Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [44]
There was a slim black dress for her mother, very simple except for a wide band of blue and green beadwork that ran all around the neckline and formed a shimmering heart at one shoulder. Mrs. Molloy held the dress against her body. “Well, take me to Garbo,” she murmured to herself, admiring her reflection in the long mirror on the back of the wardrobe door.
“You look beautiful, Mammy.”
Mrs. Molloy touched her hair, turning slightly to one side as she draped the dress across her slim body. Gently she ran her hand over the soft fabric, smoothing it over her flat stomach and nipping it in at the waist. Her head came back as she drew her knee slightly upward, the toe of her shoe brushing the floor. “Look at me now and the day you got me. Hit me now and the child in me arms!” She laughed outright with delight.
Maureen, catching the drama of the scene, began to mimic her mother’s actions.
“Don’t be bold, Maureen, and stop that cod actin’. Your daddy will be home in a minute and he’ll settle you.” She folded the dress, set it aside, and picked a roll of green satin ribbon from amongst the treasures. “Look here, girls, bows for your hair, three inches wide!” She ran the ribbon off the roll, measuring from hand to hand pale lengths of apple-green satin. “Three quarters of a yard makes a perfect bow so there’s plenty here for two each. You’ll be great style altogether for Patrick’s Day.”
“Wait till Da sees this. Won’t he be surprised?” Nora jumped about, clapping her hands in delight.
“You’ll not breathe a word, not to a soul. You hear me now, not a word, not to your father or anyone outside of this room. She looked from one to the other. I’ll talk to your father in due course.”
“Can we have a couple of the comics now, just a couple?” Maureen begged. “I’ll hide them under the bed where he won’t see them.”
“All right then, just a couple, but remember, not a word to a soul.”
But Maureen had told. She had blabbed it all a couple of days later. Sitting in a pew at the back of the church following choir practice, she could keep her secret no longer. She had leaned over and whispered the news in Helen Duffy’s ear, and had made her promise not to tell a soul. Soon the whole town knew and there was hell to pay.
Nora smiled now at the memory. Years later it came to her that maybe the parcel had indeed come from her grandfather or that he’d had a hand in it somehow. She liked the idea that he had thought of them but she also knew that her father had felt quite differently when he found out. The parcel was never mentioned again, her mother never wore the dress, and the ribbons disappeared. Every so often the couple of comics under the mattress made an appearance. They had been read and reread and then had been returned to their hiding place.
This and the letters were her only real connection to her grandfather, and even the parcel was pure speculation but the letters were real enough; she had them here in her handbag. She reached for the bag and removed the discoloured envelopes. She chose the one addressed to her father and put the other away safely. She could now picture the man who had written this letter and the woman who stood close by, urging him on. Carefully she drew out the single folded sheet. My dear Eamon. She began to read again the now familiar words. Where do feelings come from when one writes such a letter? A heart nourished by fantasy and fragmented memories? Did he retain a visual image of his abandoned child? Could he recall how his hair felt beneath his hand, the look in his eyes or the sound of his voice? She continued to read the words again and again, trying to connect with the man who had written this letter. I have found a degree of happiness and contentment in my life for which I am grateful. She read this last sentence again. The words seemed to fly right off the page: a degree of happiness. Was this the sum total of his feelings for Peg and the life they had shared? Was that it: a degree of happiness? Nora slipped the letter back in the