Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [99]
She spotted a rough-looking shack a little way along the beach and decided to take alook. Perched on top of long spindly stilts, it had been a neat little structure at one time, but now it was tipping slightly to one side and the door hung open on one hinge. She didn’t dare trust her weight on the wooden platform, but inside she could see the remains of a rusty potbelly stove, a scrap of frayed rope dangling from a nail, and close to the stove a few upturned crates. The only hint of colour was a piece of an orange plastic float lying by the door.
She turned away and headed towards the path that led to Peg’s house. It was barely visible now, just a beaten-down track that was partly overgrown. The grass on either side grew long and silky and swayed gently in the breeze off the water. She ran her fingers along the heads of the tall buttercups and stooped to smell the spiky pink clover tips and inspect the clumps of tiny star-like flowers that she couldn’t identify. She pulled at a long stalk of grass, nibbling on the pale succulent end. She passed one house and then another and another, noticing the perfect symmetry of some houses, windows equally spaced, doorway neatly centred. Others were more haphazard in style, built, she suspected, more for utility and without much thought for style. She stopped to look at small details like a pretty pattern around a doorway, carefully carved by someone with a love of the beautiful as well as the practical, detailed mouldings around windows and doors, a fragment of faded cotton flapping by a broken window, a clump of tall yellow daisies nestled by a faded blue doorway. She tried to imagine who might have lived there, perhaps someone she’d met: Foxy, who had danced her round and round with great glee at the garden party, or Mary Anne or Gerry Quinlan?
Farther along, the old schoolhouse had keeled over completely. Two faded pinkish walls leaning precariously inward and braced by a solitary beam were all that remained. It stood on a rise, back from the main path, conspicuous by its colour. Someone had made a valiant effort to try to keep the old school on its feet.
Behind the school she picked up the path that led to the graveyard. Her heart raced as she hurried forward, taking long purposeful strides. Up ahead, like a mouthful of crooked and broken teeth, the grey-white headstones poked out of the hillside. It was an exposed spot with only meagre shelter from wind and weather provided by a few trees that hung together for support like ragged beggars. In this place sheltered hollows were reserved for the comfort of the living. She waded through the long grass, eager to see his name. There were so many: Mallaley, Tobin, O’Reilly.
John Quinlan
of
Waterford, Ireland
1853 - 1901
and
His loving wife
Mary Margaret
1856 - 1906
Requistat Im Pace
She went from one to another, reading the words, tributes to lives lived, hands clasped in prayer. This was me, I was here, important. Remembered.
McGrath
1864 - 1895
Gone but not forgotten
The same names were repeated over and over, men and women, their sons and daughters, the first people to inhabit this tiny isolated island and their descendants.
She stopped by a sprawling wild rose bush thick with bright pink roses and heavy with a rich sweet perfume. As she stood there she spotted the remains of the white rail farther up on the hill. It stood apart from the other graves, commanding a larger space and a substantial headstone. Now that she had found it she felt suddenly shy, reluctant to approach.
Matthew Molloy
Late of
Roscommon
Ireland
Died November 14, 1962
R.I.P.
Seeing his name, her name, in black letters neatly carved, shocked her. She read it again. There