Laying a Ghost

by Jane Davitt

  Nick swallowed, watching the sheep warily, waiting to see if any of them ran back out into the road in front of them. “I have a sense of humor.” It didn’t sound as much like a protest as he’d meant it to. He found himself looking at John’s hand on the wheel. “I might also be a little paranoid. About being an outsider. I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”

  “You’re half-Scottish.” John still sounded snappy. “Your family’s lived on this island for centuries. You’re not an outsider. You’ve just been away.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a reluctant smile and he relaxed. “For thirty years or so, but I’ll not hold that against you.”

  “Thanks.” Nick grinned weakly, trying to find the sense of humor he’d just been insisting he had. “I always wanted to come here when I was a kid, but my mother wouldn’t let me. She wouldn’t even talk about it.”

  John shook his head. “That’s a shame, but I suppose I can see why she didn’t like to speak of it. She’ll have been missing it though, from time to time, do you suppose?”

  “I think so. She didn’t talk about it a lot, but she kept all those pictures ...” Nick could remember the album they’d been in, the way the color in the photos had faded with time, the way his mother’s hands had turned the pages, carefully, almost reverently. He’d known even when he was only six or seven that the album wasn’t something to touch on his own. “I found a letter she wrote in my uncle’s desk,” he said, as John steered the car around a curve. “I didn’t know she’d written to him. I guess she thought she had to let him know that she was sick. Dying. It was weird, seeing her handwriting like that.”

  “I can imagine.” John sounded sympathetic. He shook his head. “When my father died there was this wee note from him stuck on the fridge; a list of groceries we needed, you know? It stayed there for weeks because my mother couldn’t bear to destroy it, and every time I saw it, I got this shiver along the back of my neck ...” They’d reached the village now and John slowed down as he drove along the main street. “I took it down in the end, when I couldn’t bear the sight of it, and I thought for sure that she’d never forgive me, but she didn’t say a word.”

  He pulled up in a car park at the side of a pub close to the sea front and switched off the engine. Nick reached down to free his seatbelt just as John did the same and felt the back of his hand brush against John’s, the contact too light and fleeting to warrant more than a murmured apology, if that.

  Instead he jerked his hand back sharply, trying to make that his only visible reaction to the shock he’d felt as they’d touched.

  John glanced down and then raised his eyes to meet Nick’s, a faintly puzzled look on his face. “Sorry,” he said briefly. “Well, and no offense to Stella, this is the place if you want a decent pint with your food, but if you want to go somewhere else, just say.”

  “It’s fine,” Nick told him, meaning both the pub they were parked next to and what had just happened.

  They got out of the car and went inside. The lighting was on the dim side, and the place seemed crowded considering it was only just after noon, but maybe that was the normal lunch hour here. It wasn’t like Nick would know the difference. There was a large chalkboard to one side of the bar with scrawled but readable specials written on it, and Nick could see that the bartender was taking someone’s order over the bar, leaning in a bit so he could hear him over the noise of people talking.

  Nick read the makeshift menu, frowning. “Any suggestions?” He gestured at the board.

  “I don’t know what you like,” John said, reasonably enough. “Or how hungry you are.” He stepped closer and scanned the board, “The beef stew is tasty.”

  “That’s boeuf bourguignon.” The barman appeared at their end of the bar, scowling at John. “It’s got half a bottle of red wine in it, and you can’t tell me it’s stew after that.”

  “I can call it what I want, seeing as it’s fifty pence dearer than it was last Tuesday,” John retorted. “Christ, Geordie, could you not wait until June to hike up your prices? We’ll take two, and a couple of pints of bitter to wash it down with.” His voice was rougher, with more of an accent, Nick noticed. The barman’s gaze traveled to him and Nick met it with a cautious smile.

  “I’ll be introducing you to Nick Kelley, Ian’s nephew from the States, come here to live.” John turned to Nick, “This is the man who pulls the best pint on the island, but never let him know I said it.”

  “Said what?” Nick relaxed, grinning at John as Geordie set one pint down on the bar and reached for another glass. “It’s nice to meet you,” he continued. “Now I know where I’ll be spending my time when I don’t want to drink alone.”

  “Glad to hear Rossneath won’t be empty no more,” Geordie said. “House has been empty too long. It’s bad luck.”

  Interested, Nick raised his eyebrows as he took his wallet out. “Bad luck?”

  “Aye. Perfectly good space not being used ... goes against the laws of God and man.” Geordie set the second pint down beside the first and Nick offered him a note. “Thank ye kindly, young Mister Kelley. Have a wife, do ye? It’s a grand house for raising a family. Your grandmother had three children in that house.”

  “Three?” Startled, Nick let the man put his change in his open hand as John picked up one of the pints.

  “Did ye not know, then? The little boy that would have been your eldest uncle died when he was a baby. Terrible tragedy, terrible.” Geordie shook his head, sounding as if he wouldn’t mind answering more questions, but Nick thought he’d heard enough for now.

  “You’re wanted, Geordie.” John nodded down the bar to where a group of lads in oil-stained overalls were leaning over the counter.

  Geordie swelled up with indignation. “I’ve told them I’ll not have them in here with their clothes in that state.” He moved away to deal with the miscreants and, Nick noted, made sure they’d all bought pints before he banished them to the beer garden.

  John handed Nick his pint. “I was supposed to be buying you this, but I suppose you’ll let me get the next round in?” He led the way to a table with a view over the bay and sat down. “Cheers.” He raised his glass. “Now you be saying it back to me properly. Slainte Mhath.”

  Nick blinked and tried. “Slannshvah. God, that was terrible. Say it again?” John did, and Nick repeated it, doing a slightly better job than he had the first time, and then taking a sip of the beer. He could get used to a life that didn’t consist of much more than this, he thought.

  “About what Geordie was asking ‑‑” Nick froze, really not wanting to discuss tragic deaths in the house he had to sleep in alone, miles from anyone, but John went on as if he hadn’t noticed, “Is there going to be anyone joining you here?”

  John’s habit of asking what anyone else would’ve tactfully tiptoed around would take some getting used to, Nick reflected, but it certainly saved time, and it wasn’t like he was pushy, exactly. Just direct.

  Taking another sip of beer to give himself time to think of how to word it, Nick raised his left hand up to illustrate his lack of a wedding ring. “No. No wife, no girlfriend. I haven’t ... it’s been a long time since I’ve dated.” There. True, and hopefully enough to forestall further questions. “What about you? You didn’t mention anyone before, so I guess you’re not married ...”

  John’s mouth twisted in a smile. “You’d guess right.” He jerked his head toward the bar. “And if you were to catch Geordie with time to chat, he’d tell you why.”

  “Really?” Nick knew he shouldn’t ask, because the more questions he asked the more he was opening himself up to more questions, but he couldn’t help it. “What would he say?”

  John looked at him solemnly, but Nick could see the amusement in his eyes. “He’d tell you that I’m carrying a torch for the lassie who chose to marry my best friend; young Sheila Brown as was, now Mrs. Michael Stewart, mother of a fine pair of twin boys. Heartbreaking, no? Try not to sob into your beer though; it’ll not improve the taste of it.”<
br />
  “But that’s not the case?” Nick smiled with only a little bit of uncertainty.

  A single eyebrow arched up. “Well, no.” John turned his head to watch an approaching waitress, carrying a large tray laden with their food and a basket of rolls. “But it’s convenient.”

  The interruption gave Nick a chance to mull that over, and by the time the waitress had set down their plates and the basket, he’d realized how hungry he was. He probably hadn’t eaten enough the day before. The smell of the beef was rich, the gravy thick and steaming, and he grabbed a roll from the basket and tore it in half, dipping it in the gravy and taking a bite. “Sorry.” He glanced up at John, who was watching him with a bemused expression. “This is really good.”

  “Don’t mind me,” John murmured politely, stretching out a hand and taking a roll himself and copying Nick, although with a more moderate enjoyment showing on his face as he bit into the bread. “So.” John produced another of those gently remorseless questions Nick was having so much trouble dealing with. “What is it that you do for a living? Because I’ll be honest with you, there’s not much work here on the island, and somehow I don’t see you turning your hand to farming.”

  Nick had known that this was the kind of question he’d need an answer to, but he’d never managed to come up with anything he thought he could pull off. “I’m retired,” he answered, closing his eyes at how rude that had sounded. Fuck. Why hadn’t he thought of something? Anything? “Sorry.” He wondered how many times he’d apologize before John wised up and steered clear of him. “I was ... I had this business partner.” And then what was he supposed to say? I drove our car into a tree and killed him. He could hardly bear to think it, let alone say the words out loud. He looked up at John, expecting to see confusion and possibly condemnation in the other man’s eyes.

  “You can tell me to mind my own business, you know.” John’s eyes were kind. “And it’s me who owes you an apology. If I speak out of turn again, there’s no need to say more than that, and I won’t take offense.” He was so nice about it that Nick was relieved that he hadn’t lied.

  “You didn’t; speak out of turn, I mean. It’s not like it was an unreasonable question; it’s just ... complicated.”

  “Then tell me when it’s simple.” John sounded as if he didn’t mind waiting.

  “It’s not anything, you know, illegal,” Nick added, because John’s easy acceptance made him want to explain; because he wanted John to like him. “I wouldn’t want you to think that.”

  John had raised his glass to his lips as Nick was speaking and taken a mouthful of beer. Nick watched him make an effort and just about manage to swallow it without choking, but as soon as he had, John started to laugh helplessly. “I wasn’t,” he managed to say. “It never crossed my mind, honest. Fine. I’ll cross off bank robber and the like then, shall I?” He shook his head, still grinning in the way that made Nick want to smile back, and took another drink. “You’d do well to think of something to tell folk though.” He narrowed his eyes speculatively. “Tell them you’re a writer. We get them up here for the peace and quiet all the time.”

  Chewing, Nick nodded, washing the bite down with a long sip of beer. “That’s a good idea. I’ve thought about it. Writing. I actually have written a couple of articles for magazines, but nothing big.” One historical magazine and three that catered to people who were interested in the unexplainable. If Nick was lucky, they weren’t the kind of magazines people on the island would have heard of, let alone read. “So, be honest ... what are my chances of being accepted here? I’ve always gotten the impression that small communities like this aren’t all that welcoming of newcomers, but then you sort of said that I don’t count because my family was from here.”

  “Oh, people will be welcoming enough. As you say, you’re connected. And a new face in a place this small, well, it gives folk something to talk about. It’s not as if you’re the only one either; we get a lot of people coming up here when they retire. There’s a Canadian staying in the north of the island and a German couple living in the cottage beside my mother.” He raised his hand and scratched meditatively at his neck. “Nice enough people, too, but they will bring along their guitars and sing these folk songs at the gatherings, and people are too polite to tell them to stop.” He sighed. “They mean well. They just think we’re quaint, and Lord knows it’s a strange word to use for someone like Jock McGovern when he’s the best part of a bottle inside him and shooting rabbits at three in the morning.”

  “I can promise not to play the guitar and sing folk songs.” Nick speared another chunk of beef with his fork and moved it around in the gravy. “Although I can’t say I’m crazy about the thought of people talking about me. Not that I don’t expect them to.”

  “Well, they will.” John tore off another chunk of the soft, white roll. “There’s no way to stop them. Or if there is, I haven’t found it.”

  There was something that struck Nick as odd about that sentence, and it took him a moment to realize that John sounded as if he was as much of an outsider as Nick felt, which was ridiculous, given the fact that he’d lived here all his life and seemed to know everyone.

  “So it’s true what they say about small communities. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” Nick ate another bite of stew and washed it down with the last of his beer. “How do your best friend and his wife feel about it? I take it they’d put a stop to people thinking that if it made them uncomfortable.”

  John stirred what was left of his food with his fork, staring down at his plate. “It’s not like it’s talked of much; they’ve been married seven or eight years now after all. And none of us ever came out and said it was true, not really. People just have it in their heads that it’s why I’m not fixed up with someone ‑‑ not that there’s a lot of choice here ‑‑ and like I said, it’s ... convenient to let them think that.” He raised his eyes and stared at Nick. “Michael’s a good man and a better friend. There’s not a lot he wouldn’t do for me.” John glanced across the room and raised his hand in response to a nod from an older man who was playing darts. “Friend of my mother’s.” He sounded a little amused. “Don’t tell her I said so, but I think he’s got a notion of courting her.”

  Nick watched the man throw his darts carefully but, judging from his pleased smile as he walked over and tugged them free of the pocked dartboard, with some accuracy. “You don’t mind?”

  John shook his head slowly. “Carson’s a good man. He couldn’t replace my father, mind, but to give him credit, he isn’t trying to. She needs someone to fuss over and keep her company now we’ve all moved out, and he’s perfect for that, even if he’s not the fisherman Dad was.” There was an unconscious condescension in his voice, and Nick glanced down at the table to hide his smile, wondering if John’s tolerance was down to Carson’s failings rather than his good points.

  John stood up and picked up their empty glasses. “Same again, is it?”

  “Sure, that’d be great.” Nick told himself sternly that two glasses of beer was his limit. Otherwise, there was no telling what he might say, and he’d probably said too much already.

  * * * * *

  John tilted his head back and pointed up at the roof. “There, see? You’ve a few tiles missing.” He turned his head, calculating where they would have landed, and then walked over and scuffed his boot across the long, wiry grass, exposing fragments of dark slate. “Can’t have been here too long, but it probably explains that damp patch in the spare room. You’ll need to get that fixed.”

  Nick nodded and jotted down another note, the way he had every time John had finished a sentence that way. There wasn’t much to do, not really; it was a good, solidly built house, but even before he’d gone off to the nursing home it’d been a while since Ian Kelley had done much to keep the place in shape. There were a dozen small jobs, and as many again that would take the two of them to tackle if Nick wanted to see out the winter in comfort.

  “Right.” John nodded at the
stack of peat in a small lean-to close to the back door. “Do you want me to show you the trick of a peat fire? You might as well use them up as they’re cut, although when they’re gone, coal’s probably easier. Unless you do get the central heating in before winter; then you can keep your hands clean altogether.”

  “I guess you might as well show me.” Nick’s expression made it clear that he was somewhat less than thrilled with the prospect. “But I think I’m probably going to go with the central heating. Is there someone nearby who’d be able to put it in?”

  John nodded again. “There is. Niall. He’s a cousin of mine, but he’s the only one on the island who’s qualified, so it’s not as if I’m playing favorites. I’ll speak to him if you like; send him over to give you an estimate.”

  “Thanks.” Nick looked more grateful for that than for the fire-making offer.

  “But if there’s a power cut in January, and you can’t build a fire, you’re going to be awfully cold,” John went on, eyeing him sternly. “So let me show you what to do, and then if you’re still wanting to, we can take out the boat and see what’s biting.” He grinned, “Gutting a fish will take the smell of smoke off your hands, I promise you.”

  “Somehow I get the impression that you think that’s going to make me feel better.” Nick grinned back, tucking the small pad of paper and pencil into his pocket as he came over to help carry some of the peat into the house.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the smell of fish,” John told him as they walked through the kitchen to the sitting room that ran the length of the house. “Not when it’s fresh anyway, or at least that’s what my dad always used to say when my mother complained.”