Where Old Ghosts Meet Read Online Free PDF Page A

space. Across from where they sat, a small kitchen unit ran along one wall. By a large window on the back wall, there was an old wooden kitchen table surrounded by three old-fashioned chairs. There was clutter everywhere. Things were tucked into corners and piled on every available space. There were letters and brown business envelopes, newspapers piled on the floor, a bag of knitting on a wooden stand, several potted plants and, to her surprise, elegantly perched on the front window ledge, a fat marmalade-coloured cat. It blinked once, a long slow blink as if to acknowledge her presence, and then resumed its frank unperturbed stare.
    â€œDo you have any pictures of my grandfather?” She dragged her eyes away from the cat.
    Peg indicated the wall behind Nora, where a whole assortment of photographs all done up in frames hung between the two small front windows. Nora rose from her chair for a closer look. Some of the pictures were old and yellowed, some were new. There was a little girl in a long white communion dress, looking shy, a young man in a soldier’s uniform, legs tightly bound from ankle to knee. A coloured portrait of a young woman in a nurse’s uniform, holding a bunch of roses, stood out from the others. Then she saw him: a pallid serious face looking right at her. She waited for a rush of affection, a feeling of excitement, but there was nothing. She moved in closer for a better look. He was quite good looking, a strong jawline, a neat well-shaped blunt nose and, on top of all, a thick crop of dark curly hair brushed to one side and sticking up, looking remarkably like a whin bush that had been set in place forever by the prevailing wind. Her hand flew to her own hair. So, she had him to thank for her unruly mop.
    â€œThis has to be him,” she said, pointing to the picture. “He’s the image of my father, except for the hair.”
    Peg nodded.
    â€œI was hoping he’d still be alive but I knew it was a long shot.” She hesitated. “I’m glad that you are here, Peg. May I call you Peg?”
    â€œYes, my dear, you can indeed. Most people calls me Aunt Peg, but call me whatever you please.”
    Nora sat down.
    Peg had stopped rocking and now leaned over to speak to Nora. “That letter you have that Matt wrote to your father…” She searched about, looking for the right words. “My dear, I have to tell you about that. It was me got him to write that letter. I didn’t know for sure but I felt in my gut that it was the right thing to do. It was some hard for him, writing that. Said he didn’t know what to say. A man that loved words so much didn’t know what to say! I told him: Write what’s in your heart, that’s all you need do. You see, he knew a little bit about you all. There was someone lived in Boston who gave him a bit of news time to time. He knew there was grandchildren and he knew when she died, his wife, I mean, and where the family lived to. Just a few facts, far as I could make out, but that was all. Day in, day out, he watched for the mail, looking for a reply. Then, one day, there it was.”
    â€œThere’s a letter, come from Ireland, looks like.” She was trying her best to stay calm but her heart was flapping like a sheet in a stiff breeze.
    Matthew’s shoulders tensed, his grip tightening on the newspaper in his hands, but otherwise he never moved.
    Peg held out the thin greyish-white envelope edged with green and orange squares. “Here, Matt, take it. It’s for you.” She pushed the letter towards him, nodding encouragement.
    After a moment he folded the newspaper carefully and set it to one side. She put the letter in front of him. She watched, as, like a dog sizing up a new bone, he regarded the rectangular envelope. He touched the stamps, running his finger corner to corner around the serrated edge. “Eire.” He spoke the word on the stamp softly and a moment later picked up