Where Old Ghosts Meet (15 page)

“What do you mean, ‘in his own way'?” Nora was frowning.

“Oh, you know, looked out for her. Got her little treats.”

“So what became of her? Does she live in the cove?”

“No, my dear, she's long gone. Married an American boy with the armed forces she met down to Argentia. There was all kinds stationed here in the forties during the war and many of them married Newfoundland girls and took them off back to the States when the war was over. They went to California, where he was from. She's still there and has three children of her own.”

“And do you ever see her?”

“Oh, yes. From time to time she comes home to see us all, and I've been to California to see them too. Yes, my dear, I got to see a bit of the world after all.”

Nora put the car in gear, turned around, and headed cautiously into the fog.

13

They
left the fog and rain behind at the cape but the sky had clouded over, taking the blush off the day. Since leaving the headland, they had driven along in silence. Nora wanted to ask Peg about people's reaction to the living arrangement at her house, but when she glanced across, Peg's head was nodding forward onto her chest. The woman needed her lunch and a rest, not more chatter, so she let her be.

Nora tried to imagine the set-up. They must have made an odd group back in those days: an attractive young widow, a small child deprived of her mother at birth, and a good-looking lodger who turned up from time to time and lived with them. It would certainly have caused a stir where she came from, but in the small island community, having the parish priest firmly on your side no doubt had helped. Without his approval there would have been no refuge for Matt Molloy at Peg Barry's house, certainly not after her father died. The whiff of scandal would have found its way to the door, and only Father O'Reilly's unqualified acceptance of the situation could have stilled the wagging tongues. The priest would have been like God in such communities, and somehow Matt Molloy had gained his trust.

“My dear, I'm nodding off. Where are we?”

“We're almost home, another ten minutes or so and we'll be there. Is Father O'Reilly still alive? It might be interesting to meet him.”

“He is indeed, and I was thinkin' you should go and have a chat with him. He lives close by, in the priest's house down to Placentia. He's retired now but he still helps out doin' the odd bit of parish work around here. He's getting on now, mind, but I'm told, his mind is good. Take a spin up there after lunch, why don't you, while I have a little nod of sleep.”

“Maybe I'll do that and then I'll come back for you and we'll go down to the garden party together. How would that be?”

“Don't worry about me, girl, you go on. Pat will come by if I needs a run.”

“What's he like, Peg?” she asked, conjuring up an image of a crusty old parish priest.

“Oh, best kind. The people always liked him but I haven't heard tell of him this while. He must be up there now. In his late eighties, I'd say.”

“But he knew Matt quite well, you say?”

“Oh yes, they were friends.”

They rounded the bend above Shoal Cove. Without the sunshine the community looked bare and desolate.

“He won't be shocked then to have a granddaughter of Matt Molloy's show up out of the blue?”

“No, you won't find anyone around here too shocked. Nobody asked and nobody was told, but everyone seemed to know that Matt was bound somehow to another life. For certain they all had their own ideas, and in their own minds they were convinced they knew the truth of the matter.

Nora gave her name to the woman who answered the door and asked if she might speak with Father O'Reilly. The woman, whom Nora presumed to be the housekeeper, looked her up and down, her searching eyes taking in every aspect of the visitor. Nora smiled her best smile, hoping to make a good impression and thereby gain easy access to the inner sanctum of the presbytery. The woman, like a seasoned guard dog, held her ground, blocking the entrance to the house. In those strained moments of intense scrutiny, Nora returned the woman's gaze, aware of a low wheeze coming from the woman's chest.

“Well, now.” The wheeze had become a hoarse bark. “He's a busy man. An appointment would–”

“I can come back later, when it's more convenient.” Nora turned as if to leave, knowing full well that she would not be allowed to go without at least saying who she was and where she came from.

“Come in then and I'll see what I can do.” It was a grudging invitation but the woman never budged. “What was it you said you wanted?”

“That's fine now, Mary, I'll see to the visitor.” The voice came from the dark hallway.

Reluctantly the woman stepped aside and opened the door just enough to allow Nora to step inside. A tall portly man in clerical dress stood in the shadow. As Nora moved into the hall he pushed open a heavy wooden door to his right. A thin shaft of light fell across the polished floor.

“Come in, Miss Molloy. Mary, maybe you could rustle up a pot of tea for us and then you can leave early and go on to the garden party.” He then dismissed her with a nod and held the door open for Nora. After a quick glance back into the hall he closed the door behind them.

“I'm Nora–”

“Yes, Miss Molloy, I know who you are. News of a stranger travels fast in a small place, and Mary had it before most.” His large hand trembled slightly as he reached out to shake hers but his grip was firm. “Father Charlie O'Reilly,” he said, introducing himself. “You are a relative of Matt Molloy. His granddaughter, I believe?”

“That's right.”

“Come and sit down.” He indicated an ornate upholstered chair to the side of the fireplace. Nora took a moment to look around. It was a solid, sombre room laden down with shelves of dusty books, heavy furniture, and plum-coloured velvet curtains. An assortment of religious icons provided meagre relief. A wooden prie-dieu with a velvet kneeling pad stood in one corner, and above that, a small crucifix. A large bay window looked onto the front garden but sheer, white curtains cut off the outdoors. There was a smell of tobacco in the room.

She turned her attention to the priest as he made his way across the worn carpet to a large armchair across from her. He walked with a heavyset assurance, his large pigeon-toed feet securely laced into stout black brogues. Despite his years he held himself erect. Slowly he lowered himself into the armchair. He had a benevolent look about him, this man of God.

She had expected some small talk about Ireland or the family, but there was none. As if knowing exactly why she was here, he went straight to the point.

“Your grandfather …” he began. Watery grey, slightly bulbous eyes scrutinized Nora from above heavy horn-rimmed glasses. There was a query there, or was it a challenge? Nothing terribly obvious but one she found to be unsettling. She held his gaze for a moment, waiting for him to continue. Finally he averted his eyes and settled back into his chair, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose with a pudgy index finger. He began again. “We spent a fair bit of time together, your grandfather and I. I expect you are aware of that. It was part of my pastoral duties to visit Berry Island every couple of weeks to say Mass and administer the sacraments. I travelled by boat of course so the weather often dictated the frequency and length of my stay. There were many occasions when I prayed for bad weather just so I could stay on longer and be in his company. I can confess that now.” A smile appeared at the corner of his mouth and his chest heaved as he gave a little “heh,” the bare beginnings of a laugh.

There was a pause. “We got along well together, the two of us. We'd talk for hours, maybe play a game of chess. You'd be surprised at all the topics we would discuss. Mind you, I have to admit, there were times I didn't know what he was talking about, but I enjoyed listening to what he had to say. He was full of what he called, ‘the new order in the world, the shift in society, new ways, new ideas, new forms.' Music was being rearranged, ‘disordered,' I believe, was a word he used. He talked of ‘shifting planes' and about ‘geometric forms' in art. People were dancing with their toes turned in! Now I didn't see that as strange. I'd been doing that for years.” There was a sputter of coughing as he tried to laugh.

He pulled himself up in the chair. “I could see a funny side to it all. From our point of view, here on an island at the edge of the Atlantic, it was all ridiculous nonsense. ‘Imagine now, Matt,' I'd say, ‘the fine time a fella like Picasso would have rearranging the likes of me.'” He began to cough uncontrollably.

Nora sat there, conjuring up an image of the heavy, pigeon-toed priest rearranged, squared off, Picasso style, a big watery eye plucked from its socket and set halfway down his cheek, stepping out, doing a nimble Charleston right there on the presbytery floor. She looked up and found him peering at her again over his big glasses. His lips had parted into a broad grin showing long tobacco-stained teeth. She laughed.

He began to cough again and while struggling to bring himself more upright in the chair he produced a crumpled white handkerchief and buried his face in the folds. There was a loud blow followed by a great intake of breath and he continued, “I said to him one night, ‘You know what we should do, Matt, you and me? We should invite them boys to Newfoundland, have them down here to do a job on the whole place. Reorder, remake, rearrange. Think of the time they'd have with that.' He got furious with me then. He thought I wasn't taking him seriously enough.”

There was a knock on the door and Mary appeared with a tray. She looked from one to the other. No doubt she had heard the laughter. For a moment Nora thought she might turn on her heel and walk straight back out the door, taking tray and all. But she planted it down with a rattle on the small table beside the priest.

“I'm off then, if you have no further need of me.”

“Thank you, Mary. That will be grand.” He watched her leave.

“I think she's jealous,” he said softly, still in his jovial mood. “Mary has been around for a long time and thinks it her right to know everything that goes on in this house.”

Nora didn't quite know what to make of this man. Perhaps she had come with a preconceived idea of how this small-town priest might be and he didn't quite fit.

He pulled himself around in the chair and, having poked his glasses back on his nose, proceeded to pour tea. He passed the cup to Nora, inviting her to have milk and sugar and a tea bun if she wished. He then helped himself to four spoons of sugar and stirred vigorously as he poured a stream of yellow creamy milk into his cup. She had black tea.

“What was interesting about your grandfather,” he was looking carefully at the buttered tea bun he held between his fingers, “was how he embraced the concept of change with such enthusiasm. It excited him. He explored new ideas and talked about them with a kind of passion that didn't seem to transfer to his everyday life. The idea was what mattered. Whether in fact it had any practical use was of no importance. I don't honestly know whether he liked Picasso's work or Stravinsky's music or if he liked the innovations in the theatre that he talked about so much, but he loved the shift in creative thought and loved to speculate on where it might lead. He was a fascinating man.”

“Did you think of him as a friend?”

He studied her over the rim of his eyeglasses. “I was a bit older than him but that never seemed important. I enjoyed his company. Quite often he did the talking and I listened; I was a kind of sounding board. However …” He leaned forward, his index finger stabbing repeatedly at the black cloth on his thigh. “When we got into philosophy, that for me was our best time together. I was well able for him then.” He settled back in his chair. “I was on home turf. Thomas Aquinas, St. Augustine, they were the two. We'd go at it hammer and tongs well into the night.” He was excited now, munching steadily on his bun, taking great gulps of strong tea.

He was avoiding her question. She needed to turn the conversation around and she didn't have all day. She looked across at the old priest and shifted position.

“He didn't exist for me. Can you understand that, Father O'Reilly? He was a non-person, a kind of a legend. The same applied to my grandmother.” She waited. “I'm trying to find out why he left. Until I met Peg Barry I knew nothing about him, and she has been generous in sharing her memories. She thought you might have other insights that you would like to share before it's all too late.”

He was silent.

“As a friend,” she continued, “I thought you might know what happened. I mean, did he ever talk about his past life? Did he ever bring it up?” She pressed. “Did you ever ask?”

He put the last piece of tea bun into his mouth and chewed, looking pensive. His glasses had slipped again and he pushed them back onto the bridge of his nose. “We didn't discuss our personal lives.” He was staring beyond her. “He never mentioned his private life and I never asked. It was a mutual understanding, unspoken.”

“You didn't know him very well, then?”

The teacup rattled precariously as he returned it to the tray.

“He was a good man.” He spoke as he might from the pulpit, a note of authority and finality in his voice.

Good
, she wondered, and what does
good
mean? She searched the shabby carpet at her feet. Pious, holy, virtuous, sound, slap on the back, good man yourself, sterling, satisfactory, good to the last drop,
GUINNESS is GOOD for YOU
! She took a deep breath to quiet the rant going on in her head. Across from her he was pensive, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, hands clasped in front of his face, the fingers solidly intertwined, index fingers straight and pointing heavenward. He tapped his pursed lips silently with the steepled fingers.