Where Old Ghosts Meet (30 page)

Farther along, the old schoolhouse had keeled over completely. Two faded pinkish walls leaning precariously inward and braced by a solitary beam were all that remained. It stood on a rise, back from the main path, conspicuous by its colour. Someone had made a valiant effort to try to keep the old school on its feet.

Behind the school she picked up the path that led to the graveyard. Her heart raced as she hurried forward, taking long purposeful strides. Up ahead, like a mouthful of crooked and broken teeth, the grey-white headstones poked out of the hillside. It was an exposed spot with only meagre shelter from wind and weather provided by a few trees that hung together for support like ragged beggars. In this place sheltered hollows were reserved for the comfort of the living. She waded through the long grass, eager to see his name. There were so many: Mallaley, Tobin, O'Reilly.

John Quinlan
of
Waterford, Ireland
1853 - 1901
and
His loving wife
Mary Margaret
1856 - 1906
Requistat Im Pace

She went from one to another, reading the words, tributes to lives lived, hands clasped in prayer. This was me, I was here, important. Remembered.

McGrath
1864 - 1895
Gone but not forgotten

The same names were repeated over and over, men and women, their sons and daughters, the first people to inhabit this tiny isolated island and their descendants.

She stopped by a sprawling wild rose bush thick with bright pink roses and heavy with a rich sweet perfume. As she stood there she spotted the remains of the white rail farther up on the hill. It stood apart from the other graves, commanding a larger space and a substantial headstone. Now that she had found it she felt suddenly shy, reluctant to approach.

Matthew Molloy
Late of
Roscommon
Ireland
Died November 14, 1962
R.I.P.

Seeing his name, her name, in black letters neatly carved, shocked her. She read it again. There it was for the record, simple and to the point, his marker saying he had been here.

Nora reached down and drew back the long grass from around the base of the stone and read, as carefully as a child might, faltering over partly obscured letters.

He shall not hear the bittern cry

In the wild sky, where he is lain,

Nor voices of the sweeter birds

Above the wailing of the rain.

She knew these lines, knew them backwards, as did every school child in Ireland. She finished the lines, reciting them aloud:

Nor shall he know when loud March blows

Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill,

Blowing to flame the golden cup

Of many an upset daffodil.

A young poet, Francis Ledwidge, had jotted down these lines while working as a labourer on a building site in London. In the end he had lost his life on the battlefield at Flanders. This poem had been a favourite with her father. It was the one he would recite in his more mellow moments, his party piece. She felt overcome by a deep sadness, aching feelings of opportunities missed, people lost and forgotten.

Nora let the grass slip back into place. She stood silent at the foot of the grave but could find no words to say, so she blessed herself quickly, muttered a short prayer and turned away. As she passed the rose bush the sweet perfume again caught her attention. She stopped and on an impulse plucked a pink rose from its thorny branch, ran back to the grave, gently drew back the long grass and laid the flower by the poet's words, then turned and hurried off back down the hill. She didn't stop until she reached Peg's old house.

It was beautifully situated in a snug, sheltered hollow with the ground running down to a small inlet. Now that she was close up, the house appeared to list slightly to one side, and several of the windows were shattered, but other than that it seemed to be in better condition than many of the others. She felt a rush of excitement and, after a moment's hesitation, stepped off the path, lifting her feet high, grabbing at tufts of long grass for support. The ground was uneven and she stumbled. Poking about with her foot she discovered rutted mounds and realized she was standing in what used to be the garden. The ridges under her feet were his potato furrows. Pictures flooded her mind, bits and pieces of a past life. She reached into the long grass, separating the stalks, hoping for a better look at what once was. She wanted to feel the soil, let it run between her fingers, but a tight skin of grass and weed had grown over the mounds, sealing them tightly. They would remain like that for years to come, visible to the observant eye in the spring of the year when the grass was young and low to the ground.

Her fingers touched something rough and stringy. She pulled and a length of grey rope came away from the grass. She was about to drop it when she saw a solitary wooden clothespin dangling limply from one end. She unhooked the wooden pin, pinched it open and closed. How had Peg ever managed those last few months? She slipped it into her pocket and held it tightly in her fist.

The house now became solid and real. She could touch the rough dry texture of the white wooden clapboard, pick at the flaking paint on the doorpost, and see the carefully fitted mouldings that had at one time made this an attractive house. The glass in one window, the one to the right, was still intact. A sun-bleached statue of the Virgin Mary stood in the window, looking forlornly to the outdoors. The door was slightly ajar, as if someone was already within. She hesitated, aware of the uncanny quietness which hung about the place. The door refused to open any farther. She lifted up the handle and leaned into the wood. It gave way and she was standing in the hallway. She had expected to find a semblance of Peg's old home but there was only desolation. The kitchen to the left was empty except for the old stove that had been ripped from the wall, dragged halfway across the room and now lay tipped over in the middle of the floor. The remains of the metal stovepipe dangled from a hole in the chimney. She stepped cautiously through the doorway onto the worn linoleum that still lay smooth and tight to the floorboards. A picture of the Sacred Heart, exactly the same one that had hung in the kitchen at home in Ireland, hung on the wall askew, the glass shattered. A rosary dangled on a nail alongside. Nora walked across the room, reached up and straightened the picture. The face staring at her looked more dejected than ever.

Fresh air from the broken window swept across the room like a silent breath. She reached for a small tin box on the window ledge and pried it open. Tea, the faint smell trapped for years, still remained. She tried to imagine the kitchen as it had been: Matt's chair, the smooth wooden table with the dark shiny groove, the old lamp. Around her feet years and years of activity showed on the worn linoleum.

The door across the hall was closed. The front room. She stopped for a moment and then headed up over the stairs. The treads groaned with each step. She moved stealthily, her eyes alert for danger. All about her the light, the walls, the air, all had a grey pallor, like death. Standing on the landing she felt the slope in the floor where the house was listing. A storm or two and she'd buckle at the knees and come down just like the others. Nora peeped in each room but, like the kitchen, they were stripped almost bare. She thanked God that Peg had had the good sense not to come back. She crept back down the stairs, holding tightly to the wobbly rail, anxious to be safe on the ground floor again.

“Still shut off,” she said aloud as she approached the closed door. All of a sudden she felt giddy and childish. “Well, Matt Molloy,” she continued, “you are about to be confronted by your granddaughter.” She knocked lightly, her ear to the door, mocking the silence. She knocked again, louder this time, insistent. She put her ear to the door again.
Open the door, Richard
. The words of the song came to her. She was singing in a whisper,
Open the door and let me in
. Then angry at her timidness she sang out,
Open the door,Matthew,Matthew,
why don't you o—pen the door.

She heard the words echo about the house, climb the stairs, bounce off the walls, float out the front door and into the garden. She laughed out loud and took hold of the doorknob. “Ready or not,” she called, “here I come.”

Slowly she turned the handle and peeped mischievously around the door. Her little charade ended abruptly. The blank wall of silence came right at her. It mocked her high spirits and made her feel ridiculous. She straightened up and stepped inside. There was a different feel to this room. The window was still intact and the thin wisps of curtain were drawn together so it was dim and dusty and the air heavy and stale. Moving cautiously she looked about. An iron bedstead stood in the corner. She jumped as an empty soup can rolled drunkenly across the floor and came to a clanging halt by an empty beer carton. Dead bottles lay strewn on the floor, several poked out from beneath the iron bedstead, one lay on the filthy mattress and a couple more lay in the corner by the window. Someone had camped out here in the past. She picked up a bottle and sniffed. It was bone dry.

She moved to the window and pulled aside the dusty curtain. The tiny enclosure was filled with trapped sunshine. A whole world existed in this secret place. A nest of cobwebs, like stringy hammocks, hung in the corners cradling years of dirt. All about, the dust swarmed in tiny constellations. The Virgin Mary stood guard over all. Nora picked up the end of the curtain, rubbed at the dirt on the windowpane and peered through the smudgy circle. She could see where her feet had made a path to the door.

The sunlight improved the room but the silence was still unsettling. She had a strange feeling that things were staring right back at her, the bed, the walls, the overturned chair in the corner. He had died in this room in the comfort of fresh sheets, the warmth of a crackling fire, and with his dying breath he had spoken Peg's name. In the mad confusion of his mind he had set her apart.

Nora walked over and straightened the broken chair and set it securely on its legs.

It was the old newspapers pasted to the wall behind the chair that first caught her attention. She crouched low, searching for a date or maybe a headline. There were several layers of wallpaper, all torn and puffy with dampness. Suddenly she had the feeling that she was being watched. She spun around, terrified. She could have sworn there was someone there. Her breath came in tight gasps; her eyes, wide with fright, searched the room. Unnerved, she brought her attention back to the wall and began to peel away the layers. Before she even got down to the bare wall she just knew that underneath all the layers, she would find faded water lilies. He was by her shoulder, watching, guiding her; she could feel his presence. She traced the outline of the big flat leaf and then the petals of the lily with her fingertips. “Okay. It's okay now.”

She stood then and without looking left or right she turned and hurried from the room, pulling the door quietly behind her.

At the top of the hill she stood for a moment and looked back. It was no longer Peg's house; he had taken over. He was alone again, isolated and cut off. She wondered if that was in fact what he wanted all along. Solitude. In that moment she knew she never wanted to come back here again. The gulch and the berry patch were no longer important. She wanted to be gone. She would be sitting, waiting, when Pat's boat came alongside the wharf.

“All done, girl?” he called, reaching for her hand as she stepped down into the boat.

“All done, Pat. It's a beautiful spot and a great lunch,” she added, anxious to show her gratitude for the time and effort he had taken. “A great place to have grown up.”

“Looks great on a day like today. Everything looks great when the sun's shining.” He revved the engine and swung the boat back out to the middle of the cove. “But truth is, it was a hard bloody place to live. Aunt Peg and the old people, they just like to remember the good times. Everything was the best kind back then, best kind of fishin', best kind of life. But, girl, that's how it is, we like to remember the good times. Right? Memories are not always real.”

She followed the route of the path as the shoreline drifted by. There was the house again, silent and deserted, another headstone to the past. She felt for the clothespin in her pocket and held it as she watched the white frame house slip by. “Give this to Peg from me,” she said, handing him the clothespin. “I took it from her clothesline by the house. Don't forget, will you?”

“If that's what you want.” He looked at her askance.

She moved to the doorway of the wheelhouse for a last glimpse. Suddenly, quite clearly in the front-room window, she saw a light. “Look, Pat, look!” She was shouting, her hand waving madly to get his attention. “There's someone there. There's a light in the window.”

He looked over his shoulder and laughed. “It's the sun shining on the glass, girl, a reflection, no more than that.”

Acknowledgements

My
paternal grandfather walked away from his small farm in the West of Ireland and left his wife and young family to fend for themselves. I never knew him, nor, for some unknown reason, did I ever meet or know my grandmother. I have borrowed these facts from my family history but the rest of the story is fiction. Any similarities to living people are entirely coincidental.

I am deeply grateful to Stan Tobin and the late John Whelan for sharing with me their deeply felt love for the Cape Shore of Newfoundland and their memories of growing up there. Thank you also to Mrs. Mary Anne Councel, for her vivid and wonderful stories about living on the islands in Placentia Bay, one of which, with her permission, is included in this novel. I am grateful also to Dr. Eithne Knowling and Dr. Bill Kennedy for their valuable guidance and assistance. To Ed Furlong and Marjory Johns for sharing with me their very personal experience with Alzheimer's disease, a big thank you. I spent several wonderful afternoons with Dr. Martin Howley at Memorial University Library, looking at and talking about the collection of rare and treasured Irish books. His passion for and knowledge of the collection inspired and delighted me. I also received very good advice and help from Prof. Kevin B. Nowlan, now retired, of University College Dublin, as to what I should seek out amongst the collection of rare books.