Where Old Ghosts Meet by Kate Evans Page A

bucco had the right idea when it came to dealing with the women.”
    â€œFor the love of God, Matt, would ye quit yer cod actin’ and get to yer feet. Get up outa that. Whatever it is yer blatherin’ about, makes no sense to me. Get up, will ye.” A strong young arm caught hold of him and urged him to his feet.
    â€œ Ah wife! The fair Ophelia. ”
    â€œMother of God, you’re gone cracked in the head with all that oul’ rubbish you’ve been readin’. Here, catch a hold of me.”
    â€œ Is it my wife has come to help her husband in his hour of need? Thank you, madam.” His hand touched the tight curve of her swollen belly and he let it linger there for a moment.
    She tensed, tightened her grip on his arm and then continued to pull him upwards. “Look, over there, Matt, by the fire. My brother Mickey, he’s been here tonight with a little cradle was mine once. It could do with a cleanin’ but it’ll be grand for the child.”
    He steadied himself, turning slowly in the direction she was pointing. A rough wooden cradle sat on the floor by the hob.
    â€œNow isn’t Mickey Dolan the great fella? Knew exactly when to turn up trumps!” He moved unsteadily across the room, stopping for a moment to size up this new treasure and then bending over, he peered into the empty cradle.
    â€œNow there’s a fine looking youngster if I ever saw one, and would you look at the size of it!” He moved closer, making little clucking noises. “Now, tell me, wife,” he continued. “How is it that our little babby has whiskers?”
    There was a hollow silence in the kitchen. The two women glanced quickly at each other.
    He straightened up and turned to smile, a strange baleful smile, first at his mother then at his wife. “How is it,” he repeated, taking on a menacing tone, “that this babby has whiskers?”
    â€œIt was a bit of a miscalculation,” his wife rushed to explain, “a wee biteen of a mistake, with the time, is all.”
    He moved in closer, peering into her eyes, his whiskey breath in her face. “ Confess yourself to heaven / Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come, / And do not spread the compost on the weeds, / To make them ranker. ”
    â€œJesus in the garden! Do we have to stand around here all night listenin’ to this oul’ gibberish? Your wife told ye, she made a mistake. Don’t ye understand or do ye want it straight from the Holy Ghost himself … in several languages?”
    He whipped around to face his mother, eyeball to eyeball. “ Beware of entrance to a quarrel; mother dear / But being in, / Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee. ”
    His mother stared back, cutting straight through the glazed eyes. She held the stare for a moment then turned away and reached for the Tilley lamp. Holding the light high, she leaned forward, bringing her face close to his. “Yer an eejit, Matt Molloy, of the first order.”
    The fire spat in the grate.
    â€œI’m goin’ to bed. There’s some of us have a day’s work to do come mornin’. Go on to bed, Sadie, ye need yer rest, and leave our very own Shakespeare here to himself.”
    His eyes followed his wife as she moved away and disappeared behind the curtain into the shadow of their bedroom.
    Peg looked into Nora’s startled eyes. “Your father was born not long after that. Not a happy situation, I’ll allow. But that’s how it was, how your grandfather told it to me.”

9
    A mixture of anger, pity, and disbelief tugged at every muscle and fibre of Nora’s body, leaving her feeling confused and miserable. She pushed away from the table and, turning her back on Peg, gripped her forehead, feeling around her temples the beginnings of a headache.
    So often she had thought of her grandfather as a kind of comic figure, a lone Irishman footloose and fancy-free in America; here