Where Old Ghosts Meet (5 page)

She caught his eye, compelling him to look at her. “You know something, Mr. Molloy,” she said. “People don't talk about Johnny no more, not even his own mother. Once the letter came that was it. It's like he never existed.” His eyes dropped and he shifted in his chair, pulling back ever so slightly, but she paid no heed. “Sometimes I think I hear him laughin' below in the yard. I think he's goin' to walk in through the door or sneak up behind me like he used to, and frighten the livin' daylights out of me.”

For a fleeting moment laughter seemed to fill the kitchen and then just as quickly it was gone, leaving behind an empty silence.

“How did you come to meet Johnny?” Her question, hard and precise, dragged them back to reality.

“I met him purely by chance.”The answer was on the tip of his tongue, as if he had been anticipating the question. “It was a chilly evening in London, close to the end of October. I had things on my mind that night so I decided to take a walk down by the river near Victoria. The war was on everyone's mind, it was all people talked about. The streets were alive with men in uniform like Johnny. Some were injured, maimed, some laughing, excited and happy. The train stations were packed with soldiers leaving and returning from the front. It was a ghastly kind of excitement. Everywhere I turned, Lord Kitchener was staring out from a poster, pointing a finger, demanding: JOIN YOUR COUNTRY'S ARMY! It wasn't my country and I wanted no part of the war here or anywhere else. I made the decision that night to go to America.”

He straightened up and leaned back in his chair. All the while he spoke, her eyes never left his face. Every word she took in like a clean breath of fresh air.

“Go on,” she urged him.

“I was feeling a bit light-hearted and relieved at the thought of going to America and as I walked back along the embankment, I heard noise and laughter coming from a pub and I wandered in. The lads in there were mostly in uniform. I thought they were Irish fellows who had joined up. They sounded Irish, but they were Newfoundlanders:The Newfoundland Regiment. They were back in London for a refit before returning to France. It was your Johnny who spoke to me. We talked for a while. That day he'd been ‘down to No. 58,' he said, to pick up his wages and letters, and now they were celebrating. He looked fit and well, no injuries that I could see.”

He looked right at her then and she knew that he spoke the truth. She waited, not wishing to hurry him but eager for more.

“Johnny talked about Newfoundland and Berry Island,” he continued, comfortable in his role as storyteller. “He was full of stories about fishin' and what he called swilin', that was, ‘going to the ice,' he told me, ‘after the seals.' He was a great man to talk. In fact, when he got going he sounded as if he came straight from Waterford in Ireland. When I told him that, he was delighted, said his great-grandfather came from there way back.”

She could hardly believe what she was hearing: her Johnny, young, healthy, enjoying himself, and gettin' ready to march off to his death. “Yes,” she said, “he was a great talker.” Then, suddenly, frightened that their time that evening might pass with chit-chat and be gone forever, she summoned up the courage to ask the one question that had been in her mind all along. “Did he … well, did he mention me?” The words sounded silly and girlish and were no sooner out of her mouth than she wished them back.

Without a second thought he answered. “Johnny told me that he had married the brightest star in the whole of Newfoundland.”

The very idea of him saying such a thing to a stranger shocked her but deep down she was delighted. That was the Johnny she loved: he made her laugh and that made up for a lot of his faults. “You wouldn't want to pay no attention to him,” she said, pushing aside her feelings. “He could charm the leg off an iron pot with his old palaver.”

Matt began to rummage inside his pocket and produced a small package wrapped in brown paper. “He gave me this for you,” he said, holding out the package. “I was to tell you that it was what all the girls in London were wearing.”

Peg touched Nora's arm and got to her feet. “I've got something I want to show you.” She shuffled off in the direction of her bedroom. A minute later she was back and placed a small package on the table. She sat down and slowly undid the string. The pale sheen of silk stockings, new and never worn, caught the light from the afternoon sun. Peg reached out to touch the silky folds. “I've never told that story to a living soul before today,” she whispered.

4

When
the dishes were done Peg removed her apron, hung it on a nail behind the back door and with a touch of apology said, “I need to take a little spell now. Come afternoon, I get tired. While I'm at that you could take a look at Matt's books; you'll want to see them.”

“Books?” Nora had forgotten about the possessions. “Yes, of course. I'd like that.”

“They're below in the back bedroom.” Peg pointed to the end of the hallway before entering her own bedroom and closing the door behind her. She had in her quiet way brought the morning's activities to an end, but Nora, standing by the stove folding the damp dishtowel, knew it was not a signal that it was time for her to leave. There was a shared intimacy between them now which, like a bud in the spring of the year, was gradually unfolding.

The room at the end of the hallway was small and at first glance seemed to be used partly for storage; yet, it was bright and fresh smelling. A single metal-framed bed covered with a bright, multicoloured, knitted blanket stood in one corner of the room. Beside the bed several cardboard boxes piled one on top of the other served as a makeshift bedside table. A white crocheted doily with a green trim covered the top of the boxes. Nora moved across the room and stood by the small slider window that looked out to the back of the house. Beside the window there was what looked like a kitchen dresser with four shelves all neatly lined with books. It was a lovely piece of furniture, she thought, handmade, and old. Nora touched the smooth surface of the wood, admiring the simple lines and the honeyed warmth of the old pine. It should have held pretty dishes but it served its new purpose very well. Her hand dropped to one of the round wooden knobs on the drawers. Endless years of handling had left a shiny bright spot on the curved surface. She pulled gently and the drawer came smoothly towards her. It was full of papers, neatly bound into bundles with elastic bands. A slight push and the drawer slid back in place. A small wave of pleasure ran through her. She liked things that worked.

She turned her attention back to the books. Curious, anticipation mounting, she scanned the titles and the authors, her fingers running along the curve of the spines, pausing to smooth over a small tear on a faded dust jacket. They were in beautiful condition for the most part, finely bound and old. Were these the possessions he had mentioned in his letter? Peg must have brought them with her from the island. Nora looked out the little window to the vast expanse of ocean, imagining the scene: a boat piled high with the very necessities of life and a box, boxes of books belonging to a dead man.

She ran her fingers along the spines again, pausing here and there, finally choosing
Wordsworth's Poetical Works
: gold lettering on warm brown leather, the spine ornamented from top to bottom in golden filigree patterns. A touch on the tip and it came smoothly into her hand. It was exquisite, the cover soft and pliable, gilt-edged pages fanning delicately at her touch. Hanging from the bottom, a silky braided ribbon guided her to an opening:
How richly glows the water's
breast / Before us tinged with evening hues, / While facing thus the
crimson west, / The boat her silent course pursues!

She fingered the ribbon, wondering if he had been the last person to read these lines and mark the page. She tried to picture him as she was now, standing there reading, book in hand. Would he have placed one foot ahead of the other as her father did, muttering to himself as he read? She began to turn the pages slowly, barely touching the thin sheets – “Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey.” She read on, recalling her school days in dreary convent classrooms, knowing at the time that there was magic somewhere in those lines but unable or unwilling to rise beyond her hatred of school. Reluctantly, she closed the book and returned it to its place next to a faded clothbound volume entitled
A Treasury of the Theatre
and alongside
Chief European Dramatists.

On the lower shelf
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
caught her eye. It was unusual in that it was quite compact in size, maybe 5 x 7 inches. She slipped it from its place. Age and sunlight had left the spine discoloured and slightly worn but the front cover was the rich green of a Mediterranean olive. She touched the tooled calfskin, feeling the luxury of the soft padded leather. Here, in her hand was the weight of thousands of brilliantly chosen words bound in perfect balance and symmetry. She turned the book over and drew in a sharp breath in shock. An ugly black burn mark spread across the entire back cover. She touched a rough brittle spot along the rim at the corner. Then, concealed in the thickness of the book, she saw a small section of charred brown edges. She brought the book to her nose. The acrid smell of burning was long gone but the cruel evidence remained. Carefully she opened the book at the damaged section. A black jagged edge halfway down the pages marked where the creeping glow had run its course and been extinguished. She touched the scorched words with the pad of her finger as if, by some miracle, she could undo the harm. She was upset by her discovery. Why, she wasn't quite sure. She closed the book and turned it over, examined the cover closely, opened it again, searching for possible explanations. The end papers were the colour of thick cream and were finely marbled in green and gold. She turned the leaf. On the plain dedication page, neatly written in a fine hand, she read:

Matthew Molloy
From William Sommerton
With Congratulations
MDCCCXCVII

The ink had faded to a watery brown but the words were still quite legible. One thousand, eight, she began to decipher the roman numerals, pointing with her finger: one, eight, nine, seven. 1897. She checked again. Yes, she was right. She began to subtract…Seventy-three years ago, this book had been given to him by someone called William Sommerton. She repeated the name under her breath; not a common name in the west of Ireland. She looked again, closer: William Sommerton. She spoke the name again and again, hoping for some explanation to leap off the page.

A sharp meow by her feet made her jump. The cat stood there, its frank, inquisitive eyes fixed on her. She snapped the book shut and immediately returned it to its place on the shelf. The cat continued to stare. “Out,” she whispered angrily, pointing in the direction of the door. “It is my business.” Then, walking purposefully to the door, she held it wide open. Slowly the cat turned and with a self-satisfied swagger, made its exit. Nora closed the door tightly, making sure this time that the catch held. She had been invited to explore, she reassured herself, as she returned to the books, but put the Shakespeare back in its place.

On the lower shelf a small collection of Irish writers caught her attention. Yeats;
Sean O'Casey: Early Poems, Plays, Essays; The Playboy of the Western World: Poems and Translations
by J.M. Synge. The publisher was Cuala Press. These were treasured old copies. She drew
Poems and Translations
from the shelf. As she suspected it was a first edition. Given the time in which he lived and the look of the books, she surmised that there were likely many such books amongst the collection. Excited, she decided to pick out a random selection and take a closer look.

She settled herself on the bed in the corner of the room and spread the books on the coloured blanket. First she chose a small pocket-sized book. Tipping it towards the light she tried to read the title. Only the indentations remained on the blue baize cover, the colour on the lettering was all but gone.
De Profundis
. She picked out the letters and underneath,
Oscar Wilde
. Her hands dropped to her lap. To Nora,
De Profundis
meant All Souls Night, November 1, “Out of the depths…” dark frosty evenings in a tiny churchyard, the hymn of supplication for the souls in purgatory, sad and plaintive yearnings directed to God. In the front door of the church, icy holy water from the stone font hastily sprinkled before entering the dim interior. Inside, the heavy smell of incense, the flicker of lighted candles, covered heads bowed in prayer, secrets being shared with the Almighty. “Out of the depths to thee O Lord I cry,” the choir would intone from the loft: “And let thy light shine on them saviour blest, / Grant to the poor souls everlasting rest.” Out the back door into the cold night and the ritual began all over again.

The hymn ran relentlessly through her head as she sat cross-legged on the bed. In those days she knew little of death and dying, the one exception being Joe Healy, the quiet, gentle man who owned the huckster shop in the town and sold sweets and toffee to the children. No child left Joe Healy's shop empty-handed. There was always a free sweet to be had in exchange for a chat. Joe had dropped dead in his shop. Frantic with the very thought that he might be in purgatory for some unforgiven sin, Nora had prayed each November first for his deliverance from the fires of purgatory.
Grant to the
poor souls everlasting rest
. Now, she was shocked at how vivid her memory of the old shopkeeper was and at how fervently she had believed in the power of her prayers.

She picked up the book again and began to leaf through the preface, stopping to read a pencilled line:
Still I believe that in the
beginning God made a world for each separate man, and in that world,
which is within us, one should seek to live.
Written in the margin alongside were the words,
and be connected. Should seek to live and be
connected.
Was this what he meant?