Where Old Ghosts Meet (7 page)

She paused, looking out again over the water.

“I remember the day a woman brought me a length of beautiful corduroy. She wanted two pairs of pants made, one for her husband and one for her boy. Well, I was frightened to death the way I was going to spoil it. I could see how to do the legs and the front, but how to get around the backside, you know.” She made a curving motion with her hand. “Well, it came to me to get my father's old overalls and rip them open to see how it was done. I lay it all on the floor and I could see how it was slack down below in the gusset and how it came in on the waist. There was no zippers in those days, just what we called a fly and that was no problem. My dear, they turned out wonderful! I put pockets and all in them. After that there was no stoppin' me. But you don't want to hear all this old foolishness, do you?”

“No, no, I'd love to hear more, but I'm concerned that you'll tire yourself out and that I won't know when it's time to go.”

“You don't want to worry about that, my dear. I've had a lot of old stuff balled up inside of me for a long time, waitin' to be told to the right person. You're the right person, girl, I know that.” Reaching over, she patted Nora's knee. There was urgency in her touch, a pressure that bid her to stay. “I want to tell you, if you have the time to listen.”

The old woman's eyes darted back and forth, looking to pick up the threads of her story.

“That first time, when he come by, Matt stayed on a nice while with us. We had plenty of room in the house and we were glad of the company. He paid his board, so long as he had a bit of money. The way it was then, with my father sick and havin' to have everything done for him, it was good for me to have another pair of hands around. He took right over in the garden. The vegetables were good that year. At least I thought so. He just had a way with growing things. There was no end of trouble he'd go to. He'd watch over every plant, bringing them along 'til they came strong and healthy. But he wasn't happy with the result; the potatoes were small, the cabbages not right, the ground poor. I had to take them up myself and store them in the root cellar. I believe those vegetables would have rotted right there in the ground if it was up to Matt. It didn't seem to matter to him that he was helpin' provide food for us all.”

She looked down at her hands where they lay lightly clasped in her lap. “Everything about him was different, and tell truth that's what I liked so much. He–”

“So this is where you're to!” A short, stocky, middle-aged man came through the back door. “I've brought some tongues for supper and laid them in the fridge.”

“I told you he'd be down later. This is Pat, my nephew, my sister Ellen's boy. Looks after me, he does, like nobody else. Now Pat, come over here. You're in for a surprise when I tell you who this is. It's Matt's granddaughter Nora, come to see us, all the way from Ireland.”

He came and stood by Peg. Nora noticed the pale, steady eyes, Peg's eyes. He stood motionless, his sturdy frame rooted to the ground, and regarded Nora with an easy confidence. When he was ready he stepped forward and offered his heavy square hand. There was no hostility in his look but he didn't say a word as he shook her hand. He turned to Peg. “Now you be careful and don't catch too much sun, there's a breeze up here but it's hot just the same. Do you want tea?”

“Oh, a cup of tea would be lovely, Pat. I'm thirsty and what about you, Nora, tea or something cold?”

“Thank you, tea would be great.”

He nodded to her again and went into the house.

“Pat worries about me,” Peg said.

“I can tell that. It's good to have someone to look out for you.”

“Yes, girl, I know. I'm very lucky.”

Nora glanced back towards the house. He was standing at the picture window watching them. She looked away.

A few minutes later he appeared with a tin tray loaded up with three steaming mugs of tea, a small can of Carnation milk, a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits.

He poured the milk from the can into one mug, stirred it vigorously and handed it to Peg.

“Milk and sugar?” he asked.

Nora hesitated. The thick sweet milk did not appeal to her. Her mother used to pour it over jelly when they were children.

“Just a little milk, thank you,” she replied quickly.

He passed the mug. “Have a Jam Jam. Made right here in Newfoundland.” The plate was thrust in front of her. It was a kind of challenge, like she had to have a biscuit whether she wanted one or not. His eyes said so.

The biscuits were round and soft, made like a sandwich with a chewy raspberry jam inside. They stuck to the roof of her mouth.

He sat on the grass by the tray and sipped his tea. “Wilf, up to the store, told me you were here. This is a bit of a surprise. You've come from Ireland, you say?” He looked straight at her.

“Well, not quite.” She had managed to clear her mouth of the sticky mass and returned his gaze. “I live in Montreal now but I was home in Ireland this past spring, to my father's funeral. It was only then I found out about my grandfather's connection to Canada, well to Newfoundland.”

They continued to regard each other. He had a wild look about him, nothing to do with his rough haircut or his work-stained overalls, but something in his physical presence said he was not to be trifled with.

“It's all right, Pat.” Peg stepped in and relieved the momentary tension. “Nora and me, we've been talking a lot. She wants to know about her grandfather. It's only natural and I'm happy to tell her. So there's no need of you to go worrying.”

“Well, so long as you're happy, I'll leave the two of you be. When are you off back?” he asked abruptly, turning to Nora.

“I need to be back in St. John's on Monday evening to catch a flight on Tuesday morning. I have a room at the hotel in Placentia tonight and then I'd like to drive around and see some of the villages before I go back.”

His directness was beginning to unsettle Nora.

“There's no need of you goin' to that place in Placentia tonight, there's a bed here if you wants it. But it's up to you. Isn't that right, Pat?”

“I dunno, Aunt Peg, last time you offered one of them Molloys a bed for the night they ended up stayin' a while.” Then, in one quick movement he was on his feet, winked playfully at Peg, nodded to Nora and was off, leaving behind his mug half full of tea.

Nora watched him disappear around the side of the house.

“Don't mind Pat. When there was anything to do with Matt, people were always a bit cautious. He never fitted in, see, and in a way it was his own doin'. He kept to hisself, but island people is curious about strangers. They wanted to know all about him, but he wasn't about to tell anyone. So don't pay no attention to Pat; he's the best kind.” She could feel Nora's uncertainty and continued to try and reassure her. “Back then, see, a man's life was the fishery. That was it. Matt went out to the trawls only the once. It was my father's idea: a man should do a man's work, and to his mind, seeing to the garden and readin' books wasn't a man's work. But Matt hated the water, made him sick to his stomach. At the end of the day his hands were in tatters from haulin' the lines. With the men, not going back was a sign of weakness, and maybe they were right. I'm afraid Matt only did what he wanted to do, or what he was good at. Thing was, he was good at quite a few things, but he'd never push hisself forward or pick up for hisself.”

She drained her mug and passed it to Nora to set on the tray. “I'll tell you now the kind he was. My father used go huntin' in the fall of the year so as we'd have plenty of bottled turrs and partridge stacked on the shelf through the winter. Come the fall we needed to stock up again. I knew how to shoot a gun because my father had taught me. One day late September that year, I took out my father's shotgun, cleaned it out like he showed me and decided to try my luck on the barrens. Matt asked to come with me, didn't trust me, I believe. I didn't do too good and wanted to go on home out of it, when he said, ‘Here, let me have that.' I stayed well clear of him, but, my dear, I knew just looking at the set up of him, he knew what he was about. He was a fine shot, no doubt about it! That year he took birds enough for ourselves and enough that I could share with others in need. That got him the bit of respect with the men. Not that he seemed to notice. He'd just go about his business, read his books and do the garden. Sometimes when I was to the flakes workin' on the fish, he'd bide with Father and see to him and that was fine by me. It was only others thought it strange.”

“So, was he happy here?”

“In those days we didn't think too much about being happy. Survivin' is all was on most people's minds. If there was food on the table and a roof over your head, that was reason enough to be happy. But yes, I suppose he was happy. He was good company for me anyways. He stayed on through the fall and winter and well into the spring of the following year. He had hauled kelp from the beach and had a stack piled five feet high to the back of the house ready for the garden. For sure I thought he was here to stay. To begin with I didn't notice how things had changed about the house, until one evening around supper time, Matt was off on his own walkin' the cliffs and I was fixin' a bit of supper over by the kitchen table. I was hot and tired and I'd had enough for one day.”

“Buddy,” the old man had suddenly begun to shout across the kitchen. “Buddy, now what's the story with him?” His words were a bit slurred but the meaning was clear. “Is he plannin' to stick around here for good or is he goin' on back to New York or Boston or wherever it is he's come from?”

“Buddy? And who might I ask is Buddy?”

“You knows damn well who I mean. Now what's the story?”

Sometimes, it made her heart turn right over when she'd look across and see the thin, frail, old man sitting passively in the chair by the range. His hair wanted combing, and he could do with a shave and, God in heaven, his nose was runnin' down in his mouth again! Why couldn't he at least do that for himself? In two steps she was by his chair, and with the corner of her apron pinched hard on the end of his nose. “Are you talkin' about Matt, Father? Because if you are, he's got work enough here. In case you haven't noticed, we've had vegetables, best kind all winter and if that's not enough, I'll have you know that if he didn't bide here with you all afternoon then I couldn't be down to the flakes, now, could I?”

His left hand lay lifeless on the arm of the chair. It should have been big and square with strong hard fingers. But the flesh was soft and flaccid, the skin pale and mottled. Only the hard yellow fingernails reflected the power that had once been in those hands.

“It isn't right, and you knows it. People is talkin', sayin' how Peg Barry's gone and found herself another no good wanderer who's never done a day's work in his life. I warned you before you got hitched up with that Johnny fella, how he was good for nothin' but enjoyin' hisself. Well, I'm not goin' supportin' another one the like of that in my house.”

“Supportin'? You haven't done no supportin' around here lately, not to my knowledge. It's Matt an' me is doin' the supportin' these days, Father. We been managin' the best we can. And don't go tormentin' me no more about Johnny. We've been through all that before. Johnny's dead and gone, Father. He won't be back no more, so leave him be.”

Milky white liquid seeped from the raw potato flesh and dripped steadily into the water.

“Well, girl, Johnny may not be back no more but be the looks of things he's sent you a fine replacement. If you don't watch out, Peggy Barry, you'll be left again, out on the bawn!”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“He's not our kind and you knows it. He's got plenty of oul' yap out of him and has the grand manners but he has no thought for you, Peg, and it's time you got clear of him. God damn it, he's just a no good oul'… angishore! Get clear of him, girl, before tis too late.”

“Get clear of him? Father, if I didn't have that oul' angishore around here, I couldn't manage.”

“Are ye blind, Peg girl? There's others only too happy to step up and be glad to marry you. There's Paddy Murray, used to come by regular before Buddy arrived. He's a good man to work.”

The knife came down hard on the table, making the potatoes jump in the pan!

“Father, will you stop callin' him Buddy, talkin' about him like he's nothin'. His name is Matt Molloy, an' as for that Murray fella, I wouldn't have that oul' maumeen, supposin' he was the last man on the island or up and down the shore for that matter.”

“You're not gettin' younger, girl.” His good hand began tapping fretfully on the arm of the chair. “One of these days you'll wake up and you'll be all alone … out on the bawn … alone, girl.” The agitation had caused him to slide forward in his chair. Unable to hold on, he slumped to the side, his lifeless arm hanging over the side like a silent pendulum.

She was by his side in an instant, adjusting his cushions, smoothing his straggly hair, stroking the stubbled cheek, whispering how sorry she was to have upset him and of course she understood and yes, she would think about what he said. She lifted the withered hand, kissed it gently and placed it on the arm of the chair. He closed his eyes then and slept.

6

“
Do
all fish have tongues?” Nora asked, looking on wide-eyed, as the plump greyish-white morsels were rolled in flour and then popped one by one into hot fat.

“I never thought about that before, but I suppose they do. Around here, we only have the cod tongues. They're some good, especially when they're done up in a bit of fat-back pork with a few scruncheons like this. We also have the cheeks. They're some good, too.”