was kind and his manner easy. Rose went over to him.
“You just hold up the gate so as I can tie it up with this here wire,” he said. She held while the old man wound the length of wire around the gate and post so that the gate hung evenly and level with the fence. Only then did she look at her surroundings. The big old house, covered with gray stucco, looked somehow familiar, its yard full of trees and surrounded by the iron fence.
“You like my house?” The old man smiled. “How about coming in and having a cup of tea with me?”
Rose went with him. Inside, the big, comfortable kitchen was pleasant and warm. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in through a long window at the back and settled on an old couch along one wall. The floor was covered with worn linoleum, and the walls were hung with calendars and yellowed newspaper clippings. A kettle was steaming on a big, black wood stove.
“Sit you down,” said the old man, “sit you down. My name’s Tom Bother, but you call me Old Tom. Everyone does. That’s to tell me from Young Tom, though he moved over to Soup Harbour twenty years ago. Nobody here but me any more. You must be the young lady who’s come to live up to Henrys’ place. I ain’t been up there for two, three weeks but I knowed you was coming. I do a bit of work for Mr. Henry now and then.”
“How do you do? I’m Rose Larkin.”
“That’s a nice name,” said Old Tom. As he talked he was making tea and putting out buttered corn meal muffins.
“Have one,” he offered. “I won prizes with my muffins, though it grates on some of the women round here to know it.”
Rose perched on the edge of the couch and listened to Old Tom. He said he was eighty-oneyears old and had always lived in the same house. “In fact,” he said, “Bothers has lived here since 1802 when we built the first cabin in the woods. We come up from the States after we was kicked out, when we wouldn’t fight the king in the American Revolution in 1776. We come up along with the Collivers, the Heatons, ’n Morrissays, ’n Yardleys, ’n Andersons. Collivers built the mill and so that’s how Collivers’ Corners got named after ’em. Yardleys had the smithy, and Andersons, Morrissays, and Heatons and us was just farmers, clearing the woods and trying to make do and we been here ever since and never budged—hardly a one of us. My grandfather used to tell me about it. He got it from his grandfather who was a little feller when they all come.”
Rose heard him talking on but she wasn’t really listening. Morrissays. Old Tom knew Morrissays. And he knew Heatons and Yardleys. Will had talked about Heatons and Yardleys.
“Do you know Heatons and Yardleys and … and Morrissays?” she asked eagerly.
Old Tom laughed. “Well I
guess
so, they’re my neighbors,” he said. “Well, most of ’em is. There ain’t Morrissays around nowadays. The last one died a few years back. The old lady lived—Morrissays always lived—in that house you live in.”
Rose almost said, “I know,” but she didn’t. She didn’t want him to think she was crazy. It made her feel strange hearing him say that Mrs. Morrissay had died. Her Mrs. Morrissay was so very much alive. She ate her corn muffin in silence, wanting to ask more, not sure how to phrase her questions so that they made sense.
“Well,” she said, brushing the crumbs from her lap neatly into her hand, “I have to go now.”
“Thank you for your help, young lady,” said Old Tom. He put his hand briefly on her head. “Come visit with me again. I take kindly to visitors.”
She promised she would. Outside she turned to close the gate carefully after her, and her mouth fell open in surprise—because she recognized the house she had sat across the road from all night after she had left Will and Susan. “Bothers’ house,” Susan had said. Of course. But it was different. It wasn’t just the new gray stucco. The shadows were different. The shadows during that
“You just hold up the gate so as I can tie it up with this here wire,” he said. She held while the old man wound the length of wire around the gate and post so that the gate hung evenly and level with the fence. Only then did she look at her surroundings. The big old house, covered with gray stucco, looked somehow familiar, its yard full of trees and surrounded by the iron fence.
“You like my house?” The old man smiled. “How about coming in and having a cup of tea with me?”
Rose went with him. Inside, the big, comfortable kitchen was pleasant and warm. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in through a long window at the back and settled on an old couch along one wall. The floor was covered with worn linoleum, and the walls were hung with calendars and yellowed newspaper clippings. A kettle was steaming on a big, black wood stove.
“Sit you down,” said the old man, “sit you down. My name’s Tom Bother, but you call me Old Tom. Everyone does. That’s to tell me from Young Tom, though he moved over to Soup Harbour twenty years ago. Nobody here but me any more. You must be the young lady who’s come to live up to Henrys’ place. I ain’t been up there for two, three weeks but I knowed you was coming. I do a bit of work for Mr. Henry now and then.”
“How do you do? I’m Rose Larkin.”
“That’s a nice name,” said Old Tom. As he talked he was making tea and putting out buttered corn meal muffins.
“Have one,” he offered. “I won prizes with my muffins, though it grates on some of the women round here to know it.”
Rose perched on the edge of the couch and listened to Old Tom. He said he was eighty-oneyears old and had always lived in the same house. “In fact,” he said, “Bothers has lived here since 1802 when we built the first cabin in the woods. We come up from the States after we was kicked out, when we wouldn’t fight the king in the American Revolution in 1776. We come up along with the Collivers, the Heatons, ’n Morrissays, ’n Yardleys, ’n Andersons. Collivers built the mill and so that’s how Collivers’ Corners got named after ’em. Yardleys had the smithy, and Andersons, Morrissays, and Heatons and us was just farmers, clearing the woods and trying to make do and we been here ever since and never budged—hardly a one of us. My grandfather used to tell me about it. He got it from his grandfather who was a little feller when they all come.”
Rose heard him talking on but she wasn’t really listening. Morrissays. Old Tom knew Morrissays. And he knew Heatons and Yardleys. Will had talked about Heatons and Yardleys.
“Do you know Heatons and Yardleys and … and Morrissays?” she asked eagerly.
Old Tom laughed. “Well I
guess
so, they’re my neighbors,” he said. “Well, most of ’em is. There ain’t Morrissays around nowadays. The last one died a few years back. The old lady lived—Morrissays always lived—in that house you live in.”
Rose almost said, “I know,” but she didn’t. She didn’t want him to think she was crazy. It made her feel strange hearing him say that Mrs. Morrissay had died. Her Mrs. Morrissay was so very much alive. She ate her corn muffin in silence, wanting to ask more, not sure how to phrase her questions so that they made sense.
“Well,” she said, brushing the crumbs from her lap neatly into her hand, “I have to go now.”
“Thank you for your help, young lady,” said Old Tom. He put his hand briefly on her head. “Come visit with me again. I take kindly to visitors.”
She promised she would. Outside she turned to close the gate carefully after her, and her mouth fell open in surprise—because she recognized the house she had sat across the road from all night after she had left Will and Susan. “Bothers’ house,” Susan had said. Of course. But it was different. It wasn’t just the new gray stucco. The shadows were different. The shadows during that
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