Where Old Ghosts Meet (3 page)

Mickey Dolan, she knew that name from the letter. Already she disliked its owner.

“I don't rightly know what became of the oul' woman after that.”

“Do you know anyone who might know?”

“Arra, girleen, don't go worrying your head about things like that. It's a long time ago and there's not too many of us left.”

“What about the house?”

“Ah, sure, tis all fallen down. The land belongs to the Farrels now. Twas only a small placeen. Yer father sold it after, I suppose.”

“Can you tell me how to get there, Mr. Brennan?”

The ruins of the cottage lay in a little isolated hollow surrounded by trees and vegetation. At one time it must have been a comfortable location, but high in the treetops heavy growth had closed in, cutting off the sunlight, creating a dark, damp vault below. Thick ropes of ivy clawed their way up and around the tree trunks and into the branches, silently choking life from the trees. The creeper had also attacked the cottage, entering the house by the doors and windows, eating into the mortar and dragging the walls stone by stone to the ground. Nature had taken over from the fire and wiped out the past. There were no memories here, no stone boundaries to contain and define former times, just a tall gable end, standing on its own like a giant headstone, with no epitaph.

Nora sat huddled on a mossy mound, trying to capture the home that had once been there, but silence settled heavily on the clearing so that she barely heard the misty rain as it touched the leaves. One day, more than a half-century ago, her grandfather had walked away from this place, leaving behind his wife and little son. He had never returned. She had, at one time, on a memorial card, seen a picture of the woman he had deserted. It was a grainy kind of photo. Nora couldn't even recall the face. However, she did remember clearly one day when she was maybe nine or ten years old. Her father had appeared in the kitchen dressed in his best suit of clothes, carrying a small briefcase.

“I'll be back in a day or two.” It was just a statement of fact and invited no comment. With that, he walked out of the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind him.

She had clutched her mother's hand tightly.

“What's wrong, Mammy?”

“Your father's mother died today. He's gone to the funeral.”

“And are we not going?”

“No, child, we're not. Daddy wants to be alone today.”

“But I could hold his hand, Mammy, and I promise I wouldn't say a word.”

Her mother had drawn her close. “Maybe if you and I hold hands tightly, Daddy will feel that we are beside him.”

Nora fingered the soft green moss on the rock. Her mother, she thought sadly, always the conciliator, always trying to make things right. Late afternoon was drawing in, slowly deepening the shadows in the hollow. Nora decided to go back to the car and head for home.

That night in the small bedroom that she and Maureen had shared all their lives, Nora's sleep was troubled and fretful. In her dreams she was in an empty room standing on a stepladder, scraping wallpaper. She held a large wet sponge which she passed slowly, ever so slowly, across the dry surface, watching the colours deepen and spread. Water ran down her arm, falling pat, pat, pat on the paper below. As she slipped the thin metal edge of the scraper beneath a puffy bulge, the paper came away in long damp swales and fell to the ground. Underneath, there was another layer of paper, and another. She remembered feeling tired and frustrated, wanting to give up, when suddenly, she sensed a presence hovering close beside her and a voice, soft but insistent, repeating over and over “good girl… good girl.” There was yet another layer of paper: faded water lilies on a pale background. Beneath the water lilies was the bare wall.

2

In
the small community of Shoal Cove, Newfoundland, Peg Barry moved quietly about her kitchen. Mornings were always the same: first a cup of tea with two spoons of sugar – that was the only time she took sugar in her tea – and then later on a bowl of hot porridge with a teaspoon of molasses, no milk. Her breakfast was almost ready. She was late today, had stayed longer than usual sitting outside her front door enjoying her tea with sugar in the early morning sunshine. To her mind it was the best time of the day: before the sun became too hot and too many people were about. When her food was ready she sat down to the table, dropping heavily into her chair with a little groan, glad to be off her feet. Before she ever got out of bed these days she could tell the weather by the ache in her bones. But she wasn't complaining, for otherwise she was in good health.

Peg's place was a small boxy house set a little way back from the road. It had neither character nor style, one of those modern homes built cheaply without a whole lot of thought. At this stage in her life she cared little about the outside appearance. Inside it was warm and comfortable, easy to care for and it suited her needs just fine; besides, from her window out back she had the finest view of the bay in the whole of the community. She had moved there from Berry Island a few years back, in '62, around the time that many of the island communities were being resettled. The government was encouraging people to move to the mainland where they said better services and more jobs were available. She had held on for several years after most of the inhabitants had gone, but finally the time came when she too made up her mind to leave.

Her nephew Pat had made all the arrangements. He had asked her to move into his place with Bride and the children but she was too independent for that. Pat understood Peg and her ways. He was her mainstay, as good as any son. What's more, he could turn his hand to any job she needed done. A few years ago, knowing her fondness for the view out back, Pat had replaced the little slider in the kitchen with the big picture window. She called it her window on the world: her own private world.

Now as she sat there sipping her second cup of tea, she lingered on those days she had spent on Berry Island. She recalled how, as a young boy, Pat would come by every day to see Aunt Peg. She loved to watch him come over the path, breaking into a run for the last few yards to the house. She'd have fresh-baked bread and molasses for him and a mug of tea or sometimes a piece of plate tart spread thick with berry jam. He'd sit to the table like a little man and tell her all the news and then be off to help at home. In many ways she still thought of Pat as a youngster, even though he must be close to fifty years old now with a slew of his own youngsters, but he never seemed to grow old in her mind.

She finished the last of her porridge and quickly ran her fingers over her chin and mouth to check for stray scraps. Satisfied, she eased herself up from the table and began to tidy up.

The screen door opened and banged shut and Pat's little daughter Hanna stood in the doorway holding a bunch of flowers. She held them out to Peg, not saying a word, just glowing with the pleasure of her giving. Peg reached for the posy, a big purple lupin banked with the delicate creaminess of Queen Anne's Lace, several stalks of grass, their smooth green heads standing stiffly to attention like the queen's own guard, and a few sprigs of pink clover and golden buttercups. Below the chubby fist, ragged stems and muddy roots hung in disarray, but the child saw nothing of this, only the delight in the old woman's eyes.

“Well, God love and bless you, my darling.”

Peg could feel the soft little hands, hot with exertion, as her own crippled fingers struggled to hold the flowers together.

“Smell, Aunt Peg, smell.”

Peg brought the flowers to her nose. “Is it any wonder the bees like to play about in the meadow all day?”

The child clapped excitedly. “And the butterflies,” she insisted.

“Yes, my dear. We'll put them here in the yellow jug. That will be lovely.”

They had just finished doing up the flowers when the doorbell rang.

“The fine weather's got everyone on the go today. Go see who's there, that's a good girl.” Peg ushered the child towards the door. She ran off but she was back again in a second, looking uncertain and not saying a word.

“Well, who is it, child?”

“She wants you, Aunt Peg.”

“Well, tell her come in.”

She reached up, pushed a wisp of hair off her face and fiddled about with the loose knot of hair on the top of her head in a futile attempt to hold it firmly in place. A strange voice came from the porch. She dabbed at the bodice of her faded floral dress. That morning she had decided it wasn't dirty enough for washing. Now she wished she hadn't been so foolish, trying to get another day out of a dress.

“In there,” she heard Hanna say.

A young woman stepped hesitantly into the kitchen. She was tall and thin with long bare legs and a very short skirt. Two purple daisies on gold chains dangled from her ears. She was a very modern-looking young woman, the kind you saw on the television these days.

For a moment the stranger stared blankly at Peg without speaking. Then, as if prodded by an invisible finger, she stepped forward and blurted out, “I'm Matt Molloy's granddaughter, Nora Molloy, from Ireland.”

Reaching behind her, Peg grabbed the edge of the table and with an effort shifted her weight unsteadily. “Blessed God,” she muttered under her breath. Her gaze until now had been direct and smiling but now it was alert and guarded.

The screen door banged shut. The child was gone.

Suddenly everything had changed for Peg Barry. Her day had hardly begun in earnest and already it was upside down. Matt's grandchild was here in her kitchen, standing not four feet away, tall and lanky, with bare legs and a head of dark curls on her just like his. Her mind was addled. For years she had hoped and prayed for this day, she and Matt both, and now inside of her, something was twisting about like a rope on a winch. She was speechless.

“You are Peg Barry who used to live on Berry Island?” Huge dark eyes, heavily outlined in black, focused on Peg.

Not his eyes. Peg had recovered some of her composure and was taking a long hard look at the stranger. The light from the window was full on her face. She had a good mouth, full and generous. You could tell a lot about a person by their mouth, she always thought. Peg took her time before speaking. “Yes, I'm Peg Barry. You've got the right one.”

“The man at the store told me that you knew my grandfather. He said you were the one to talk to.”

“You spoke to John Joe at the store?” There was an edge to her voice. Like a watchful bird ready for flight her eyes darted back and forth. “Might as well have put it on The Doyle Bulletin.” She offered no explanation but it was clear to Nora that she had done the wrong thing.

“I had no real address, just Berry Island and Shoal Cove. I had to ask.” The colour had begun to rise in Nora's cheeks. She toyed with the idea of turning around and simply walking out the door as the child had done and forgetting the whole business. What did it matter after all these years?

The old woman shifted her weight again, her hand clutching hard at the edge of the table. She winced, her forehead gathering up like a concertina, her eyebrows coming sharply together, but still she never took her eyes off Nora.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have barged in on you like this. I'll leave now.” Nora made a move towards the door.

“How did you know about Berry Island?”

“A letter he wrote, years ago. My father kept it safe amongst his things.”

“Did he now?” Peg's mouth clamped shut, the corners dropping to form small fleshy pockets close to her jawline. With a slight toss of her head she turned away. “I wouldn't have thought he'd care about the like of that.”

Nora's eyebrows shot up. “I think he cared,” she said, leaping to her father's defence. And then more hesitant. “He must have. He kept it, didn't he?”

Peg turned back, a sharp retort ready on the tip of her tongue, but in that brief moment before she spoke, she saw Matt in the young woman, something in the turn of her head, the uncertainty in her eyes. The words died on her lips. Without warning, the fear and apprehension that had gripped her like a tight corset began to fall away. She sighed deeply, a sigh of acceptance. “I wish with all my heart that Matt was here today to see his grandchild.” Her words were only for herself and barely audible.

An uneasy silence settled on the room, like the empty feeling that hangs about after a lie has been told and then exposed.

“Come, my dear,” she said finally. “If I seems a bit strange, don't pay no attention. It's just the shock is all.”

She left the table and came towards Nora, rocking slightly from side to side on her painful knees. She clutched Nora's forearm for support but in the pressure of her fingertips there was also reassurance. Smiling now, she led Nora to the other side of the room where a big over-stuffed armchair and a wooden rocker stood on either side of a small television set.

“I calls this my throne,” she said, relieving some of the tension as she lowered herself into the rocker. It's nice and high, easy to get into and easy to get out of. You can sit there.” She indicated the armchair. “That's Matt's chair; he loved that chair, he did. When I moved here from the island, I brought it with me all the way; up front she was, in the bow of the skiff. I couldn't part with it. It's very old, used to be my father's chair.”

The tip of her shoe touched the floor and her own chair rocked back and forth, making small clicking sounds on the vinyl floor. “There's a lot of memories with that chair.”

“We had a couple of chairs at home very like this one.” Nora ran her hand over the faded brocade, smoothing the threadbare arm. “They were set on either side of the fireplace and they too were old with a musty smell off them, not offensive, just a part of home.” She sat back against the heavy horsehair cushioning, feeling how snugly it settled in around her back. “When we were children,” she continued, “my sister and I would kneel together at one of those chairs when we'd be saying the family rosary. We'd search amongst the crevasses and down behind the springs, looking for pennies or any other treasures that might have fallen from pockets.” Her hand slipped automatically into the gap between the seat and the arm of the old chair. “Between the Hail Marys we'd whisper and giggle, remembering all the bums that over the years had created the big hollow in the middle of the seat. When we got to naming names, things usually got out of hand and giggles became great snorts of laughter. My father would get mad then and separate us.”