Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [3]
Nora looked up from the letter. Deep in thought she moved towards the window and drew back the curtains. To the east, a streak of pearly grey light diluted the dark sky. She cried softly, aware now of the great silent void that had existed between him and his family and realizing too late how little they had understood of him and his odd ways. In the end, exposing this very private man’s secrets had been so simple. The burden of his silence left her feeling sad and then angry. She made up her mind that the next day she would go to Cullen.
The downpour was relentless. Nora leaned forward, straining to keep her eye on the edge of the road, using the side of her hand to help clear the windshield. The finger sign-post pointed to the right: Cullen 2 miles. She was almost there. She wished that Maureen had come along with her but Maureen had “no interest in seeing the back end of Roscommon on a dirty day in October. However,” she had hastened to add, “down the road, if you come across anything of interest, I’d like to know.”
“Maureen would only be interested if there was drama or loot at the other end,” Nora muttered aloud to herself. “Then she’d be aboard all fuss and business.” Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, the rain eased up and the last droplets hit the windshield with a loud splat. A bit of sunshine would help, she thought as she scanned the sky looking for a break in the clouds.
It was mid-morning as she drove into the small market town, but not too many people were about. “So this is Cullen.” She repeated the name again, wishing it would strike a familiar chord but the sound died on her tongue. Nora knew nothing of this place. It didn’t have an identity, not even in her imagination. Cullen, where her father had grown up and gone to school, where her grandmother had lived, had rarely been mentioned in the Molloy household. They had never set foot in the place, not even to visit their grandmother.
It was strange now to stand on the wet pavement in the main street, looking up and down, trying to get a sense of the place, knowing that she belonged here, yet feeling like a complete stranger. It was a drab, dirty little town. A few small shops with dusty, faded window displays stood on either side of the main street. There was a bank, several pubs, a large three-story house with “Hotel” painted in fancy letters on a grubby glass panel above the door. A solid brass doorknob and knocker gleamed bold and defiant on the green, chipped paintwork. Stepping carefully to avoid the filthy puddles, she passed close to a garage with a single petrol pump. The reek of oil hung on the damp air. She stopped to look around. A woman wearing a bib apron and carrying a shopping bag passed by, nodded and hurried on her way. A young man parked his bicycle by a lamp post and stared blankly at Nora. This was a town stuck in the past.
She walked on up the street towards the place where a tall steeple reached into the sky above the treetops. The church with its neatly trimmed lawn was set back from the road and was surrounded by black iron railings. A sign read, Saint Michael’s Catholic Church. Next door was a simple but well-maintained school. It was Saturday so there was no sign of life. The gate was slightly ajar so she went through and entered the schoolyard. She tried to picture her father as a little boy running about, yelling and shouting with the other children but that scenario didn’t seem to fit. She went to the window and peered through, cupping her hands about her eyes. She fancied she