Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [7]
Her nephew Pat had made all the arrangements. He had asked her to move into his place with Bride and the children but she was too independent for that. Pat understood Peg and her ways. He was her mainstay, as good as any son. What’s more, he could turn his hand to any job she needed done. A few years ago, knowing her fondness for the view out back, Pat had replaced the little slider in the kitchen with the big picture window. She called it her window on the world: her own private world.
Now as she sat there sipping her second cup of tea, she lingered on those days she had spent on Berry Island. She recalled how, as a young boy, Pat would come by every day to see Aunt Peg. She loved to watch him come over the path, breaking into a run for the last few yards to the house. She’d have fresh-baked bread and molasses for him and a mug of tea or sometimes a piece of plate tart spread thick with berry jam. He’d sit to the table like a little man and tell her all the news and then be off to help at home. In many ways she still thought of Pat as a youngster, even though he must be close to fifty years old now with a slew of his own youngsters, but he never seemed to grow old in her mind.
She finished the last of her porridge and quickly ran her fingers over her chin and mouth to check for stray scraps. Satisfied, she eased herself up from the table and began to tidy up.
The screen door opened and banged shut and Pat’s little daughter Hanna stood in the doorway holding a bunch of flowers. She held them out to Peg, not saying a word, just glowing with the pleasure of her giving. Peg reached for the posy, a big purple lupin banked with the delicate creaminess of Queen Anne’s Lace, several stalks of grass, their smooth green heads standing stiffly to attention like the queen’s own guard, and a few sprigs of pink clover and golden buttercups. Below the chubby fist, ragged stems and muddy roots hung in disarray, but the child saw nothing of this, only the delight in the old woman’s eyes.
“Well, God love and bless you, my darling.”
Peg could feel the soft little hands, hot with exertion, as her own crippled fingers struggled to hold the flowers together.
“Smell, Aunt Peg, smell.”
Peg brought the flowers to her nose. “Is it any wonder the bees like to play about in the meadow all day?”
The child clapped excitedly. “And the butterflies,” she insisted.
“Yes, my dear. We’ll put them here in the yellow jug. That will be lovely.”
They had just finished doing up the flowers when the doorbell rang.
“The fine weather’s got everyone on the go today. Go see who’s there, that’s a good girl.” Peg ushered the child towards the door. She ran off but she was back again in a second, looking uncertain and not saying a word.
“Well, who is it, child?”
“She wants you, Aunt Peg.”
“Well, tell her come in.”
She reached up, pushed a wisp of hair off her face and fiddled about with the loose knot of hair on the top of her head in a futile attempt to hold it firmly in place. A strange voice came from the porch. She dabbed at the bodice of her faded floral dress. That morning she had decided it wasn’t dirty enough for washing. Now she wished she hadn’t been so foolish, trying to get another day out of a dress.
“In there,” she heard Hanna say.
A young woman stepped hesitantly into the kitchen. She was tall and thin with long bare legs and a very short skirt. Two purple daisies on gold chains dangled from her ears. She was a very modern-looking young woman, the kind you saw on the television these days.
For a moment the stranger stared blankly at Peg without speaking. Then, as if prodded by an invisible finger, she stepped forward and blurted out, “I’m Matt Molloy’s granddaughter, Nora Molloy, from Ireland.”
Reaching behind her, Peg grabbed the edge of the table and with an effort shifted her weight unsteadily. “Blessed God,” she muttered under her breath. Her gaze until now had been direct and smiling but now it was alert and guarded.
The screen