Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [14]
The room at the end of the hallway was small and at first glance seemed to be used partly for storage; yet, it was bright and fresh smelling. A single metal-framed bed covered with a bright, multicoloured, knitted blanket stood in one corner of the room. Beside the bed several cardboard boxes piled one on top of the other served as a makeshift bedside table. A white crocheted doily with a green trim covered the top of the boxes. Nora moved across the room and stood by the small slider window that looked out to the back of the house. Beside the window there was what looked like a kitchen dresser with four shelves all neatly lined with books. It was a lovely piece of furniture, she thought, handmade, and old. Nora touched the smooth surface of the wood, admiring the simple lines and the honeyed warmth of the old pine. It should have held pretty dishes but it served its new purpose very well. Her hand dropped to one of the round wooden knobs on the drawers. Endless years of handling had left a shiny bright spot on the curved surface. She pulled gently and the drawer came smoothly towards her. It was full of papers, neatly bound into bundles with elastic bands. A slight push and the drawer slid back in place. A small wave of pleasure ran through her. She liked things that worked.
She turned her attention back to the books. Curious, anticipation mounting, she scanned the titles and the authors, her fingers running along the curve of the spines, pausing to smooth over a small tear on a faded dust jacket. They were in beautiful condition for the most part, finely bound and old. Were these the possessions he had mentioned in his letter? Peg must have brought them with her from the island. Nora looked out the little window to the vast expanse of ocean, imagining the scene: a boat piled high with the very necessities of life and a box, boxes of books belonging to a dead man.
She ran her fingers along the spines again, pausing here and there, finally choosing Wordsworth’s Poetical Works: gold lettering on warm brown leather, the spine ornamented from top to bottom in golden filigree patterns. A touch on the tip and it came smoothly into her hand. It was exquisite, the cover soft and pliable, gilt-edged pages fanning delicately at her touch. Hanging from the bottom, a silky braided ribbon guided her to an opening: How richly glows the water’s breast / Before us tinged with evening hues, / While facing thus the crimson west, / The boat her silent course pursues!
She fingered the ribbon, wondering if he had been the last person to read these lines and mark the page. She tried to picture him as she was now, standing there reading, book in hand. Would he have placed one foot ahead of the other as her father did, muttering to himself as he read? She began to turn the pages slowly, barely touching the thin sheets – “Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey.” She read on, recalling her school days in dreary convent classrooms, knowing at the time that there was magic somewhere in those lines but unable or unwilling to rise beyond her hatred of school. Reluctantly, she closed the book and returned it to its place next to a faded clothbound volume entitled A Treasury of the Theatre and alongside Chief European Dramatists.
On the lower shelf The Complete Works of William Shakespeare caught her eye. It was unusual in that it was quite compact in size, maybe 5 x 7 inches. She slipped it from its place. Age and sunlight had left the spine discoloured and slightly worn but the front cover was the rich green of a Mediterranean olive. She touched the tooled calfskin, feeling the luxury of the soft padded leather. Here, in her hand was the weight of thousands of brilliantly chosen words bound in perfect balance and symmetry. She turned the book over and drew in a sharp breath