Peter May - Entry Island

They wandered out to the deck at the back of the house and heard the rush of the river rising through the trees. They stood, leaning on the rail, breathing the damp of the woods and feeling the air cool on their skin as a slight breeze whispered through the leaves. Annie turned to look at him. ‘What’s this all about, Sime?’

And so he told her. About the murder on Entry Island. His certainty, on meeting the widow for the first time, that he knew her. About his ring and her matching pendant. And how that had sparked his first dream, and then his recollections of the diaries. She listened in thoughtful silence as he spoke, and when he had finished she said, ‘Come through.’

A large leather satchel lay on the dusty picnic table. Annie picked it up and sat with it on her knee, then patted the seat beside her. As Sime sat down she lifted a bundle of books from the bag. They were small, cracked, leather-bound volumes in different colours and sizes, all held together by yellowed string wrapped several times around and tied in a bow.

‘That’s them?’ His voice was not much more than a whisper. She nodded and he reached out to touch them. Seeing the diaries, touching them, was like being witness to history, like being a part of it.

She untied the string to open the top book as he watched in trembling anticipation. Folding back its leather cover, she revealed the brittle yellowed pages inside. Pages covered with a clumsy handwritten scrawl, faded now with the years.

‘This is the first one,’ she said. And with cautious fingers flipped back the pages to the inside cover. Di-ciadaoin 21mh latha de’n t-Iuchair, 1847 was written in a bold, copperplate hand.

‘What does it mean?’

‘It’s the date in Gaelic, Sime. Wednesday, 21st July, 1847.’

‘How in Heaven’s name do you know that? You don’t speak Gaelic.’

Annie laughed. ‘Granny taught me the Gaelic numbers, and the days of the week, and the months. I was very little, but they’ve always stayed with me.’

He was crestfallen. ‘Are they all in Gaelic?’

She smiled. ‘No. Just the date. He wrote his diaries in English.’

Sime stared at the page. Below the date was a signature. Not easy to read at first. And he canted his head a little and screwed up his eyes. ‘Sime Mackenzie,’ he read. The man who had bequeathed him his name. Sime . So that’s where his father had got the spelling. He was tense with emotion. ‘Can I hold it?’

She handed it to him and he took it in his hands as if it might break. His ancestor had held this very book. His hand had wielded the pen that formed the letters and words and sentences that told the story of his life. Of the birth of his sister. His rescue of Kirsty. The death of his father. The clearing of Baile Mhanais. That dreadful voyage across the Atlantic. The nightmare that was Grosse Île.

Annie said, ‘I thought there might be something symbolic about giving you the diaries here. Since this is where they were read to us.’ She put a hand over his. ‘But I think we should go home now. The family are waiting to meet you. There will be time enough for reading.’

Annie lived in a large, rambling, grey-painted wooden house on Main Street, sandwiched between the town library and the redbrick Bury Armory Community Center. Bury’s military history was still evident in the building that housed Branch 48 of the Royal Canadian Legion just across the road, beyond the Post Office. Main Street itself was quiet, leaves falling gently on to manicured lawns from the trees that lined it. There were three churches along its length. Anglican, United and Catholic. Bury had a strong religious as well as military heritage, and the Mackenzies had gone each Sunday to the United Presbyterian Church of Canada, which had absorbed most of the Scottish churches during the Great Merger.

He parked behind his sister’s car in the drive and they climbed the steps to the porch. He glanced across the garden. Large maples dropped coloured leaves on to neatly cut grass. A double garage beyond them was almost completely hidden from view. His apprehension returned. While his sister had forgiven him his neglect, he was not so sure that her family would.

She sensed it and took his hand. ‘Come on in and say hi to everyone. They won’t bite.’ She opened the door and led him up a dark hallway and into a much brighter family room with large windows opening on to the garden. He felt the atmosphere as soon as he entered it. His niece and nephew were playing a computer game on the television. His brother-in-law was sitting in a leather sofa pretending to read the newspaper. They all looked over as he came in. ‘Luc, come and say hello to your uncle.’

Luc was around fifteen, with a shock of blonde hair gelled back from his forehead. He crossed the room obediently and gave Sime a solemn handshake. There was just the faintest curiosity in eyes that were reluctant to meet his. ‘You were just about so high last time I saw you,’ Sime said, without any real idea of what else to say.

His sister had trotted along behind him. A gawky girl with braces who gazed at him with unglazed interest.

Annie said, ‘Magali couldn’t have been much more than a baby.’

Magali presented each cheek and Sime stooped to kiss her awkwardly. Then both teenagers headed back to their game while their father put his paper aside and stood up. He approached Sime with his hand outstretched, but his smile was cold.

‘Gilles.’ Sime nodded and shook his hand.

Gilles said, ‘Nice to see you after all this time. Not sure I’d have recognised you if I passed you in the street.’

Sime felt the sting of the rebuke, and Annie said quickly, ‘He’s not been well, Gilles.’ And the warning in her tone was clear.

It was dark by the time they all sat around the table for their evening meal. The first time Sime had sat down for a family dinner since the death of his parents.

Annie prattled on to fill the awkward silences, bringing Sime up to date on everyone and everything. Luc excelled at sports and was a budding star of the school basketball team. The boy blushed. While Magali, on the other hand, was top of her class at school and wanted to be a doctor. Magali continued to gaze at him with her unselfconscious curiosity. Gilles was now principal of the Bury secondary school, and was even flirting with the idea of standing for political office.

Sime was surprised. ‘What party?’ he asked.

‘Parti Québécois,’ Gilles said. Which was the Quebec nationalist party. Sime nodded. He had never been convinced by the idea of an independent state outwith the Canadian federation. But he didn’t say so.

Suddenly Magali said, ‘How come you never visit?’

An uncomfortable silence fell around the table. It had clearly been a topic of conversation among the family before his arrival, and he felt eyes turning towards him.

He laid down his knife and fork and wanted to be honest. ‘Because I’ve been pretty selfish and self-obsessed, Magali. And I’d forgotten what a wonderful person your mother really is.’ He couldn’t bring himself to look at his sister. ‘But I hope to be a regular visitor from now on, and maybe we can all get to know one another a bit better.’ He caught Magali’s eye. ‘And if you’re really interested in medicine, I can take you on a tour of the pathology labs at the Sûreté in Montreal sometime.’

Her eyes opened wide. ‘Really?’

He smiled. ‘No problem.’

Her mouth fell open now. ‘I’d love that.’

‘Do you carry a gun?’ It was the first time that Luc had spoken since his arrival.

‘Usually, yes,’ Sime said. ‘Not right now, though. ’Cos I’m sort of on sick leave.’

‘What kind of gun?’