Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [100]
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