Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [20]
“No, no, I’d love to hear more, but I’m concerned that you’ll tire yourself out and that I won’t know when it’s time to go.”
“You don’t want to worry about that, my dear. I’ve had a lot of old stuff balled up inside of me for a long time, waitin’ to be told to the right person. You’re the right person, girl, I know that.” Reaching over, she patted Nora’s knee. There was urgency in her touch, a pressure that bid her to stay. “I want to tell you, if you have the time to listen.”
The old woman’s eyes darted back and forth, looking to pick up the threads of her story.
“That first time, when he come by, Matt stayed on a nice while with us. We had plenty of room in the house and we were glad of the company. He paid his board, so long as he had a bit of money. The way it was then, with my father sick and havin’ to have everything done for him, it was good for me to have another pair of hands around. He took right over in the garden. The vegetables were good that year. At least I thought so. He just had a way with growing things. There was no end of trouble he’d go to. He’d watch over every plant, bringing them along ’til they came strong and healthy. But he wasn’t happy with the result; the potatoes were small, the cabbages not right, the ground poor. I had to take them up myself and store them in the root cellar. I believe those vegetables would have rotted right there in the ground if it was up to Matt. It didn’t seem to matter to him that he was helpin’ provide food for us all.”
She looked down at her hands where they lay lightly clasped in her lap. “Everything about him was different, and tell truth that’s what I liked so much. He–”
“So this is where you’re to!” A short, stocky, middle-aged man came through the back door. “I’ve brought some tongues for supper and laid them in the fridge.”
“I told you he’d be down later. This is Pat, my nephew, my sister Ellen’s boy. Looks after me, he does, like nobody else. Now Pat, come over here. You’re in for a surprise when I tell you who this is. It’s Matt’s granddaughter Nora, come to see us, all the way from Ireland.”
He came and stood by Peg. Nora noticed the pale, steady eyes, Peg’s eyes. He stood motionless, his sturdy frame rooted to the ground, and regarded Nora with an easy confidence. When he was ready he stepped forward and offered his heavy square hand. There was no hostility in his look but he didn’t say a word as he shook her hand. He turned to Peg. “Now you be careful and don’t catch too much sun, there’s a breeze up here but it’s hot just the same. Do you want tea?”
“Oh, a cup of tea would be lovely, Pat. I’m thirsty and what about you, Nora, tea or something cold?”
“Thank you, tea would be great.”
He nodded to her again and went into the house.
“Pat worries about me,” Peg said.
“I can tell that. It’s good to have someone to look out for you.”
“Yes, girl, I know. I’m very lucky.”
Nora glanced back towards the house. He was standing at the picture window watching them. She looked away.
A few minutes later he appeared with a tin tray loaded up with three steaming mugs of tea, a small can of Carnation milk, a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits.
He poured the milk from the can into one mug, stirred it vigorously and handed it to Peg.
“Milk and sugar?” he asked.
Nora hesitated. The thick sweet milk did not appeal to her. Her mother used to pour it over jelly when they were children.
“Just a little milk, thank you,” she replied quickly.
He passed the mug. “Have a Jam Jam. Made right here in Newfoundland.” The plate was thrust in front of her. It was a kind of challenge, like she had to have a biscuit whether she wanted one or not. His eyes said so.
The biscuits were round and soft, made like a sandwich with a chewy raspberry jam