Peter May - Entry Island

He had arranged to meet Annie at their grandmother’s house in Scotstown, but he wanted to stop off first to visit his childhood home. A pilgrimage to the past.

He drove by the end of Main Street and followed the bend out of town, then turned left to cross the river just beyond the timber yard. A restored, bright red fifties pickup truck stood in the drive of a green and cream-painted clapboard cabin with rockers on the porch. A little further on, set back behind the trees, stood the house that had always fascinated him as a child. A folly with turrets and a multifaceted red roof. The house itself was clad with rounded shingles, like fish scales, and painted blue and green, red and grey and peach. Like a fairytale house made of coloured candies. It hadn’t always been so colourful. The old lady who lived in it when he was a child had despised children.

It was a strange homecoming. Bittersweet. His had been a happy enough childhood, and yet he had never quite fitted with the rest of his family. He was sure he must have been a disappointment to his parents. He wished now that he could meet his ten-year-old self here on this road that he had walked every day to school and back. The things he could tell him. The advice he could offer.

His old family home stood derelict in an overgrown garden. The sale of it had been left in the hands of a realtor, but there had never been a single enquiry for it. Sime had never quite understood why. It was a fine two-storey house with a front porch and a good bit of land, set in an area of cleared forest on the edge of town. His room had been up in the attic, with a semicircular window looking down on to the road. He had loved that room. It had set him apart from the rest of the house and given him what had felt like a commanding view of the world.

He stood now on the road beside his idling car and looked up at that boyhood window on the world. There was no glass in it. Much of the clapboard siding beneath it had fallen away, or been stripped off. Pigeons were roosting in his old room. Crows lined up along the roof above it like harbingers of doom.

What happened to happiness, he wondered. Did it evaporate like rain off a wet street in sunshine? Was it anything other than a transient moment that existed only in the memory? Or maybe a state of mind that changed like the weather? Whatever happiness he had known in this house was long gone, and he felt only sadness standing here, witness to something lost for ever, like the lives of his parents, and all the generations that had gone before them.

He closed his eyes and almost laughed. The medicine prescribed by the sleep doctor was doing a pretty poor job of cheering him up. He got into his car and set off for Scots-town.

Sime had very little recollection of Scotstown. Although he knew it had been founded by Scots colonists in the nineteenth century, in school he and his classmates had been disabused of the notion that it was so called because of the number of Scots who lived there. In fact it had been named after John Scott, the first manager of the Glasgow Canadian Land and Trust company, which had established the settlement.

It had once been a thriving community, with a lucrative lumber business, and a hydroelectric dam on the River Salmon. The railway had brought freight and trade and people in great numbers. Sime supposed it had probably still been an affluent little town when he was a boy, but its population had dwindled now to a few hundred, most of its industry closed down. Sawmills stood in silent decay with weathered For Sale and To Let signs tacked on to peeling walls.

It was during his first year at school that his mother had found a job at the dépanneur in Bury, and school holidays had become a problem. That first year, and for several thereafter, she had driven Sime and Annie over to Scotstown during summer and winter holidays before she went to work, dropping them off at their granny’s house. And it was during those years that their grandmother had read to them from the diaries.

Her house on Rue Albert reflected the decline of the town. It stood, like his parents’ home, in a wildly overgrown garden. In its day it had been impressive. Two storeys, with a porch running from the front around both sides, and a large deck at the rear. It was painted in white and yellow, with steeply pitched red roofs. But the paint was faded and flaking and green with moss. The wooden balustrade around the porch was rotten.

A car stood parked in the footprint of two towering pines and a maple tree that cast their shadows on the house. Trees that Sime remembered from his childhood. And he reflected that they had probably outlived by a hundred years or more whoever had planted them. He drew in behind the parked vehicle and stepped out on to the sidewalk. He recalled himself and Annie playing hide and seek here as children, shimmying down the slope to the river behind the house on hot summer days to fish in the shade. The sound of the river itself rose up from beyond the back garden, and he could almost hear the creak of his grandmother’s rocking chair as she read to them on the porch.

He walked up the overgrown path and climbed steps to the front door, guilt descending on him now at all the years he had neglected to stay in touch with his sister. While Annie had sent him birthday and Christmas cards religiously each year, he had never responded. Never lifted the phone or sent an email. His apprehension at seeing her again tightened across his chest.

The door swung open as he approached and his sister stood in the doorway, wide-eyed with expectation. He was shocked at how much older she seemed. Grey strands streaked once lustrous blonde hair that was pulled back now in a severe bun. She had put on weight, become almost matronly. But her green eyes were flecked with the same warmth he remembered as a child. Her expression changed the moment she saw him. ‘My God, Sime! When you said you hadn’t been sleeping, I never imagined...’

His smile was wan. ‘It’s been quite a while since I had a good night’s sleep, sis. Not since I broke up with Marie-Ange.’

Shock was replaced by sympathy, and she stepped forward to put her arms around him and draw him close, his years of neglect ignored and forgotten. The sense of relief he felt in that simple moment of affection almost produced tears. He hugged her back, and it felt like years since he had known such genuine warmth.

They stood for a very long time like that on the porch, before finally she held him at arm’s length, and he saw how moist her eyes had become. ‘It’s maybe for the best,’ she said. ‘You and Marie-Ange.’ She hesitated. ‘I never did take to her.’

He smiled and wondered why it was that people always seemed to think it might be a comfort to learn that no one liked the person you once loved.

Annie looked beyond him to the mess that was the garden and her embarrassment was clear. ‘Gilles used to come and cut the grass every other week,’ she said. ‘And we tried to keep up the paintwork. At least maintain it to a basic level.’ She shrugged. ‘But when you have a family...’ Her voice tailed away. ‘It’s a fair way from Bury, and when the snow comes...’ She smiled her regret. ‘The winters are so long.’

‘No one interested in buying?’

‘One or two at first. But you’ll have seen for yourself, Sime. The town’s dying, so selling’s not easy. And when it began to look like it had been lying empty for a while, any interest evaporated.’ She smiled, banishing the thought. ‘You’d better come in.’

He nodded.

Inside it was dark. It smelled fusty and damp, and felt like stepping back into a previous life. A house that had once been a home, populated now only by the memories of their younger selves. Sime walked slowly over floorboards that creaked painfully beneath his feet, looking around the living room which had occupied most of the ground floor. Although empty, apart from an old picnic table and a couple of chairs, he could conjure up from somewhere a memory of how it had once been. Full of big dark furniture. An old piano, a dresser. Indian rugs on the floor, ornaments on the mantel above a stone fireplace. All around the walls faded wallpaper still betrayed the telltale shadows of the paintings which had once hung there. A large pale rectangle above the fireplace was like the ghost of the picture that had spared the paper from discoloration. But he had no memory of any of the pictures themselves.