Storm Tide (27 page)

“This is Clyde Sparrow, Mrs. Sorensen,” Matthew Fennell said in the serious, shy manner she remembered. “He owns Sparrow's Island. I used to work for him.”

Clyde shook Joanna's hand hard. “I've heard a lot about the Bennetts and the Sorensens, Ma'am. I guess everybody knew what kind of a feller Stephen Bennett was, and I run into your brother, Cap'n Charles, 'bout every time I turn around, seems like.” He laughed heartily and still held her hand, smiling down into her eyes. “And then I know a nice feller in Port George—Karl Sorensen—”

“My husband's father,” Joanna said, and finally got her hand free. “This is my daughter, Ellen.” Ellen bravely put out her hand to be lost in his huge one. He twinkled down at her. “Now I'd know her father was a squarehead—I mean a Swede,” he said, unabashed. “She's a real Svenska flicka, ain't she?”

Matthew said quickly, “Hey, Clyde, give me a hand with Gram, will ye?”

“Right you are, my boy. Now, Mrs. Fennell—” With surprising agility for such a big man he was down into the cockpit; and between them the two men lifted the little old lady to the wharf.

She was a very little old lady, bundled up in respectable and well-brushed black. Her hat was moored securely on her white head by several long and imposing hatpins; she held her large bag tightly in both hands, and peered up at Joanna from under the magnificent hat, which was dearly the splendor of another day. Little she was, and shrunken, and thin; but not frail. There was nothing frail in the fiery regard of her sunken but unfaded gray eyes; they took Joanna in from head to toe.

Her nose was imposing. It was arched and big in her seamed face, a strange contrast to the crumpled delicacy of her skin and the faint rose-pink color in her cheeks.

“How do you do, Mrs. Fennell,” Joanna said, feeling suddenly no older than Ellen.

“How do you do, my girl!” The voice matched the nose and the eyes. Its vigor was amazing. “Where's the house? Any one of these?” She waved a small black-gloved hand at the houses across the harbor. “My grandson says it's a good house but I won't believe it till I see it. Menfolks don't see half what they should.”

“Gram, Gram.” The girl's voice was laughing and embarrassed at once. She swung up from the cockpit without any help, looking like a tall slim young boy except for the mop of hair that hung to her shoulders like Helmi's; it was as glossy as a horse chestnut. Her face was wide at the cheekbones, her nose short and powdered with tiny freckles. Her hazel eyes looked candidly into Joanna's.

“I'm Nora Fennell, but you probably know it already.”

“I'm glad you've come,” said Joanna, and meant it.

“I'm glad I'm here. I thought the winter'd never end.” She looked around her, smiling, and took a long breath of the cold bright air that was softened by the sun's warmth. “All this sky—and sea. And woods. I love woods.”

“They begin right in your backyard,” Joanna said. So this was Nora, who was game. She looked game. She looked sturdy and honest; and she looked like an Island woman.

“Come up to the house, Mrs Fennell and Nora,” she said. “Dinner's ready for you.”

“That sounds like heaven,” said Nora. She called down into the cuddy of her husband's boat. “Clyde, you better save that stuff to move on—Mrs. Sorensen's got dinner for us. Matthew, hand me up the baby, will you?”

“Baby?” said Ellen ecstatically at Joanna's elbow. “Have they got a baby?”

Nora heard her and laughed. “Well, it's all the baby we have for now—till we get us a real one.”

She leaned down and took the shaggy black puppy from Matthew's arms. Its oversized feet paddled the air, its nondescript tail beat in a wild circle, its tongue sought vainly to lap Nora's chin, and at Ellen's long “O-o-o!” of delight, the ears perked, the head whirled, and two bright brown eyes gleamed out from under a frowsty black bang. The wrigglings increased in fervor and Nora said, “You can get down in a minute, Bosun, but you're so foolish you'd probably jump overboard first thing. . . . Can I take him to the house, Mrs. Sorensen? He's clean.”

Gram snorted violently. “Fiddlesticks! Let the pup stay aboard the boat! And I should have thought if you had to get a dog, you'd at least get one that
looked
like a dog! That's the homeliest critter I ever laid eyes on!”

“I think he's nice,” said Ellen's clear, determined voice. “He can come with us, can't he, Mother?”

“Of course he can,” Joanna said hastily, pretending not to see the hurt color in Nora's face. The old lady was a Tartar. . . . “He can have some dinner too. Out of old Winnie's dish. We still have it.”

The men came up on the wharf then, after seeing that the boats were properly made fast, and the procession started for the house with Joanna leading the way. Ellen walked beside Nora, her eyes on Bosun's beguilingly whiskered face. Old Mrs. Fennell was escorted by the two men, Clyde Sparrow courtly, Matthew Fennell with his usual sober, diffident manner, lighted sometimes with his rare smile.

“Matthew,” said Gram in her penetrating voice, “you want to do something about that wife of yours. First thing you know folks'll think she's foolish, luggin' a dog around and fussin' about it. You ought to—”

“Gram.” Matthew sounded calm enough. “Look up there. There's the Bennett homestead Cap'n Bennett built. You used to know him once, you said.”

“Met him when I was a girl—he come up to Camden with his wife to visit her folks. They didn't have any young ones then. That reminds me, Matthew. About Nora.” Joanna walked a little faster, and didn't look at Nora, who was silent. Ellen murmured to Bosun.

“You'd ought to do something, give her a family to take up her time, Matthew. Any normal woman that takes on so about a dog—she needs a whole handful of young ones.”

“Gram—” Matthew's calm was strained.

“Nora's built for having babies.” Gram rode him down. “Look at her, now.” Poor Nora, Joanna thought. Pood kid. She wished she could think of something to say. Clyde Sparrow was whistling.

“I'm telling you for your own good, Matthew Fennell. And Nora's good, too, for all she's making believe she don't hear me. A woman don't know what life is, till she's done her daily toil with one hanging at her skirts and a nursing babe in her arms.”

With a swift gesture Nora bent down and released the puppy. “Come on, Bosun! Come on, Ellen!” she called in a clear, defiant voice. “Let's race for the house!” They ran, long-legged girl and child and puppy, up across the wind-blown, tawny slope toward the house built four-square against the sky.

A
SERIES OF WARM DAYS FOLLOWED
the arrival of the Fennells. The Island April was rarely mild, and these days were so unseasonably balmy that it was almost impossible for anyone to stay in the house. A curious unrest possessed everybody, even Caleb, who was seen walking along Long Cove Beach with Vinnie at sunset one night.

Jud and Marion went up to the cemetery one soft, placid, gray afternoon and worked there until supper time. They cleared away the wild, tangled undergrowth of years from Jud's parents' graves and from the little grave where their last baby lay. Joanna, out walking by herself, found them puttering around in the little fenced and sheltered spot among the tall spruces on the hill, across Goose Cove from the Bennett house. She leaned on the gate to talk with them, hearing the soft whistling and chirping of sparrows and chickadees in the avenue of bare apple trees behind her. She knew she must clear Alec's grave soon. But she wanted to be alone when she did that; alone, or with Ellen.

She didn't want Ellen to shun the cemetery. From her earliest memories Joanna had loved it, and it was still beloved, even with Alec there. Oh, there had been a little while when she had stayed away, especially when the apple trees were in bloom; but those days were gone now, and she wanted Ellen to know what a spot it was for dreaming when the apple blossoms filled the orchard with a pink and white cloud of bloom, fairylike against the walls of great dark spruces, and the sheltered sunny air was loud with the sound of bees and of birdsong.

In midsummer it had been even quieter, a haven of blessed silence where all that had moved had been the pools of sunshine on the grass, a swaying birch bough, and the cuckoo's soundless wings; then the scent of the blackberry blossoms, whose vines trailed white-starred through the orchard's tall grass, rose to blend with the aromatic essence of all spruce woods under a hot summer sun.

Yes, Ellen must learn to love it here as she did, and it should be a place of refuge to her, whenever she needed one; and Alec's stone should not make her stay away. “Alexander Charles-Edward Douglass,” it said. “Twenty-eight years . . . beloved husband of Joanna Douglass.” The Charles-Edward was for Bonnie Prince Charlie. She must tell Ellen that story, soon.

She said good-bye to the Grays and walked down through the bare, twisted apple trees, the ground soggy under her feet. When she reached the other end of the orchard she could look up through the lane to the Whitcomb place; she supposed she should call it the Fennell place now. She wondered if Nora was putting things where she wanted them, or if Gram was in charge. . . . She shook her head and turned down the opposite path, out of the woods and into the Bennett meadow.

The men came home early to supper. Nils had been working all day at the shore, with Owen, pulling down what remained of the boatshop. Stevie had the
Elaine
grounded out and had been painting her. Supper over, both he and Owen went out again, down to the Eastern End.

“I'd almost think Helmi would like to be alone with Mark once in a while,” Joanna remarked dryly.

Nils was helping to clear the table. “Well, she won't be alone until Mark gets his gear fixed. He's been bringing in his pots and tying small buoys on his short warps, getting ready for inshore fishing.”

“How does he manage to get everybody working for him?” said Joanna. “Owen could always do it. But Mark —”

“Oh, Owen'll get it back.” He laughed. “He's probably got Mark to build pots for him for the next six months.” He put the bread in the breadbox, covered the butter and took it to the cool cellarway. Then he sat down by the window looking out to sea, with the Rock light just beginning to stab the dusk, and began to whittle plugs from the neat, small sticks of soft pine in a candy box on the window sill.

Joanna came to get the teakettle from the stove. She paused for a moment, watching him, her eyes contemplative under their dark brows. As the dusk deepened outside, the lamps seemed to brighten. The blade of his pocket knife caught the yellow flame of the bracket lamp over the stove; his hair caught it too. He was, as always, completely absorbed in what he was doing. The knife moved in short crisp sweeps, the shavings fell in a tidy little heap on the newspaper he had laid between his moccasins. He didn't look up, and she wondered what he was thinking.

Now was the time to ask him if he intended to lend Owen money for the
White Lady
. Surely it was her business to know. If Owen borrowed money she must be sure he stayed on his good behavior and didn't backslide once the
White Lady
was solid under his feet again.

“Nils,” she said, and he looked up, his whole attention focused on her at once.

“What can I do for you? Need water?” He laid down his knife.

“No, don't get up. I won't need anything. It's just —” She closed her lips firmly. She'd be damned if she'd ask him! If he wouldn't tell her, let him keep it to himself. “Well, it's such a nice night,” she said easily, “I thought we might walk down to the Eastern End ourselves. Helmi's been up a couple of times lately.”

“Sure. . . . Is there anything you want me to do first?”

“No, thanks. I'll wash the dishes and then we can go.” She smiled at him and took the teakettle across to the sink. The steam rose up in a cloud of hot fog around her face.

Coming out of the shadowy path at Mark's gate, they saw the moon rising from the sea, a pale and misty moon. Little wreaths of fog floated past it, and the night was neither light nor dark. Joanna and Nils walked in a soft, damp, curiously luminous atmosphere, yet their faces were indistinct, their eyes set in hollows of shadow. Their footprints showed black in the silvery moisture on the path. Toward Brigport and the mainland the world faded away into nothingness; toward the moonrise there was a faint light on the restless sea, and the surf that tumbled on the uneven rocks gleamed with an almost spectral whiteness.

Joanna and Nils had been discussing the Fennells as they came through the woods. Now they were silent, as if speech were forbidden in this ghostly world. Nils moved to open the gate, but Joanna stopped him.

“Wait a minute,” she whispered. “Look down there. It's like the setting for a tragedy. All we need is a hound-dog baying.”

“It's like the places you see sometimes in a dream,” Nils said, and his low, matter-of-fact voice gave an instant reality to the night. It didn't look so strange then, the buildings huddled darkly together, the open field with the luminous fog floating across it, the Head rising in blurred majesty beyond.

They went through the gate and down the path, and as they passed the silent barn Joanna saw the yellow glow of lantern light down in the fish house on the shore.

The house was lighted too, in kitchen and sitting room, and in the instant before Nils lifted his hand to knock at the entry door, she heard the boys' voices. The sense of oppression she had felt by the gate fled instantly. They'd be raising the devil in there, and Helmi wouldn't know what to make of it. . . .

Nils knocked, and there was silence for an answer. No sound from within or without the house. She and Nils looked at each other. “Now what are they cooking up?” she said. “Be careful when we go in, we'll have a pan of water dropped on us, or something.”