“Back off and go away!” Granddad barked, pointing his shotgun through the window.
“For heaven’s sake!” A small grey head with a round hair bun at the back peeked over the windowsill. “Put that gun down, you old fool!”
I laughed. Grandma might be tiny, but she sure could make Granddad obey.
“But, Mother!” he protested.
“Mom!” Dad called. “Let us in!”
Grandma glanced through the frosted window, and her eyes bulged. “It’s Tom!” she cried. “And Jason’s with him. Open the door for them.”
“Tom?” he huffed. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
The door jerked open, and we both stumbled in. Grandma hugged me and shook the snow off Dad’s neck and shoulders. After hanging our coats on the rack near the wood-burning stove, she hurried to plug in the electric kettle.
“Not now, Mom!” Dad said. “Ellen and Jennifer are stuck in the drift at the end of the line. Tom and I will just get warm and dry out a bit. Dad, can we borrow your tractor?”
Granddad didn’t answer. Instead he buried himself in the utility closet and muttered a soft curse as his shotgun thudded on the floor. Finally, he emerged with his eyeglasses skewed crookedly over his face, grey tufts of hair spread in every direction, and his scarf drooped around his neck. “Give me a minute to fire the tractor up!” he told us as he tugged on his knee-high winter field boots.
I looked at my dad, who smiled, shook his head, and raised both eyebrows.
“We’ll be back, Mother!” Granddad said. “Keep the kettle warm. Let’s go, Tom! You, too, Jason!”
Dad and I put our coats back on and tumbled down the back stoop and out to the barn. “He sure doesn’t change, does he?” I said to Dad, and we both grinned.
“Wait there!” Granddad ordered. He trudged through the snow blocking the lane to the barn. Dad and I started to follow him when we saw him struggle with the barn door, which was stuck in the snowdrifts. “Stay there!” he commanded, shoving one last time. The door skittered along its roller track, and Granddad toppled through the door but quickly staggered to his feet.
“Granddad!” I called. “Are you all right?”
I relaxed when I heard a string of swear words and saw him angrily brush the snow from his coat collar. Then he climbed onto the tractor, a 1948 Massey-Ferguson, and pulled the choke out to three-quarters full — no more or it would flood, he’d always warn. Next he twisted the key to the on position and pressed the starter. The engine coughed, and a black puff of smoke belched from the exhaust pipe. Then nothing more.
“Come on, old girl!” he coaxed. “Just one more time!”
Again he stamped on the starter button. This time the engine caught and the whole tractor shuddered. He dropped the gear into reverse, and the old tractor lurched out the door, easily cutting through the snow.
“Hop on, boys!” he cackled as he stopped beside us.
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