Until gas rationing there had been a mailboat that delivered letters to the islands. Now our first stop was the post office. Mrs. Newcomb handed me two letters, both from Mom and Dad, one for us kids and one for our grandparents. Mrs. Newcomb smiled at Carrie. “You must be Caroline Westman. I have a letter for you, too. It looks like it’s from your father all the way from England.” The letter was on thin blue airmail stationery with the face of a king on the stamp. I thought of the distance the letter had traveled and the strangers who had handled it and how far away Carrie’s father was.
Caroline gave Mrs. Newcomb a cold look, as if she were angry that the postmistress knew all about her. As soon as we were outside, she tore open the letter, read it quickly, and stuffed it into her pocket without saying a word. I was fascinated with the foreign-looking letter and dying to know what it said. “Is your father all right?” I asked.
“Papa is fine. I don’t understand why I couldn’t go to England with him. I wouldn’t mind the bombs. I like dangerous things.”
Danger, something else we couldn’t provide on the island. The next stop was the grocery store. Besides groceries you could find toothpaste, playing cards, comic books (which Grandpa wouldn’t let us buy), worms, and notebooks.
“So this is your cousin?” Mr. Brock said. “We’ll just have to show her our welcome with a little present.” He handed each of us a penny lollipop. We had been going to the store since we were babies, so Mr. Brock still thought of us as little kids.
I was horribly embarrassed when Carrie said, “No thanks.”
Mr. Brock gave her a long look and then turned abruptly to wait on Mrs. Nelson from one of the other islands.
When we were outside, I said, “That was rude.”
“I’m not going to be treated like a two-year-old,” Carrie said.
“He was just being friendly. He gives all the kids suckers.”
Carrie brightened when we got to the Norkins’. Mrs. Norkin had a large garden and sold vegetables and flowers from her front yard. On the days she worked for us on the island, Ned took over the stand. He was watching us come toward him.
He gave me a familiar grin, all the awkwardness of two nights before forgotten. He smiled at Carrie, too, but that smile had a lot more warmth to it. It didn’t say, “Hey, here’s old Belle again.” It said, “Wow, this is a special day.”
“Welcome to the Norkin emporium,” Ned said. “What can I sell you? We’ve got diamonds, elephants, rainbows.”
“Rhubarb and potatoes,” I said, “and your mother said no green potatoes.”
Ned gave me a withering look. “I offer you diamonds and you want potatoes.”
Carrie was down on her knees smelling some plants Mrs. Norkin had potted up for sale. “Lavender!” She reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of bills. “I’ll take five of these. We always had lavender in our garden in France.”
Ned’s eyes widened. “You lived in France?”
“Certainement.”
“And you speak French?”
“Naturellement. Would you like to learn French?”
“You can teach me French and I’ll teach you to sail.”
“Oh, I know how to sail. I’d love to go out with you though.”
I scooped up the rhubarb and the potatoes. “We better be going,” I said to Ned. “Your mom wants the rhubarb for a pie.” My words came out sounding stiff and sour.
Ned left it to me to put everything into a brown paper bag while he carefully arranged the pots of lavender in a cardboard box for Carrie.
“Au revoir,” Carrie said.
“Right,” Ned said, never taking his eyes from her.
When we were back in the boat, Carrie said, “Your Ned’s really très charmant.”
“He’s not my Ned,” I snapped.
Carrie gave me a long look. “Sorry, I didn’t know I was trespassing.”
“I don’t care,” I lied. I didn’t know whom to be more angry with, Carrie for flirting with Ned or Ned for falling all over her. Or worst of all, myself for caring so much.
After I delivered the groceries to Mrs. Norkin, I tramped over to the storm side of the island and spent an hour skipping stones on the lake. Grandpa had showed us how to pick out the flat oval stones and how to fling them out with a flick of your wrist so they skipped along the surface of the water. Grandpa could make a stone bounce along a dozen times. I loved the idea of a stone skimming over the water’s surface, its heaviness bewitched away. My stones were sinking. I couldn’t make them skip. I realized I was throwing the stones, wanting to hit something, and gave up.
When I returned to the cottage, I found Carrie had borrowed my best shorts and was out in the garden planting up the lavender. Grandma was standing alongside her, a big smile on her face.
“Belle, come here and see what Carrie is doing. I don’t know why I never thought of lavender. It does so well in poor soil. Just smell that fragrance. It was so thoughtful of you, Carrie, but I’m not surprised. You’re being your mother’s daughter. I’m sure she had lavender. Your mother loved this garden. It was Julia’s project. We should never have let it fall apart like this. It’s just that working on it made me unhappy, it reminded me so of her.” Grandma smiled. “You’re like your mother, Carrie. It’s almost like having Julia back.”
Carrie stopped what she was doing and looked up at Grandma in surprise. Her face was flushed, and for a moment I thought I saw tears in her eyes. The next minute she was plunging the trowel into the ground as if she had something against the earth.
“I don’t really remember my mother.” Carrie patted the sandy soil in around the plants.
Grandma said, “One day we’ll look for some pictures of Julia when she was your age, Carrie. I’m sure there must be some in the attic.”
I left them and wandered up to my room feeling sorry for Carrie, making excuses for her because she had no mother. When I saw our room, my sympathy dwindled away. Carrie had flung her clothes every which way, leaving the room a complete mess. There was no corner of the room that she hadn’t occupied. I knew that wolves peed on their territory to mark it as theirs. That seemed to be what Carrie was doing, marking my room for her own by putting her things in every corner. It was obvious that she was used to having someone pick up after her, but I wasn’t going to be another Louise. I looked at the dress she had worn to the mainland. I had never in my whole life read someone else’s mail, but I was so curious about Carrie, I couldn’t resist. I reached into the dress pocket and pulled out the letter from her father. For a minute I guess I thought she was just another character in a book I was reading and the letter was another page to turn.
23 Park Lane
London, England
Ma chère Carrie,
I can speak freely about what is going on here in England, for this letter will avoid the British censors by crossing the ocean in a diplomatic pouch before it is mailed to you. I miss my Carrie very much, but it is a good thing you didn’t come to England with me. Conditions here are very bad. There was great damage from the German bombs. Houses stand with their front walls missing and the furniture still in place like a scene from a play. Each day the English people must give up one more thing. There is little food and little fuel for heating homes. They still managed the races at Ascot, and of course I was there.
Happily there is a bit of good news from the battlefields. In Africa the British are beginning to chase the Germans, and over here General Eisenhower has just been put in charge of our American forces.
I hope things are going well for you. When your mother and I were first married, I visited Turtle Island, and I know how desolate it is and what a trial it must be for you to have to spend the summer there. I never understood why your mother loved it so. There is no civilization, only trees and stones. But just as the English are brave, so you must be brave as well and make the best of things.
You will find your grandfather a gruff old man, and I suppose your cousins run around the island like little sauvages
. You will have to make allowances for them and get along with them as well as you can. It is only for one summer and then back to the beau monde.
I was too furious to read more. I put the letter back where I had found it. We were savages. There was no civilization on the island. Carrie was to suffer with us until she could get back to the beau monde, the fashionable world, as opposed to the trees and stones of the island. I longed to show the letter to Grandpa, “the gruff old man.” Of course I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have hurt Grandpa’s feelings for the world. Besides, he would be furious with me for reading someone else’s letter. I was already furious with myself. I was even more furious with Carrie. She had been here only a few days and already Tommy and Emily had gotten into a fight, Nancy was refusing to play her recorder, Ned was acting like a sick cow, and now I had done something I was ashamed of doing.
After reading the letter, I didn’t see how I was ever going to speak to Carrie again, let alone be nice to her. Yet I had to.
At dinner no one noticed how quiet I was. Grandpa was listening, fascinated, to Carrie’s account of what her father had written about the effect of the war in England. I wondered what Grandpa would say if he knew how Uncle Howard had described him.
Grandma was going on about how perfect the lavender was for the garden. Emily was chattering about Carrie’s having given her one of her velvet headbands to wear with her new pageboy. Nancy showed off the polish Carrie had put on her toenails. Mrs. Norkin was grinning because Carrie had said her rhubarb pie was délicieuse.
“Well,” Grandma said, “there’s a compliment for you, and the French certainly know good food.”
Tommy said, “Then how come the French are dumb enough to eat snails and animal brains and stinky cheese?”
“Tommy, that’s a very impolite thing to say,” Grandma told him. “You should apologize to Carrie.”
Carrie gave Tommy a sweet smile. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I know he was just having a little fun.”
Grandma patted Carrie’s hand. “That’s very generous of you, Carrie.”
Even Grandma was taken in by Carrie.
I made some excuse about having a headache and skipping music practice, and I walked down to the lake. I didn’t even have to look. I knew Ned would be out in the channel on his sailboat, and he was. I leaned as casually as I could manage against a tree and watched Carrie walk to the end of the dock and wave him in.
“Come and rescue me,” she called.
When he made the boat fast to the dock, she said, “I’m not wearing heels tonight.”
He grinned a foolish grin. “You’re learning fast. Climb in.” He spotted me. “Hey, Belle, want to come along?”
“Not tonight,” I said.
He didn’t coax me. Carrie said something I couldn’t hear, and they both laughed. I didn’t wait to watch them cast off. I turned toward the woods. Although the cottage was just down the path, the music sounded far away. I sulked because they were having their recorder session without me. I told myself it was my own fault, but that didn’t help. I crushed some pine needles in my fingers and breathed in the fragrance. I didn’t know how we would ever go back to being the way we were before Carrie came.
Five
The storm started in the late afternoon. The gulls had been shrieking all day. At breakfast Grandpa had pointed to the anvil-shaped clouds.
“A little weather on the way,” he said.
Carrie looked up. “What kind of weather?”
“Thunderstorm.” He looked at us kids. “Better keep close to the cottage. You don’t want to be caught in the woods if there’s lightning.”
We had heard the warning a hundred times and paid no attention, but Carrie bit her lip and stared hard at Grandpa.
In the afternoon the sky turned a yellowish gray. There was a minute before the storm when everything was still: no birdsong, no wind, even the gulls hovered silently in the air like scraps of white paper. The world seemed to be holding its breath. Suddenly rain fell in gulps and splashes. Tommy, Emily, and I helped Grandpa drop the canvas curtain to keep the porch dry. Nancy, her wet hair plastered to her head, followed Polo in his mad dash for the house. Polo shook the water from his fur and with the first thunderclap slunk under the table.
After securing the porch, I stood at the living-room window. I loved the wildness of the storm, the sheets of water blowing across the channel, the wind whipping the cedars and bending the birch trees, the jagged spears of lightning splitting open the sky. I loved holding my breath and waiting for the thunder to follow the flash of lightning. The world was turned over to giants, nothing was small, everything that happened—the wind and lightning and thunder—was huge.
“Belle,” Grandma said, “go upstairs and see what Carrie is doing. She seems to have disappeared.”
I resented having to leave my post at the window to check on Carrie, who seemed to be letting us know over and over that she could take care of herself and didn’t need us.
“I’ll go,” Emily volunteered.
“No, dear,” Grandma told her, “Belle is going.” I think Grandma was beginning to be a little bothered at the way Emily trailed after Carrie.
I trudged reluctantly up the stairs and pushed open the bedroom door. Carrie was on the bed, her knees drawn up close to her chest, her arms hugging her body. She was crying.
“Carrie! What’s wrong?” I stood looking down at her, afraid she had suddenly taken ill. “I’ll get Grandma.” I started for the door.
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t want anyone. Just leave me alone.”
I sat down gingerly on the edge of her bed. Putting a hand on her shoulder, I begged, “Please, tell me what’s the matter.”
“It’s the storm. The lightning will strike the cottage and we’ll all be burned up.”
I stared at her, unable to believe she could be so frightened, but she was. Storms on the island had always made me feel secure, as if the island were a refuge like Noah’s ark.
I patted her shoulder, trying to calm her. “Grandpa has lightning rods on the roof, and anyhow there are tall trees on the island that would make a much better target than the cottage.” I added, “I’ve seen worse storms than this one, lots worse.”
Carrie sat up and looked at me. Her face was pale and her eyes huge. She didn’t want to hear about storms that were “worse.”
“Is it the island?” I asked. “Are you just afraid of being on the island?”
Carrie shook her head. “I hate storms. I had this awful nursemaid when I was little and we were living in France. She used to pull me into a closet with her to hide from the storms. She said the lightning could come through the windows even if they were closed. She said because I was such a bad girl, it would be sure to strike me. I hated her.”
“Why didn’t you tell your dad?”
“She said he wouldn’t believe me, and he didn’t until she broke my arm.”
“Broke your arm!”
“I don’t think she meant to, but I wouldn’t do something she wanted me to, so she yanked me by the arm. It got twisted and broke. She told Papa I fell, but I screamed so loudly when she came near me, he got suspicious and sent her packing. I know it’s silly, but I’m still afraid of storms.” Carrie looked at me with a weak smile. “I’ve probably done enough bad things to deserve being punished with a bolt of lightning.”
I remembered how when we kids had a toothache or a sore throat, or measles that itched like crazy, my mother would find something to take our minds off of our complaints.
“Carrie,” I asked, “can I try on your dresses?”
Carrie looked at me as if I were pouring water on a drowning man. “Dresses! Now?”
“It’s raining and there’s nothing else to do. You don’t have to pay attention.”
“Do what you want to,” Carrie said. Her voice was shaky. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. Seconds later there was a growl of thunder loud as a cage of lions. Carrie huddled into a ball.
I started
for the closet. The first dress I pulled over my head was pink cotton with a white organdy collar. Carrie sat up in bed and stared at me.
“Not your style,” she said. “I got it at Garfinkel’s in Washington. I bought all my clothes there. Dad told Louise to use his charge account whenever I wanted something.”
I tried to imagine what it would be like to go out and buy a dress “whenever I wanted.” We were well enough off, but Emily and Nancy sometimes wore my hand-me-downs, and Mom dragged me around shopping for bargains. We were taught it was showing off to wear clothes that looked expensive. We wore clothes that no one would notice.
“Try on the one with the little yellow flowers—that’s more your style.” Carrie winced and ducked as a clap of thunder drowned out her last words, but she stayed sitting up.
The yellow dress was simple. I stood in front of the mirror thinking Carrie was right; it did look good on me. I looked like I wished I looked.
Carrie got off the bed. “Wait, there’s an even better one.”
Carrie had me try on all the dresses until there was only one left, an organdy dress with lilacs scattered over it. I could see the minute I took it off its hanger that it was much too small for me and would never fit Carrie.
She snatched it out of my hand. “Not that one. I’m saving it.” She put the dress carefully back on the hanger. “In Paris Papa took me shopping at the Galeries Lafayette and bought the dress for me.”
I didn’t say anything, but I could tell from the careful way Carrie handled it that the dress must have been a special one because her father had bought it for her. It was her father and not the dress that was important to her. She had all those dresses, but that was all she had. She didn’t have a mother, and her father was thousands of miles away.
“Carrie,” I asked, “were all your nursemaids as awful as the one who broke your arm?”
“Oh, no. The ones in France were strict, but Louise is nice. She started working for us when we came back to this country. Anyhow, I never complained to Dad or he would have sent me to your family. Our grandmother and your mother were always sending letters to Dad saying they’d be glad to have me live with them. I know, because Dad kept the letters in his desk, and I read them.”
Summer of the War Page 5