Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [43]
Up ahead, the sky was alive with a great jumble of flapping feathers, birds circling, diving, screeching and squawking. The great dome of the rock appeared above the cliff. As Nora came closer to the edge she saw that the dome extended and widened, the massive walls reaching down hundreds of feet in a great cone, to the ocean far below. Every nook and cranny of this vast roost was occupied, every square inch staked out by a dense mass of birds clinging perilously to the rock face. All around, the cliffs were similarly inhabited. It was magnificent.
Cautiously she stepped down over the edge of the cliff onto a little sheltered plateau where there was a large flat stone that over the years had obviously been used as a seat. It was smooth and glossy and, strangely enough, unlike the surrounds, totally clear of bird droppings: Visitors are welcome and encouraged to stay! She took her seat, laughing with delight at the sheer miracle of it all.
A gannet with a soft golden head and dark velvety wing tips swooped right by. Nora followed its flight. Gliding and soaring, it flew in a perfect figure-eight pattern and then disappeared from view. Another gannet flew in close, this one trailing a strip of tattered cloth. It reminded Nora of those cards that show a plump dove trailing a ribbon that says PEACE ON EARTH or HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. She watched the bird swoop and dip, showing off its treasure before heading for home.
He had sent ribbons one time. Well, someone had sent ribbons all the way across the Atlantic. Years later Maureen and she, for want of a better solution, had decided it was the Da’s da who had sent them, but at the time it was a mystery, at least to the children. The American Parcel. That’s what they had called the big brown package with the strange stamps and the hard red globs of sealing wax that had arrived unexpectedly from America, just before St. Patrick’s Day. Her mother had told them that it was from Daddy’s cousin who lived in Boston. There was never any talk before of American cousins, but in the excitement of the moment nobody cared.
She had been the one who had answered the door and taken the big package from the postman. In a funny way she felt it gave her ownership or certainly a special claim to the treasure within. Her mother whipped the package from her hands, turned it over several times, and headed for her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Believing there was strength in numbers, Nora went immediately to break the news to her brother and sister, and they gathered outside the closed door, ears cocked, until finally they found the courage to edge their way into the room to a vantage point by the bedside. All eyes were fixed earnestly on this wonder from America.
“Who’s it for, Mammy?”
“It says: The Molloy Family.”
“That’s us.”
“Yes, that’s true, so maybe we should wait ’til Daddy gets home.”
“He’ll make us put it away ’til Lent is over.”
“Sure, by then we might forget all about it. Mightn’t we?”
“Go on, Mammy, open it up.”
“Well, maybe that would be all right.” Their mother began to unwrap the big package.
It was a wonder: a book for her father. She couldn’t recall the title but it was brown and shiny and she had never seen it again after that day. There were comics, ten or more, bright and colourful: the Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Buster Brown, three copies, crisp and new, Buster Brown Goes to Mars, Inter Planetary Police vs. The Space Siren, Time Masters. Nora remembered clearly the smiling face of Roy Rogers looking out from the front page of the comic book. He had on a soft white cowboy hat and a red shirt with long fringes dangling from the sleeves. He was leaning casually against the top rail of a white wooden fence,