Ghost Walk Read Free

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, shepointed.
    ‘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