The Swallow (31 page)

FREEDOM

Rose

I was expecting the swallow. Mrs. Lacey had told me to look for it.

“That was Ned’s idea,” she’d said. “When you see a swallow, it means that spring is coming, and with spring comes new life, and hope.” She smiled at me. “It’s too bad you never met our Polly. I think you two would have been friends.” Then she went back to yelling at the twins for eating too much Halloween candy, and I went home.

It made it so final, seeing her grave. I shivered.

Something pulled at my cloak and I whirled around.

It was the little girl who had followed me before in the cemetery when I’d first met Polly, the one with all the blond curls and the long white nightgown.

“Mama?” she said, reaching up her arms to me. “Mama?”

I felt the familiar panic and looked around wildly to see if there were any other ghosts coming. The cemetery was nearly dark now, and shadows stirred among the gravestones. I wanted to run for the gates.

“Mama?” she said again, her eyes filling with tears.

I held out my hand to her and she clutched it. Her hand was warm.

“Let’s go find your mama,” I said, and we walked slowly together along the lines of graves. The cemetery was full of shadows. Some were moving. Some were still. There was a whispering all around me, and I couldn’t tell if it was coming from the trees moving in the wind or from deep under the ground.

We came to a tall, black tombstone with a veiled figure on top.

“Mama?” said the girl, and a woman in a long black dress with ruffles around the bottom stepped out from behind it.

“Vicky,” she cried, and the child broke away from me and ran into her arms. Then they both faded away into the gathering gloom.

That wasn’t too hard, I thought, taking a deep breath and turning towards the cemetery gates. The whispering died away behind me, and I walked home, along the cemetery side of the street. It was okay.

The streetlights were on now. As I got close to Polly’s grave, I slowed down and peered through the railings. I could just make out the engraving of the soaring swallow, flying to freedom.

THE END

In the golden light’ning

Of the sunken sun
,

O’er which clouds are bright’ning
,

Thou dost float and run
,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun
.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,
“
TO A SKYLARK
”

I owe my love of reading and writing to my parents, Graham and Evelyn Cotter. My father introduced me to C.S. Lewis and the Narnia books when I was seven; the description of the attics in
The Magician’s Nephew
captured my imagination and I have been looking for secret passages ever since. My mother held up a high standard of writing for me as I grew up, and even in her 90th year she kept her sharp eye for grammar mistakes! My parents always wholeheartedly supported my writing and I could not continue to do it without their help. My steadfast daughter Zoe kept me coming back to this book whenever I faltered, and her ghostly experiences as a child were the source of my original inspiration. And the generous funding from both
The Canada Council for the Arts and The Ontario Arts Council made this book possible.

The Swallow
is about friendship, and as I wrote it I was blessed with many good friends in Newfoundland and Ontario who listened, read early drafts, offered advice, fed me and generally kept me going in tough times. Frank Lappano and Sean Cotter gave me feedback on early versions, and Wanda Nowakowska was invariably gracious and affectionate whenever I asked for help. Robin Cleland’s uncanny insight into my characters helped enormously, and Anita Levin and Camilla Burgess believed in me and helped me find my way through the darker parts of the book. My “twin,” Laurie Coulter, has been a cherished source of cheerleading, professional perspective and laughter.

I would like to thank Sally Keefe-Cohen for her expert advice and Lisa Moore for her encouragement when I most needed it. Special thanks to Alison Morgan for being so attentive to my stories, both during that long ago summer in Warkworth and more recently! And I owe many thanks to my editor at Tundra, Samantha Swenson, whose patience, thoughtful suggestions, enthusiasm and skill has been much appreciated. Thanks also to Kelly Louise Judd for her spooky cover and to Leah Springate for her clean design.

And finally, I send thanks to my three Graces: Julia Poplove, Marjory Noganosh and Evelyn Cotter. Their spirits have echoed through my writing in this book, and I miss them.