When the dishes were done Peg removed her apron, hung it on a nail behind the back door and with a touch of apology said, “I need to take a little spell now. Come afternoon, I get tired. While I’m at that you could take a look at Matt’s books; you’ll want to see them.”
“Books?” Nora had forgotten about the possessions. “Yes, of course. I’d like that.”
“They’re below in the back bedroom.” Peg pointed to the end of the hallway before entering her own bedroom and closing the door behind her. She had in her quiet way brought the morning’s activities to an end, but Nora, standing by the stove folding the damp dishtowel, knew it was not a signal that it was time for her to leave. There was a shared intimacy between them now which, like a bud in the spring of the year, was gradually unfolding.
The room at the end of the hallway was small and at first glance seemed to be used partly for storage; yet, it was bright and fresh smelling. A single metal-framed bed covered with a bright, multicoloured, knitted blanket stood in one corner of the room. Beside the bed several cardboard boxes piled one on top of the other served as a makeshift bedside table. A white crocheted doily with a green trim covered the top of the boxes. Nora moved across the room and stood by the small slider window that looked out to the back of the house. Beside the window there was what looked like a kitchen dresser with four shelves all neatly lined with books. It was a lovely piece of furniture, she thought, handmade, and old. Nora touched the smooth surface of the wood, admiring the simple lines and the honeyed warmth of the old pine. It should have held pretty dishes but it served its new purpose very well. Her hand dropped to one of the round wooden knobs on the drawers. Endless years of handling had left a shiny bright spot on the curved surface. She pulled gently and the drawer came smoothly towards her. It was full of papers, neatly bound into bundles with elastic bands. A slight push and the drawer slid back in place. A small wave of pleasure ran through her. She liked things that worked.
She turned her attention back to the books. Curious, anticipation mounting, she scanned the titles and the authors, her fingers running along the curve of the spines, pausing to smooth over a small tear on a faded dust jacket. They were in beautiful condition for the most part, finely bound and old. Were these the possessions he had mentioned in his letter? Peg must have brought them with her from the island. Nora looked out the little window to the vast expanse of ocean, imagining the scene: a boat piled high with the very necessities of life and a box, boxes of books belonging to a dead man.
She ran her fingers along the spines again, pausing here and there, finally choosing Wordsworth’s Poetical Works: gold lettering on warm brown leather, the spine ornamented from top to bottom in golden filigree patterns. A touch on the tip and it came smoothly into her hand. It was exquisite, the cover soft and pliable, gilt-edged pages fanning delicately at her touch. Hanging from the bottom, a silky braided ribbon guided her to an opening: How richly glows the water’s breast / Before us tinged with evening hues, / While facing thus the crimson west, / The boat her silent course pursues!
She fingered the ribbon, wondering if he had been the last person to read these lines and mark the page. She tried to picture him as she was now, standing there reading, book in hand. Would he have placed one foot ahead of the other as her father did, muttering to himself as he read? She began to turn the pages slowly, barely touching the thin sheets – “Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey.” She read on, recalling her school days in dreary convent classrooms, knowing at the time that there was magic somewhere in those lines but unable or unwilling to rise beyond her hatred of school. Reluctantly, she closed the book and returned it to its place next to a faded clothbound volume entitled A Treasury of the Theatre and alongside Chief European Dramatists.
On the lower shelf The Complete Works of William Shakespeare caught her eye. It was unusual in that it was quite compact in size, maybe 5 x 7 inches. She slipped it from its place. Age and sunlight had left the spine discoloured and slightly worn but the front cover was the rich green of a Mediterranean olive. She touched the tooled calfskin, feeling the luxury of the soft padded leather. Here, in her hand was the weight of thousands of brilliantly chosen words bound in perfect balance and symmetry. She turned the book over and drew in a sharp breath in shock. An ugly black burn mark spread across the entire back cover. She touched a rough brittle spot along the rim at the corner. Then, concealed in the thickness of the book, she saw a small section of charred brown edges. She brought the book to her nose. The acrid smell of burning was long gone but the cruel evidence remained. Carefully she opened the book at the damaged section. A black jagged edge halfway down the pages marked where the creeping glow had run its course and been extinguished. She touched the scorched words with the pad of her finger as if, by some miracle, she could undo the harm. She was upset by her discovery. Why, she wasn’t quite sure. She closed the book and turned it over, examined the cover closely, opened it again, searching for possible explanations. The end papers were the colour of thick cream and were finely marbled in green and gold. She turned the leaf. On the plain dedication page, neatly written in a fine hand, she read:
Matthew Molloy
From William Sommerton
With Congratulations
MDCCCXCVII
The ink had faded to a watery brown but the words were still quite legible. One thousand, eight, she began to decipher the roman numerals, pointing with her finger: one, eight, nine, seven. 1897. She checked again. Yes, she was right. She began to subtract…Seventy-three years ago, this book had been given to him by someone called William Sommerton. She repeated the name under her breath; not a common name in the west of Ireland. She looked again, closer: William Sommerton. She spoke the name again and again, hoping for some explanation to leap off the page.
A sharp meow by her feet made her jump. The cat stood there, its frank, inquisitive eyes fixed on her. She snapped the book shut and immediately returned it to its place on the shelf. The cat continued to stare. “Out,” she whispered angrily, pointing in the direction of the door. “It is my business.” Then, walking purposefully to the door, she held it wide open. Slowly the cat turned and with a self-satisfied swagger, made its exit. Nora closed the door tightly, making sure this time that the catch held. She had been invited to explore, she reassured herself, as she returned to the books, but put the Shakespeare back in its place.
On the lower shelf a small collection of Irish writers caught her attention. Yeats; Sean O’Casey: Early Poems, Plays, Essays; The Playboy of the Western World: Poems and Translations by J.M. Synge. The publisher was Cuala Press. These were treasured old copies. She drew Poems and Translations from the shelf. As she suspected it was a first edition. Given the time in which he lived and the look of the books, she surmised that there were likely many such books amongst the collection. Excited, she decided to pick out a random selection and take a closer look.
She settled herself on the bed in the corner of the room and spread the books on the coloured blanket. First she chose a small pocket-sized book. Tipping it towards the light she tried to read the title. Only the indentations remained on the blue baize cover, the colour on the lettering was all but gone. De Profundis. She picked out the letters and underneath, Oscar Wilde. Her hands dropped to her lap. To Nora, De Profundis meant All Souls Night, November 1, “Out of the depths…” dark frosty evenings in a tiny churchyard, the hymn of supplication for the souls in purgatory, sad and plaintive yearnings directed to God. In the front door of the church, icy holy water from the stone font hastily sprinkled before entering the dim interior. Inside, the heavy smell of incense, the flicker of lighted candles, covered heads bowed in prayer, secrets being shared with the Almighty. “Out of the depths to thee O Lord I cry,” the choir would intone from the loft: “And let thy light shine on them saviour blest, / Grant to the poor souls everlasting rest.” Out the back door into the cold night and the ritual began all over again.
The hymn ran relentlessly through her head as she sat cross-legged on the bed. In those days she knew little of death and dying, the one exception being Joe Healy, the quiet, gentle man who owned the huckster shop in the town and sold sweets and toffee to the children. No child left Joe Healy’s shop empty-handed. There was always a free sweet to be had in exchange for a chat. Joe had dropped dead in his shop. Frantic with the very thought that he might be in purgatory for some unforgiven sin, Nora had prayed each November first for his deliverance from the fires of purgatory. Grant to the poor souls everlasting rest. Now, she was shocked at how vivid her memory of the old shopkeeper was and at how fervently she had believed in the power of her prayers.
She picked up the book again and began to leaf through the preface, stopping to read a pencilled line: Still I believe that in the beginning God made a world for each separate man, and in that world, which is within us, one should seek to live.Written in the margin alongside were the words, and be connected. Should seek to live and be connected. Was this what he meant?
She turned the page.
Epistola : In Carcere et Vinculis
H.M. Prison,
Reading
Dear Bosie,
After long and fruitless waiting I have determined to write to you myself …
There were pages and pages to this letter written by Wilde from prison to Bosie. She knew little of Oscar Wilde and his writings but was aware that he had gone to jail for his homosexual activities. She began to read, skipping ahead, not very interested in the piece until she came to a small section near the end that had a pencilled line in the margin. She read slowly now, feeling no need for haste: Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.
Had he, she wondered, simply highlighted a beautiful passage with his pencil or did he too have his own private hurt? She closed the book and laid it on top of the boxes.
When she opened the slim copy of The Playboy of the Western World, the first thing she saw was the heavy black signature of J.M. Synge scrawled across the page. She could hardly believe it, a first edition with the signature of the man himself. This couldn’t be right. She turned to the first page and began reading the opening lines of the play as if somehow that would convince her that what she was seeing was true. She read on and on as if in denial, taking in nothing of the text, just riding from page to page on a great wave of excitement.
There was a soft tap on the door and Peg stepped into the room. “You’re enjoying yourself, by the look of it.”
“Yes. Peg, this is quite an incredible collection of books. This one …” She held it up. “It’s–
“Oh yes.” Peg came forward. “I know that one. I’ve read it a few times in my day.” She sat on the end of the bed. “We used read it together, from time to time: we both loved that play. He’d read the men’s parts and I’d do the women. It was something to do on the long winter nights. We’d just read it over and over. I knew it by heart in the end, every bit of it: And myself, a girl was tempted often to go sailing the seas ’till I’d marry a Jew-Man, with ten kegs of gold, and I not knowing at all there was the like of you drawing nearer, like the stars of God. ”
She laughed as she ran off the lines. “See, I haven’t forgotten it. I still know it all. I liked that girl Pegeen; she was some bit of stuff. Same name as me.” For a while she sounded as if she might go on but then stopped herself and said, “They are all yours, Nora, that’s what he wanted. ‘If anyone comes,’ he said, ‘they are to have them. It’s a fine collection so be sure they go into the right hands and that they appreciate them.’”
She pointed to the boxes. “There’s more there and more under the bed. I had nowhere else to put them all when I moved. There’s stamps too, in one of them drawers I believe. Stamps he collected for years, special ones. Sinn Fein stamps, he called some of them from back in 1908. They were put on letters for propaganda not for real postage, so he said. There was another stamp for that. Beautiful they are with the lovely Celtic cross and the shamrock and the harp and the big Irish dog.”
“The wolfhound,” Nora prompted.
“Yes, that’s it. My dear, there’s all kinds there, real special ones from after the revolution and on up. I suppose they are worth something now. He’s written down why they are special. There’s pages of them: the ones he really liked, that is. There’s ones too with pictures of some of those famous writers. It’s all yours, Nora. He’d be some pleased, for I can see you’ll appreciate them. But girl, you can come back to the books by and by. I thought we’d go outside for a spell, while the sun is there. It’s lovely out back.”