Ghost Walk (2 page)

The Little Sisters of the Poor’s Summer Fair had brought out the best in Edinburgh weather, warm and sunny with the merest hint of a breeze. I free-wheeled gracefully downhill towards the tall grey house which had once been Danny’s boyhood home.

What had he been like then? I wondered, hoping that a class group photograph might at least provide clues to those early years lost long before we had met. The enigma of a lad who had hated England so passionately and chanted ‘God save Ireland’ but had yet joined the Edinburgh City Police. Although his nationalism did not waver, I knew that at Pappa’s side he had helped to foil at least one assassination attempt on the Queen of England.

Such were my thoughts as I rode along the drive where
figures
, black-robed, white-coiffed, fluttered busily from stall to stall across the lawns.

I soon discovered plenty of pretty things to buy, witness to the nuns as excellent seamstresses and housekeepers. Not only
homely
pots of jam and vegetables from the gardens but delicate
nightgowns
and robes very suitable for a bride’s trousseau. And, nestling coyly alongside, the inevitable baby layettes regarded as a discreet but necessary follow-up to the honeymoon.

I moved away rather quickly. On to crocheted shawls,
tablecloths
and antimacassars which seemed appropriate gifts for my future in-laws next week.

As I made my selection, the best of Edinburgh’s weather
having
overreached itself, the day went into sudden decline. A deluge had all the visitors racing for shelter.

The nuns had foreseen such an eventuality and were well
prepared
as we were speedily ushered into the assembly hall of the convent where tea was being served.

Looking around, I saw fewer ladies than I had expected taking seats at the flower bedecked tables with their white lace cloths and
I noted that the nuns were counting heads.

Doubtless, the well-trained Edinburgh Presbyterian matrons, casting nervous glances over their shoulders at sanctuary lamps and statues of the Virgin and Child had quickly decided that patronising stalls under anonymous non-denominational skies outside was one thing. But stepping under the sheltering roof of a Popish establishment with the sniff of incense was quite another.

I had no such qualms. I drank the tea and ate the sandwiches and cake. My life at Solomon’s Tower tended towards the spartan and despite my lack of inches and small frame, I was always
hungry
these days.

Thoroughly enjoying this unexpected treat for a sixpence I looked around at the impromptu waitresses. The older girls from the orphanage wore neat grey uniforms while those attending the stalls were doubtless young novices who had not yet taken their vows. Here and there I identified accents other than local. French, Irish – but all had gentle serene expressions, faces empty of the marks that living in the world outside the convent leaves on women stressed by childbirth, the rearing of a family and its attendant responsibilities.

About to leave and inspect the weather, I was asked to sign the visitors book at the door. I could hear Jack’s cynical interpretation of this invitation as a useful trap for the unwary.

‘Very useful indeed having the names of sympathetic ladies when they do door to door with their collecting tins for the orphanage.’

As I lingered inside waiting for the rain to abate, I was approached by one of the older nuns. Making an opening remark about the weather, she smiled:

‘I noticed you signing our little book – Mrs McQuinn.’ Her pause was a question. ‘An Irish name?’ she smiled. ‘Are you from Ireland, my dear?’

I said I was from Edinburgh. ‘McQuinn is my married name.’

I looked at her. Perhaps she had known Danny, but it was
difficult to attach ages to those smooth faces unlined by the
passions
and torments of domestic life.

‘My husband was at the orphanage here. Thirty years ago. But that would be before your time,’ I added gallantly.

She laughed. ‘Not at all. I had just taken my vows. I am Sister Angela by the way,’ she added. We shook hands. Less smooth and unlined than her face, they told a tale of frequent encounters with hard rough work.

‘Danny McQuinn.’ She smiled. ‘I remember how proud Sister Mary Michael was of him. I’m sure she would be delighted to meet you.’

This was an unexpected stroke of luck. ‘She is still with you?’ I had almost said alive, but remembering that Danny referred to her as an old lady over 20 years ago, that seemed highly unlikely.

‘Yes, she is still with us.’ Sister Angela nodded gently and sighed. ‘But only just! She is past ninety and infirm in body, but her spirit is quite indomitable as she waits patiently for the call to meet her Maker.’

As she spoke she considered me thoughtfully. ‘She lives a life of meditation and sees few people. But I am sure she would make an exception in your case, someone with a connection to one of her past pupils,’ she added enthusiastically.

‘I would like that very much.’ With a feeling that she was
perhaps
over-optimistic about the old nun’s memory, I could not pass up even this remote possibility of a glimpse into the missing years of Danny’s early life. ‘Perhaps we could arrange a time for me to call on her.’

‘How about now?’ chirped Sister Angela. ‘If you are not too busy.’

I said I wasn’t and she nodded eagerly. ‘Her room is close by.’

It was quite an ordinary large rambling house, spartan as became a convent, the sole decoration of stark walls and uncarpeted floors were a few holy pictures with here and there a sanctuary lamp glowing under a statue of Mary and Jesus.

She stopped before the open door of the chapel and alongside one with a notice ‘Sister Mary Michael.’

‘Wait here, Mrs McQuinn.’ A moment later she emerged and I was ushered into a room as close as one could get to a monastic cell plus the homely addition of a fitted cupboard known to every householder as the Edinburgh press.

A quick glance took in a small bed, table, and sitting in an upright wooden chair by the window, her body bent almost
double
, an old nun.

As Sister Angela introduced us, my heart rebelled against such an appalling lack of comfort for a woman past ninety. A few cushions and and an extra blanket could hardly have offended against holy church.

‘This is Mrs McQuinn, Danny’s wife.’ Sister Angela’s voice was louder than when we had spoken together, tactfully
indicating
deafness.

Sister Mary Michael turned her head slowly towards me and smiled. I could not vouch for what she saw through eyes filmed and hooded with age.

Sister Angela had retreated to the door and I hovered wishing I had somewhere to sit down. That hard little bed would be better than nothing.

For a few moments I was aware of thoughtful scrutiny.

I guessed that the Little Sisters were probably well aware of all the Roman Catholics in Newington and she was exploring the sensitive ground of rarely speaking to someone whose religious inclinations were not her own.

I took a deep breath. ‘Danny is dead, sister. I am a widow and have been for the past three years.’

This took her by surprise. Her hands fluttered. ‘Surely not, surely not,’ she murmured staring up at me.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Three years, you say.’ Bewildered, she shook her head. ‘But that cannot be.’ And turning her head towards Sister Angela, she
pointed.

‘In the cupboard, please. Bring me the cardboard box.’

Sister Angela did as she was bid and I watched as she lifted the lid and a mass of folded yellow papers and notes overflowed.

‘It is here somewhere.’

We watched patiently as she shuffled among the papers. ‘I had it here,’ she said helplessly.

Sister Angela’s offer of help received an impatient gesture. With her hand restraining the unruly contents of the box, the old nun looked at me.

‘I had a note from Danny,’ she said firmly. And frowning, shaking her head at the effort of remembering. ‘Now when was it? Yes, yes, just recently. I remember.’

That couldn’t be. But my heart pounded just the same.

‘How recently?’ I asked.

She stared towards the window. ‘Three weeks – yes, I am sure. It was three weeks ago. But I seem to have mislaid it.’

She had to be mistaken. I caught a sympathetic glance from Sister Angela and I interrupted those scrabbling movements among the papers.

‘It isn’t possible – the time, I mean. You see, Danny has been dead for three years,’ I said patiently.

As if she didn’t hear me, she continued pulling out papers and thrusting them back again. Some fell on the floor and were retrieved by us.

‘It is possible, Mrs McQuinn,’ she said. ‘His note is here
somewhere
.’

I told myself she was very old, obviously confused and upset as she kept protesting, mumbling:

‘It was definitely here, just a short while ago.’

‘Would you care to borrow my spectacles?’ asked Sister Angela, producing them from her pocket.

‘If you insist. If you think that will help,’ was the icy response. ‘But I remember perfectly what Danny’s note looked like.’

We waited patiently for another search aided by the spectacles but with no better result. Finally thrusting the box aside with a despairing and angry glance, she took out a large brown envelope.

We watched hopefully. A triumphant sigh. ‘These are class photographs. I am sure there is one with Danny.’ Adjusting the spectacles, she took out the cardboard mounts.

‘Ah yes. Here is the year Danny came to us. I remember it well, the very day it was taken.’

A group of small boys sitting cross-legged in the front row. One unmistakably a very young and beautiful child. Danny. Even before her finger directed me to him, my heart leapt in recognition and tears welled in my eyes.

Here was Danny as I had never known him. An image I had hoped would one day be that of our baby son, had he lived.

‘An older relative, a priest brought him to us from Ireland. He used to look in and see the boy and he has kept in touch with us –’

Her voice was fading. Her breathing growing heavy, eyes closing. All this undue excitement was too much for her, falling asleep as she spoke to us and Sister Angela was just in time to seize the cardboard box and its contents before they slid to the floor.

The action alerted the old nun, who jerked awake.

‘We are just leaving,’ Sister Angela whispered.

Sister Mary Michael gazed up at me. ‘I am sorry I couldn’t find Danny’s note to show you, Mrs McQuinn. But I do remember the exact words. It said: “Forgive me. I have sinned. Pray for me.”’

Once more, as if the final effort had been too much, her chin sunk to her chest.

I stared at her. It couldn’t be. Wanting to stay, to argue, as Sister Angela put a gentle hand on my arm and with an
apologetic
glance led me towards the door.

Outside she said, ‘That often happens these days. She tries very hard, you know.’

I leaned against the wall. I wanted to know so much more.

‘Don’t upset yourself, Mrs McQuinn. Gracious, you have turned quite pale.’

My head was whirling as I tried to set my thoughts in order.

Danny – three weeks ago. And I, who had lived through years of horror and danger in Arizona and never turned a hair, fainted away for the first time in my life.

I was conscious of being supported to a bench, a glass of water. Sister Angela’s face looming over me. ‘Take a few sips. That’s
better
.’ She patted my hand gently.

‘I’m sorry. Three weeks ago – it just isn’t possible.’

‘Now don’t you be worrying yourself, my dear. You must remember that Sister Mary Michael is different to the rest of us. Time gets like that for old people. Three weeks, two or three months.’ She shrugged. ‘They are much the same to her.’

‘But not three years, Sister. She was very definite about that. And three years ago was the last time I saw Danny. I have every reason to believe that he is dead.’

Sister Angela shook her head. This experience was beyond her. She didn’t know what to say, who to believe.

‘And that note,’ I insisted. ‘If that was true, what she
remembered
. Why should he ask forgiveness, that he had sinned? I don’t understand. It doesn’t even sound like Danny –’

Sister Angela seized on that gratefully. ‘There you are then. You are probably right. The note was from someone else. After all, Danny isn’t such a rare name, is it. She saves all her prayer notes. Yes, that could be it. From some other Danny,’ she added consolingly.

But I wasn’t convinced. ‘She recognised him in the
photograph
, pointed him out. She didn’t seem mistaken about that.’

There was a note of hysteria in my voice and Sister Angela looked anxious.

‘If it was Danny then why hasn’t he got in touch with me?’

She looked away, embarrassed. The ways of married people
were an unknown territory, far beyond her.

I stood up swaying. I felt deadly sick.

She took my arm. ‘Now, Mrs McQuinn, I know it’s all very upsetting, but remember what I’ve told you.’ And suddenly
confidential
: ‘It’s getting worse. Just last week even, she was
absolutely
certain that she had never met our parish priest before – and he comes every week to say Mass –’

But I was no longer listening, deaf to these examples being trotted out for my benefit. I was aware of the overpowering smell of incense. I almost ran outside to breathe in the fresh air.

‘At least the rain has stopped,’ said Sister Angela, eagerly
grasping
normality again. ‘Have you far to go? You’re still looking very pale,’ she added regarding me anxiously.

I straightened my shoulders with effort. ‘I’m fine. I have my bicycle. Over there by the wall. I live just half a mile away.’

Regarding the machine with considerable trepidation she said, ‘Perhaps you should contact Father McQuinn. I’m sure we have his address somewhere. I can go and look for it,’ she added
helpfully
, ‘if you wait a moment.’