Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [102]
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