A Map of Glass - Jane Urquhart [100]
Branwell laughed wryly, and for the first time in days.
“Yes, sir,” said Ghost, reading Branwell’s mind, “a henpecked man in politics is a force to be reckoned with.”
The next morning when Branwell ventured out to the stables he found Ghost saddling up the white horse that had been given to him by the family as a Christmas gift just two years before and that, proud of his sense of humour, he had called Spectre. His carpetbag was packed, and his mandolin was tied to the pommel of the saddle. “Taking her away from this,” he said, stroking the animal’s muzzle. “It’s back to Baden for us. There’s a new tavern right across from the station where I can entertain, and I might get some kind of work out at Fryfogel’s, though the old man’s dead and the place is no longer an inn.”
“How do you know he’s dead?” Branwell was aware that the question was ridiculous as soon as it was out of his mouth.
Ghost didn’t bother to reply but said instead that two of the sons, fair to middling farmers, now lived there with their wives and children, in the rooms of what had been the inn.
They walked with the horse out of the darkness of the stables into the vivid autumn light. Choked by sand, the dying trees in the vicinity of the hotel had shed their leaves in midsummer, and now their leafless limbs threw tangled shadows over the surrounding dunes. “Well, I wish I could offer you something here,” said Branwell. “But, as you can see, there’s not much hope of that. So I guess I’ll say goodbye, then. I suppose I’ll miss you, though.”
“Not for long, you won’t,” said Ghost. “The walls out at Fryfogel’s aren’t painted yet, remember, and now you’re going to need the money.” He mounted the horse. “See you in the winter!” he called over his shoulder as the horse struggled through the sand in the direction of Maurice’s monstrous brick house (which sported a large For Sale sign on the yard fence) and the sand-covered road that led to a more stable world.
“Not in the winter!” shouted Branwell. “I’m never going back there in winter.”
“Oh yes you are!” the Ghost shouted back. “You can be sure of that.”
Branwell watched what remained of the road until Ghost was out of sight. Then he turned to face the hotel. Some of the white paint had been scoured from the exterior by the sand-laden wind, and the worn grey clapboard was showing through. And then there was Marie’s pale face at the kitchen window. He raised his arm to wave to her. She did not wave back but turned away, instead, and disappeared from view.
Annabelle, despite her fierce independence and her absolute practicality, was assaulted by passion in midlife, assaulted and imprisoned for a brief time until sorrow released her. Yes, even Annabelle was caught, likely while looking in some other direction altogether. It began at sunset one early evening in the autumn of the following year. There was a cloud, engorged by sun, hanging like fire over the ships at Kingston pier on the mainland. She gathered together her watercolours and sketchbook and walked outdoors, delighted by the apparent effect of fire on pale brown sails. This was an atmospheric opportunity. She would have to be quick to capture it.
Yes, this had been the summer when everything fell into ruin: the hotel, Caroline’s gazebo, the price of barley, the summer that Maurice, in spite of his wife’s resistance, had finally gone ahead and put his house up for sale. Annabelle had just returned from the Ballagh Oisin and her clothes still danced on the line outside, shedding sand as they were “aired.” All day long she had been worrying about Marie, who