s [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

smell of ocean and wet stony soil. The walk back to Quaker Lane and up the
hill between the elm trees suddenly seemed like a very long way, but I hefted
my packages and started off across the parking-lot.
I was only halfway across, however, when a cream-coloured Buick drew up
alongside of me and the driver tooted the horn. I bent down and saw that it
was old Mrs Edgar Simons, a frail and rather dotty old widow who lived just
beyond Quaker Lane in a large Samuel Mclntire house that I had always envied.
She put down the passenger window and called, 'May I offer you a ride, Mr
Trenton? It's an awfully stormy night to be walking home with your arms full
of groceries.'
'I appreciate it,' I said, and I did. She opened up the trunk for me, and I
stored my packages away next to the spare wheel, and then joined her inside
the car. It smelled of leather and lavender, an old woman's perfume, but not
unpleasant.
'Walking to the store is the only exercise I get,' I told
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58
her. 'I always seem to be too busy for squash these days. In fact, I always
seem to be too busy for anything but work and sleep.'
'Maybe that's a good thing, keeping busy,' said Mrs Edgar Simons, peering out
over the long rain-beaded hood of her car. 'Now, is it clear your way? Can I
pull out? Edgar used to give me such a hard time for pulling out without
looking. I went straight into a horse once. A horse!' I looked northwards, up
the highway. 'You're okay,' I told her, and she pulled away from the
parking-lot with a screech of wet tires. It was always an interesting and
slightly peppery experience, accepting a ride from Mrs Edgar Simons. You never
quite knew if you were going to arrive at the place you wanted to go, on time,
or at all.
'You're going to think me a frightful old busybody,' she said, as she drove.
'But I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying to Charlie in the store.
I don't have many people to talk to these days, and I do tend to eavesdrop
more than I ought to. You don't mind, do you? Say if you do.'
'Why should I mind? We weren't discussing any State secrets.'
'You asked Charlie about his son coming back,' said Mrs Edgar Simons. 'And the
funny thing is, I knew exactly what you meant by coming back. When dear Edgar
died - that was six years ago next July 10 - I had the same kind of
experience. I used to hear him walking around in the attic, for nights on end.
Can you believe that? And sometimes I would hear him coughing. You never met
dear Edgar of course, but he had a distinctive little cough, clearing his
throat, ahem.'
'Do you still hear him?' I asked her.
'I do from time to time. Once or twice a month maybe, sometimes more
frequently. And I still have the feeling when I walk into certain rooms in the
house that Edgar has only just been there, that only a moment ago he walked
out of another door. Once, you know, I even thought that I saw him, not in the
house but in Granite-59
head Square, wearing a peculiar brown coat. I stopped the car and tried to go
after him, but he disappeared into the crowds.'
'So - after six years - you still have these feelings? Have you told anybody?'
'I talked to my doctor, of course, but he wasn't very helpful at all. He gave
me pills and told me to stop being hysterical. The funny thing is, the
feelings vary in strength, and they also vary in frequency. I don't know why.
Sometimes I can hear Edgar clearly; at other times he sounds so faint it's
like a radio station you can't quite pick up. And the feelings seem to be
seasonal, too. I hear less of Edgar in the winter than I do in the summer.
Sometimes, on summer nights, when it's very mild, I can hear him sitting
outside on the garden-wall, humming or talking to himself.'
'Mrs Simons,' I said, 'do you really believe that it's Edgar?'
'I used not to. I used to try to persuade myself that it was all my silly
imagination. Oh - look at that stupid girl, walking in the road with her back
to the traffic. She'll end up dead if she's not careful.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]