk the paths that she had travelled with Peg as she told her story, but most of all she wanted to go from room to room in the house and put it all into perspective. This was where she felt it would finally come together for her.

“Are you good on the water?” He eyed her up and down as if somehow the set of her body would tell him what he needed to know.

“Yes, fine, I think, so long as it's not too rough.”

“She's lookin' best kind for today. Keep an eye where you're headed and you'll be fine.”

Nora looked about her as he busied himself with the ropes. It was a smallish craft with a cabin up front to house the wheel and engine, homemade by the looks of the finish.

“She's sturdy enough,” he said, as if he had sensed her uncertainty.

She nodded.

The engine leaped to life, the water churning noisily, sending a flock of seagulls into sudden and angry departure. The boat pulled away and headed out towards the black tip of the headland. The wind tugged at her hair and filled her thin blouse with a blustery chill. She remembered how cold the water had been on her feet and shivered. The boat surged forward as he shifted gear.

“There's a jacket there. You'll be needin' that when we get beyond the headland.”

She reached eagerly for the red plaid jacket on the hook behind her. It was way too big and the sleeves hung below her hands but it was cozy and warm and kept out the biting wind. She pulled the collar up and wrapped the jacket snugly around her body. The boat sped forward, pitching and dipping on the waves as it moved into top gear. She grabbed the rail and braced herself. She had never been on the open sea in a small craft before and it was a little frightening. She had a fleeting image of her grandfather and his first foray into the world of fishing on the waters of the cold North Atlantic. She felt his misery: no suitable clothing, raw and inexperienced, the men likely having a bit of sport at his expense, delighted to show this townie how a real man makes a living. She gathered up her shoulders protectively, burying her nose in the pocket of warmth that rose from inside the jacket. She could smell the heavy odour of work.

Her eyes met Pat's and he flicked his head backward, a question. Was everything all right?

She nodded.

“You've had a fine time with Aunt Peg.” His voice boomed above the noise of the engine. “She's taken quite the liking to you.”

Nora smiled. “She's a wonderful woman.”

“You'll be writing to her then from time to time?”

“Yes, I'll be writing to her and I'll be back. For a short visit,” she added, mocking him.

“Maybe find yourself a good Newfoundlander? I have a young fella to St. John's, not married, finest kind. Be perfect for you.”

Nora laughed. Now there was a thought. The Molloys settling down in Newfoundland again, and with the same crew!

“Now wouldn't that be somethin'?” He was reading her mind.

“Pat, you know she has a lot of books and stamps belonging to Matt.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. Brought them all from the island, didn't I? Bloody ridiculous, I thought at the time. But you know now, there's no arguing with Aunt Peg.”

“They are valuable. And she insists that I have them.”

“That's what he wanted, I believe.”

“So she says.”

“Then that's it. Got nothin' to do with me, so long as you don't want them packed up again and sent to Montreal. I had enough of that.”

“No, I'll arrange that.”

“I believe she loved him,” he said suddenly out of the blue, “though she never did say.” He looked across at her for confirmation.

“You think?” She looked away then so he couldn't see her lips move. “They loved each other,” she whispered.

“You don't say much. As I recall, it was hard to get the word out of him too. Like a gull on a rock he was, a real loner. Most he ever said to me, apart from when I was in school, was one day I was over to Aunt Peg's. He said, ‘Learnin' to read is the most important thing you'll ever do in your whole life.' I didn't believe him at the time. Learnin' to fish, read the weather, handle the boat, that's what was important to me then. But I kept me mouth shut.”

“Was he right?”

“Well, girl, I know there's truth to it for sure, but I don't know that it's more important than learnin' to make a livin'.”

They were beyond the headland now and on the open sea. The boat rolled and dipped more violently, but while it was a bit unnerving, it was also exhilarating.

“I'm going outside on deck for a while.”

“Mind you hold that rail. You're not used to the roll.”

She staggered to the rail, grabbing it tightly. The coast was far behind them now and she watched silently as the black streak of land and cliff gradually disappeared into the ocean. Parting from Peg had been difficult for Nora. She had developed a quiet but intense admiration for the gentle woman, who had taken her, with honest and endearing openness, through the depth and breadth of her life, sharing her most private and tender moments, her fears and anxieties, her simple need to love and be loved.

Nora watched as the water churned, boiling and frothing convulsively as it formed a perfect “V” in the wake of the boat. In the distance it dissipated and disappeared. For a long time she stood there, mesmerized by the constant motion, recalling bits and pieces of events related to the past few days. It would take weeks, even months or years, before she would be able to process it all and come to terms with what she had heard. Right now she couldn't make up her mind if she admired the man in any way or even if she liked him. Her grip tightened as the boat pitched. She could certainly understand his rejection of the water; it was cold and inhospitable, constantly shifting, unpredictable and treacherous. She turned away and tottered back to the comparative safety of the cabin. Pat, at the wheel, was silent, scanning the horizon.

“All right?” He turned to look at her, concerned.

“Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking, you know.”

“You'll be anxious to see the old house. It's lookin' bad these days. Been picked over. Furniture stolen and the like.”

“Who would do the like of that?”

“Oh, youngsters out pokin' about, nothin' better to do. Sometimes people from away lookin' for old stuff. Once a house is left empty, it don't take long for it to fall apart. I'll drop you to the wharf and you can follow the path around to Peg's place. The graveyard is up over the hill. Nothing would do her, when Mr. Molloy died, but to have him buried right there on the island. I had to go dig a hole in the middle of November and the ground half froze, right on the spot she chose. Then she wanted a white painted rail all around it, and if that wasn't enough, a special stone was ordered from St. John's with some lines or other that he liked cut right onto the stone. You'll see it above in the graveyard. In time it was all done as she wanted. He was to have a decent marker and that was all there was to it. I suppose she wanted it there in case, down the road when she was gone, the likes of you was to come lookin' for the place he was buried.”

“You're a good man, Pat. Peg is lucky to have you.” She fixed him with a straight honest look. “I'm grateful also. Thank you. I'm glad to know he didn't leave the world alone and abandoned.”

He nodded and said no more but continued to scan the horizon. “There she is.” He was pointing.

“Where?”

“That way,” he said, “at two o'clock.”

She followed his gaze to the dark spot on the horizon. Like a mirage, the grey-black mound grew bigger and bigger. Nora stood, eyes glued to the spot, eager for the first sight of the place that had once been Peg's home. The outline was becoming sharper; rocky headlands jutted out into the ocean, forming small coves and inlets. She could distinguish now the white shaley angles of the cliff face and the scrubby thatch of green firs on the crown of the hill. White spray drenched the pock-marked coastline, leaping into the air and collapsing into a frenzy of froth and white foam. Birds screamed and soared away to safe places amongst the cracks and crevices. The boat headed for a wide opening between two headlands. Suddenly the houses appeared, strung like jagged ornaments around the wide neck of the cove.

“I'm going outside again,” she said, her excitement mounting.

The houses drifted by, one by one. Some, looking gloomy and dilapidated, leaned heavily to one side, while others stood erect, refusing to succumb to wind and weather, steadfastly retaining a quiet dignity. She was thinking about him, fifty years ago coming through the same way. He probably stood aboard a ferry boat scanning the shoreline as she did now, a small package tucked away carefully in his jacket pocket, a gift to deliver from a soldier husband. Now, that was something she could admire, she admitted with a certain degree of pleasure: to come such a long way in order to follow through on a promise. That was admirable.

A tap at the window made her turn. Pat was pointing to the left. He poked his head around the door. “There she is.”

She could barely hear him above the noise of the engine. She followed his pointing finger to a simple square two-story house with peeling white clapboard. “The white one?” she mouthed, pointing, looking to Pat for confirmation.

He nodded.

She stared at the house passing in front of her eyes. The green trim on the windows and about the door was still visible. It looked solid and neat. Emotion welled up inside of her. She shut her eyes, momentarily unsure what she was feeling. This was it, the home where Peg and her grandfather had lived, the place Peg had finally abandoned out of sheer necessity. She turned eagerly to Pat in the wheel-house. He winked, jerking his head slightly. When she looked again the house had slipped past.

The throttle on the engine shifted and the boat slowed down. They were coming alongside of what was left of a wharf.

Nora watched him leap ashore and tie up.

“Mind your step.” He grabbed her hand as she stepped off the boat. “You'll be okay while I'm gone?” He searched her face. “I'll be by again in a couple of hours.” Without waiting for an answer he continued, “You can walk all the way round either way, to the point or up and over the top.” His arm swept about the cove.

“Where's the gulch?”

An inquiring look crossed his eyes and he hesitated just a moment before answering. “Just keep on goin' away from the cemetery across the cliff. You can't miss it. Be careful. It's a rough spot.”

“Great.”

“Here's a lunch Bride made for you, case you gets hungry. The restaurant here's closed down!” He grinned and passed her a paper bag.

“Thanks, Pat.” She reached over and took the bag. “I'll see you in a couple of hours.” She checked her watch. “I'll be watching for you.”

He stepped back on board, surefooted and confident, gave her a wave and was off, swinging out in a wide arc and heading for the open sea. The steady throb of the engine carried across the water. She followed the boat's progress until it was no more than a speck and was gone. She was alone. In the sudden quiet she could hear the water lapping on the pylons below her feet. She looked down and with a start she realized that she was standing on a rotting platform of broken boards and gaping holes. She jumped down onto the stony beach and picked her way carefully up a grassy slope where she decided to sit for a while, maybe get a feel for the place before taking the path out along the arm.

She spread Pat's jacket on the grass and unpacked the lunch he had given her. The sight of food made her realize that she was starving and she tucked into the meat sandwich with gusto. She drew her knees close to her chest as she munched and stared at the desolation across the water. Empty windows, like plucked-out eye sockets, stared back at her. Everything seemed more dilapidated, less romantic now that she was at close quarters. She tried to picture the place full of life, people working, children playing and laughing, the smell of the fish.

She spotted a rough-looking shack a little way along the beach and decided to take alook. Perched on top of long spindly stilts, it had been a neat little structure at one time, but now it was tipping slightly to one side and the door hung open on one hinge. She didn't dare trust her weight on the wooden platform, but inside she could see the remains of a rusty potbelly stove, a scrap of frayed rope dangling from a nail, and close to the stove a few upturned crates. The only hint of colour was a piece of an orange plastic float lying by the door.

She turned away and headed towards the path that led to Peg's house. It was barely visible now, just a beaten-down track that was partly overgrown. The grass on either side grew long and silky and swayed gently in the breeze off the water. She ran her fingers along the heads of the tall buttercups and stooped to smell the spiky pink clover tips and inspect the clumps of tiny star-like flowers that she couldn't identify. She pulled at a long stalk of grass, nibbling on the pale succulent end. She passed one house and then another and another, noticing the perfect symmetry of some houses, windows equally spaced, doorway neatly centred. Others were more haphazard in style, built, she suspected, more for utility and without much thought for style. She stopped to look at small details like a pretty pattern around a doorway, carefully carved by someone with a love of the beautiful as well as the practical, detailed mouldings around windows and doors, a fragment of faded cotton flapping by a broken window, a clump of tall yellow daisies nestled by a faded blue doorway. She tried to imagine who might have lived there, perhaps someone she'd met: Foxy, who had danced her round and round with great glee at the garden party, or Mary Anne or Gerry Quinlan?