Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [71]
“Hello, missus.” The voice came from behind her. She turned, not sure if she was the “missus.” A slight man stood by her elbow. He was about her height, no more; she was looking him straight in the eye. “I hears you’re one of the Molloys from Ireland,” he said without preamble.
“Yes, that’s right.” She smiled, pleased with the distraction.
“Well, missus, I’m pleased t’meet ya,” he said, extending his hand. Small fidgety eyes regarded her intently. A quiff of dark hair rose in a stiff wave above his forehead and fell off into a tail over his left eye. He wore a brightly coloured shirt patterned all over with red and blue and yellow circles, gaudy by any standard. He put her in mind of an exotic bird that had been in a racket of some kind and had emerged looking slightly battered. All the while he spoke he shook her hand.
“I come to speak with ya, missus, seein’ how Mr. Molloy done me a great service. I wants to acknowledge that now. I’m Joe Coady, missus. I’ll call ya missus now, if ya don’t mind, that is.” His grip, bony and urgent, tightened as he continued to shake her hand.
In the background, the accordion player swung into a waltz and the crowd pressed forward. Still gripping her hand he pulled her to one side. “Watch out there, missus.”
“Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Joe Coady, missus.”
The name and then the image came to her in a flash: a small boy, white numbers on a blackboard. Nora felt her throat contract and heat begin to rise at the back of her neck. She tried to avoid his gaze but his eyes followed hers until she was compelled to face him again.
“He teached me to read and write, missus, is what I’m sayin’.”
She waited for the harsh words that must come, looked for the twist of bitterness about his mouth. There was none, just a funny little cockatoo of a man who shifted from foot to foot in a restless dance. He still gripped her hand, giving it the odd shake from time to time as if to ensure her attention.
“By the Jesus, he had some hard time gettin’ that stuff in me head, but he done it.” His head twitched a couple of times, dislodging the quiff and causing it to fall forward onto his forehead. She stared, unable to utter a single word, unable to accept the fact that this was the poor little scrap that her grandfather had walloped with a cane because he couldn’t do his sums.
As if reading her mind, he laughed, his whole face gathering into tiny weathered wrinkles, his mouth opening slightly to show gaps in a row of narrow yellow teeth. “Ya know somethin’, missus, when the Yanks come durin’ the war and was buildin’ the base down to Argentia, Joe Coady was ready. Yes, b’y. I was good with me hands and I could read them Yankee blueprints best kind, and I could make anything they wanted with a bit a wood and a few nails, I could so, anything they wanted, and they sure wanted plenty. Made some good money, I did, enough to build me own house handy to the base.” He was in full flight now, shifting from one foot to the other as he pumped out his story. “Yes, by the Jesus, the women was after me then. I had the pick of the bunch. Mad for me they was.”
He laughed again, batting at the quiff of hair with the back of his hand. “Before that, Joe Coady was nothin’. Pussy Boils, they used to call me. Yes, indeed. But once I had the few Yankee dollars in me pocket and a good job to the base, the women was plentiful as tomcods. And he done it, Mr. Molloy did. Nobody paid me no attention ’til then, thought I was stunned. But we showed them, him and me. Mind now, missus, he beat the livin’ shit out of me doin’ it. Those days I didn’t want to know nothin’ about school but not now. No, b’y. My youngsters, they all been to the university.” He leaned forward. “Education is the key, missus,” he whispered philosophically, his eyes shining like polished marbles.
Nora was transfixed. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words dried up on her