what might have been, and what’s past. Now, you’re sure you’re going to be okay?’
‘You bet. And thank you for listening. You really calmed me down.’
George nodded towards the whisky bottle. ‘Nothing better for jingling nerves than the old Four Roses.’
I shook hands with both men and went towards the door. But as I reached the hallway, I turned and said, ‘One thing more. Do either of you know why Granitehead used to be called Resurrection?’
Keith looked at George and George looked at Keith. Then George said, ‘Nobody knows why for sure. Some folks say that it was named for the new life that folks here were going to lead, when they first landed from Europe. Others say that it was just a name.
But I personally prefer the story that it was named on the third day after Easter, when Christ rose out of the tomb.’
‘You don’t think it was named for anything else?’
‘Like what?’ asked George.
‘Well … the kind of thing that I think I saw tonight. The kind of thing that Mrs Edgar Simons says she’s been hearing. And Charlie Manzi, too, down at the market.’
‘Charlie Manzi? What are you talking about?’
‘Mrs Edgar Simons says that Charlie Manzi keeps seeing his son.’
‘You mean Neil!’
‘He only had one son, didn’t he?’
George blew out his cheeks in exaggerated astonishment, and Keith Reed let out a long whistle. ‘That woman,’ said Keith, ‘she sure has a whole bunch of bearings loose. You shouldn’t take any mind of her, John; not any mind at all. No wonder you thought you saw something, if you’d been talking to her. Wheweee, Charlie Manzi, that’s something.
Seeing Neil, you say?’
‘That’s right,’ I nodded. I felt embarrassed now, for believing everything that Mrs Edgar Simons had told me. I couldn’t even think why I had listened to her, the way she had babbled on, and the way she had driven. I must have been overtired, or half-drunk, or just plain stupid.
‘Listen,’ I told George and Keith, ‘I have to go now. But if you don’t mind, I’ll stop by when I come past here on my way to the shop tomorrow. You don’t mind that, do you?’
‘You’re welcome, John. You can stay for breakfast, if you want. Mrs Markham and I whip up some fair old buckwheat cakes between us. She does the mixing and I do the baking. You stop by.’
‘Thanks, George. Thanks, Keith.’
‘You mind how you go, you hear?’
NINE
I left No.7 and walked out into the drizzling night again. I turned right, to make my way back up Quaker Lane; but then I stopped, and hesitated, and looked downhill, towards the main highway, and the house where Mrs Edgar Simons lived. It was only a little before 10 o’clock, and I doubted if she would mind if I paid her a visit. She couldn’t have too many friends these days; and there were few neighbours on the main Granitehead-Salem highway. Most of the big old houses had been sold now, and demolished, to make way for gas stations and food markets and shops selling live bait and tricksy souvenirs. The old Granitehead people had gone with them, too old and too tired and not nearly wealthy enough to be able to relocate themselves to one of the fashionable waterfront houses that bordered Salem Bay.
It was a good ten minutes’ walk, but I reached the house at last - a large Federal mansion, foursquare but graceful, with rows of shuttered windows and a curved porch with Doric pillars. The gardens which surrounded it had once been formal and well-kept, but now they were wild and hideously overgrown. The trees which surrounded the mansion itself had remained unpruned for nearly five years, and they clung around the house like spidery creatures hanging onto the ankles of a brave and exquisite princess.
This princess, however, had long ago faded: as I walked up the weedy shingle path, I saw that the decorative balconies had corroded, the brickwork had cracked in long diagonal zigzags, and even the decorative basket of
‘You bet. And thank you for listening. You really calmed me down.’
George nodded towards the whisky bottle. ‘Nothing better for jingling nerves than the old Four Roses.’
I shook hands with both men and went towards the door. But as I reached the hallway, I turned and said, ‘One thing more. Do either of you know why Granitehead used to be called Resurrection?’
Keith looked at George and George looked at Keith. Then George said, ‘Nobody knows why for sure. Some folks say that it was named for the new life that folks here were going to lead, when they first landed from Europe. Others say that it was just a name.
But I personally prefer the story that it was named on the third day after Easter, when Christ rose out of the tomb.’
‘You don’t think it was named for anything else?’
‘Like what?’ asked George.
‘Well … the kind of thing that I think I saw tonight. The kind of thing that Mrs Edgar Simons says she’s been hearing. And Charlie Manzi, too, down at the market.’
‘Charlie Manzi? What are you talking about?’
‘Mrs Edgar Simons says that Charlie Manzi keeps seeing his son.’
‘You mean Neil!’
‘He only had one son, didn’t he?’
George blew out his cheeks in exaggerated astonishment, and Keith Reed let out a long whistle. ‘That woman,’ said Keith, ‘she sure has a whole bunch of bearings loose. You shouldn’t take any mind of her, John; not any mind at all. No wonder you thought you saw something, if you’d been talking to her. Wheweee, Charlie Manzi, that’s something.
Seeing Neil, you say?’
‘That’s right,’ I nodded. I felt embarrassed now, for believing everything that Mrs Edgar Simons had told me. I couldn’t even think why I had listened to her, the way she had babbled on, and the way she had driven. I must have been overtired, or half-drunk, or just plain stupid.
‘Listen,’ I told George and Keith, ‘I have to go now. But if you don’t mind, I’ll stop by when I come past here on my way to the shop tomorrow. You don’t mind that, do you?’
‘You’re welcome, John. You can stay for breakfast, if you want. Mrs Markham and I whip up some fair old buckwheat cakes between us. She does the mixing and I do the baking. You stop by.’
‘Thanks, George. Thanks, Keith.’
‘You mind how you go, you hear?’
NINE
I left No.7 and walked out into the drizzling night again. I turned right, to make my way back up Quaker Lane; but then I stopped, and hesitated, and looked downhill, towards the main highway, and the house where Mrs Edgar Simons lived. It was only a little before 10 o’clock, and I doubted if she would mind if I paid her a visit. She couldn’t have too many friends these days; and there were few neighbours on the main Granitehead-Salem highway. Most of the big old houses had been sold now, and demolished, to make way for gas stations and food markets and shops selling live bait and tricksy souvenirs. The old Granitehead people had gone with them, too old and too tired and not nearly wealthy enough to be able to relocate themselves to one of the fashionable waterfront houses that bordered Salem Bay.
It was a good ten minutes’ walk, but I reached the house at last - a large Federal mansion, foursquare but graceful, with rows of shuttered windows and a curved porch with Doric pillars. The gardens which surrounded it had once been formal and well-kept, but now they were wild and hideously overgrown. The trees which surrounded the mansion itself had remained unpruned for nearly five years, and they clung around the house like spidery creatures hanging onto the ankles of a brave and exquisite princess.
This princess, however, had long ago faded: as I walked up the weedy shingle path, I saw that the decorative balconies had corroded, the brickwork had cracked in long diagonal zigzags, and even the decorative basket of
Similar Books
