Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [21]
He sat on the grass by the tray and sipped his tea. “Wilf, up to the store, told me you were here. This is a bit of a surprise. You’ve come from Ireland, you say?” He looked straight at her.
“Well, not quite.” She had managed to clear her mouth of the sticky mass and returned his gaze. “I live in Montreal now but I was home in Ireland this past spring, to my father’s funeral. It was only then I found out about my grandfather’s connection to Canada, well to Newfoundland.”
They continued to regard each other. He had a wild look about him, nothing to do with his rough haircut or his work-stained overalls, but something in his physical presence said he was not to be trifled with.
“It’s all right, Pat.” Peg stepped in and relieved the momentary tension. “Nora and me, we’ve been talking a lot. She wants to know about her grandfather. It’s only natural and I’m happy to tell her. So there’s no need of you to go worrying.”
“Well, so long as you’re happy, I’ll leave the two of you be. When are you off back?” he asked abruptly, turning to Nora.
“I need to be back in St. John’s on Monday evening to catch a flight on Tuesday morning. I have a room at the hotel in Placentia tonight and then I’d like to drive around and see some of the villages before I go back.”
His directness was beginning to unsettle Nora.
“There’s no need of you goin’ to that place in Placentia tonight, there’s a bed here if you wants it. But it’s up to you. Isn’t that right, Pat?”
“I dunno, Aunt Peg, last time you offered one of them Molloys a bed for the night they ended up stayin’ a while.” Then, in one quick movement he was on his feet, winked playfully at Peg, nodded to Nora and was off, leaving behind his mug half full of tea.
Nora watched him disappear around the side of the house.
“Don’t mind Pat. When there was anything to do with Matt, people were always a bit cautious. He never fitted in, see, and in a way it was his own doin’. He kept to hisself, but island people is curious about strangers. They wanted to know all about him, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone. So don’t pay no attention to Pat; he’s the best kind.” She could feel Nora’s uncertainty and continued to try and reassure her. “Back then, see, a man’s life was the fishery. That was it. Matt went out to the trawls only the once. It was my father’s idea: a man should do a man’s work, and to his mind, seeing to the garden and readin’ books wasn’t a man’s work. But Matt hated the water, made him sick to his stomach. At the end of the day his hands were in tatters from haulin’ the lines. With the men, not going back was a sign of weakness, and maybe they were right. I’m afraid Matt only did what he wanted to do, or what he was good at. Thing was, he was good at quite a few things, but he’d never push hisself forward or pick up for hisself.”
She drained her mug and passed it to Nora to set on the tray. “I’ll tell you now the kind he was. My father used go huntin’ in the fall of the year so as we’d have plenty of bottled turrs and partridge stacked on the shelf through the winter. Come the fall we needed to stock up again. I knew how to shoot a gun because my father had taught me. One day late September that year, I took out my father’s shotgun, cleaned it out like he showed me and decided to try my luck on the barrens. Matt asked to come with me, didn’t trust me, I believe. I didn’t do too good and wanted to go on home out of it, when he said, ‘Here, let me have that.’ I stayed well clear of him, but, my dear, I knew just looking at the set up of him, he knew what he was about. He was a fine shot, no doubt about it! That year he took birds enough for ourselves and enough that I could share with others in need. That got him the bit of respect with the men. Not that he seemed to notice. He’d just go about his business, read his books and do the garden. Sometimes when I was to the flakes workin’ on the fish, he’d bide with Father and see to him and that was fine by me. It was only others thought it strange.”
“So, was he happy here?”
“In those days