Dad and I each grabbed a rear fender and balanced on the hitch tongue. Pushing the choke all the way in and opening the throttle full speed, Granddad headed down the lane to the Roman Line. I had enjoyed rides with Granddad on the back of his tractor since I was barely old enough to crawl onto it. Smelling the musty farm odours and the stale, sweet scent of pipe tobacco that lingered in the folds of his winter coat, I smiled, then chuckled to myself when I sniffed a faint whiff of brandy. Granddad always kept a small “medicine” flask inside his inner coat pocket.
In no time at all Granddad was hooking his drag chain to the front bumper of our car and easing the vehicle out, which was empty. Apparently, Jennifer and Mom had left a note saying they’d gone to Mr. Salts’s farm. I helped Dad clear the snow-crusted windows and check all the doors to make sure none had sprung during the accident.
Satisfied that everything was in good shape, Dad jumped into the driver’s side and turned the ignition. The engine started on the first try. Rolling down the window, he said, “Jason, stay with Granddad and help him gather his chains. I’m going to get your mother and Jennifer.”
“Nice folks, those Saltses!” Granddad puffed as he coiled the chains into the tractor’s tool box. Resting on the rear fender, he took out his flask and winked at me merrily. “Winter chills, boy,” he said, taking a drink.
“Do you believe all those ghost stories about Mr. Salts’s place, Granddad?” I asked. “He seems real weird sometimes!”
“Mind your manners, boy!” Granddad scolded. “Mr. Salts is a good friend of mine. And, yes, I do believe he experiences presences on his farm.”
I rolled my eyes, pretending that I was checking the position of the storm clouds, but I wasn’t fooling Granddad. He knew I didn’t put much stock in the Donnelly hauntings.
“Never mind about that stuff now!” he growled as he took another swig of medicine. “Let’s get back home!”
Soon the whole family was gathered in my grandparents’ kitchen. The old wood stove blasted its warmth around us. Granddad dropped more logs into the wood box and slid into his favourite rocker, while Grandma bustled around the kitchen as she prepared cups of English tea and hot chocolate.
“You’re the best,” Jennifer said as she scooped fluffy marshmallows from the top of her frothing chocolate. “And oatmeal raisin cookies, too. You rock, Grandma!”
Grandma blushed. “Thank you, dear!”
She passed other refreshments to Dad, Mom, and Granddad. “More of your medicine again, dear?”
“Medicine? What medicine?” Granddad grumbled as he stirred an extra teaspoon of sugar into his tea.
He looked at me with annoyance, but I shrugged helplessly. We both smiled. After finishing my hot chocolate, I moved to the opposite side of the kitchen and sat at the long harvest table. The local Lucan paper lay scattered across its polished surface. Idly, I scanned the front page, then stopped at a headline near the bottom of the page.
OLD SCHOOLHOUSE RANSACKED!
Late last night Constable Howard from the Lucan detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police received an anonymous call regarding a possible break-in at the old Biddulph SS 74 School on the Roman Line. The caller, not wishing to be identified, claimed he saw flashlights around the outside of the building. The source then saw shadows enter the darkened schoolhouse.
Creeping closer, the witness saw a small burning firepit in the middle of the dirt floor and heard angry voices rising steadily in serious quarrelling. During a mild scuffle, one of the intruders kicked a burning log into a pile of oily rags. When a larger fire erupted, the informant fled the scene and called the police.
Upon his investigation, Constable Howard did find evidence of an attempted break-in and remnants of a small fire inside the building. After its closure, the school became a private storage shed. According to the owner, none of his property was missing.
Constable Howard attributed the break-in to young midnight frolickers investigating the local myths of midnight ghostly sightings along the Roman Line. Promising regular surveillance, Constable Howard considered the case closed.
“Hey, Granddad!” I called out. “Did you read about this break-in at the schoolhouse?” I leaned back from the table as Jennifer bent over my shoulder to read the article herself.
“Wonder who called it in,” Jennifer said. “Says here they didn’t find anyone. Any clues, Granddad?”
“Some local punks!” Granddad muttered. “Andrew Smith and his gang of bullies, no doubt.”
I glanced at Jennifer. Then we both stared at Granddad as he hunched into his rocking chair and scowled at his steaming cup of tea. We both knew Granddad could be cranky, but we’d never heard him speak so harshly of young people before.
“Now, George,” Grandma cautioned, “you can’t be sure those boys were there. After all, Andrew’s grandparents are quite respected in Lucan, and I’m sure they wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behaviour from their grandson.”
“Him and his gang of White Boys!” Granddad snorted. “Punks, all of them! Strutting around town with white floppy laces in their black boots!”
“George!” Grandma scolded.
“White Boys?” I said questioningly, but Granddad didn’t bother to elaborate.
Grandma sighed. “You’ve started, George, so you might as well finish.”
“Well?” Jennifer prodded. She, too, wanted to know more and waited for Granddad to speak.
“The White Boys,” Granddad began, “was the name of a Catholic secret society that had its origins in Ireland a few centuries ago. The members strongly supported the teachings of the priests and the doctrines of the church. Anyone not fully following the dictates of the pope and the Catholic Church was excluded. Those people became known as Blackfeet and often suffered persecution from the White Boys.”
“Blackfeet?” I mused.
“That’s how you get the name Black Donnellys, Black O’Reillys, or Black O’Tooles,” Granddad said. “Any family not fully supporting the Catholic Church or who fraternized with the Protestants had the name Black attached to them.”
“So the Donnellys weren’t evil?” I asked.
“No,” Granddad said, “I wouldn’t say that. When it came to drinking and fighting, they could beat the best of them. But I also think they weren’t popular because they had friends and did business with everyone in the community, particularly the Protestant Irish.”
Grandma coughed. We knew she wanted Granddad to stop, otherwise he’d go on for hours.
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