Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [0]
OLD
ghosts
MEET
KATE EVANS
WHERE
OLD
ghosts
MEET
A Novel
BREAKWATER BOOKS
WWW.BREAKWATERBOOKS.COM
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Evans, Kate, 1943-
Where old ghosts meet / Kate Evans.
ISBN 978-1-55081-327-2
I. Title.
PS8609.V338W54 2010 C813'.6 C2010-903557-7
© 2010 Kate Evans
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
PRINTED IN CANADA.
We acknowledge the financial support of The Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.
Printed on Silva Enviro which contains 100% recycled post-consumer fibre,
is EcoLogo, Processed Chlorine Free and manufactured using biogas energy.
For Tony
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now…
FROM “ON RAGLAN ROAD,” PATRICK KAVANAGH
Contents
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1
The dank smell of autumn filled the air. Crusty leaves like tiny field mice scurried fretfully across the lawn and settled in dark corners. Pale and tired, Nora Molloy closed the front door on the last of the stragglers and switched off the porch light. The house on Hawthorn Road settled into a quiet lull and seemed to breathe a long sigh of relief. Nora shivered and went to join her sister Maureen in the sitting room of the family home.
“That was a grand send-off for the Da,” Maureen said, intent on stoking the fire and banking the coals with hard dry turf. A single flame leaped upwards as the sods came to life. Maureen stood back, admired her handywork and then collapsed into the big armchair. “Now, I’m not sure that he’d have approved of a shindig.” She turned to smile at her sister. “But it’s too late for that.”
“Now don’t start on the Da, God rest him. He wasn’t so bad.” Nora kicked off her high-heeled shoes and threw her sister an irritated look that quickly changed to a grin when she spotted the devilment in her sister’s eye. “And by the way, it wasn’t a shindig. It was a …”
“Call it what you like, he wouldn’t have approved anyway.”
They hadn’t been together for almost two years, not since their mother’s funeral in ’68. Those had been days fraught with tension, reflecting nothing of their mother’s life: her warmth, her interests, and her love of company. Nora remembered how she had wanted to pick armfuls of fresh flowers from her mother’s precious garden and fill the little church where she lay with their colour and fragrance. It would have been so right, what she would have loved. But, “no,” her father had pronounced, “a couple of small bouquets would be sufficient,” and that was that. It was shortly thereafter Nora decided to leave her father to his own devices and left home to go to Canada, to Montreal, where she still lived and worked as a teacher.
This time around things had been handled differently, resulting in the arrangements taking on a slight air of defiance. Following the funeral, Nora had organized a get-together to which relatives, friends and neighbours were invited. There was food for all and plenty of whiskey and stout to drink. It had been a grand time: a final salute to the family and the old neighbourhood. Nora couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. It was not what her father would have wanted but deep down she felt good and she had no regrets.
The sisters talked late into the night. With the house to themselves, they revelled in their newfound freedom, they laughed and cried, drinking hot whiskeys with cloves and lemon to fuel their spirits and telling stories of old times, stories of the Da and his many